Childhood Friend

She was a strikingly pretty college student with a disconcerting way of saying truly disfiguring things as though she was doing an elevator pitch for a rom-com puppet movie.

She said the “idea was based on a childhood friend,” and that the horror movie centered on the omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence of the Christian God (wait for it)…being the malevolent antagonistic killer!

Quite. A. Plot. Twist!

Somehow in the process of writing a home-cooked horror movie she managed to pull off an egregious character assassination of both her childhood “friend” and mine.

I listened aghast as emblems of rescue and redemption were suborned for a Mean-Girls-meets-The-Shining revenge plot.

At one point the thinly-veiled childhood-friend-turned-megalomaniac-killer-omnipotent-deity murders the protagonist after repeating a common Christian invocation of the Trinity.

She got a fan-girl response from many in the audience with questions about whether her movie was going to be produced, possibly with the support of the university?

Afterwards, I broached a few questions—

Was she concerned about alienating over a billion Christians?

Had she shown the manuscript to the “childhood friend?”

Had she considered making a fictitious murderous-god-antagonist to vilify instead of the explicitly stated Real One?

Had she or would she run all this by Him?

It is a gut check to have to listen to someone you love get raked through the fire of untrue and scourging misrepresentation.

But this was not Jesus’ first rodeo.

He paid the price for my ransom and hers, and whether she could or would see it, his drowning snd destruction in the abyss of human violence and folly was, is, and will be our only way out of it.

It is “a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God,” not primarily because we are so broken, but because he was-for us, and that should require a response.

My childhood friend has saved me from the deep end so many times. I would be lost without him.

Thank you, Jesus.

The Vigilant Ones

If I were to write a book of fiction for my children I would construct people for them, community, a family, let’s say, a big, sprawling, messy family

Maybe they would live next to some kind of river

Maybe the dogs would talk or the fish would taste like brightly colored jello confections.

Or maybe these fictional people, these purely hypothetical people, would just be back up

The silhouetted figures you might see on the crest of the hill above the sycamore tree as the sun sets

After the dam breaks

When they-you-we

Might need the vigilant ones

The most.

The Author Begins…

C’mon, said Cowboy, our favorite show, Truck Pull and Lobster Dance is on.
Honey barely heard him. She was transfixed by the illustrations in the odd little book. It was not immediately apparent who was writing the book or who was the intended audience, other than that both appeared to be parents or adoptive parents of some sort.

The prose swung between terse and floral. One page had a step by step guide to nursing and the next had a lullaby about a mother rocking her child during a storm.

Sometimes it did not seem like either the author or the reader was assumed to be human. There were, after all, ornate illustrations of a dragon in a floral apron with a fat little baby in her stubby forearms. His stubby forearms?

And sometimes the dragon was visited by a nanny goat.

All very strange….

Treasure in the snow

Cowboy and Honey Bunch trudged through the snow. They had a couple bags of groceries nestled in their arms. HB was still quite rotund with child and chafing for a delivery process that would be a bit more challenging than cable tv.

A bit of gold glinted in the driven snow. Cowboy pulled at the corner of a gilded manuscript. It said Nurturing Sunshine in ornate calligraphy on its cover.

Hey! This looks valuable, he said. I wonder if it got lost or stolen from the university library? Or maybe the Jesuits, mused Honey.

I bet it is valuable. They said together. Jinx! Shouted Honey. Cowboy squinted at her with annoyance until she laughingly said his name. Strange that the big rules of the universe were made to be broken, but jinx was sacrosanct.

Something about the book drew Honey. She knew they needed money, but she did not want to let this book go right away. It looked magical.

It’s so cold, she pouted. I want to go home. Let’s read it first, we can take it to E-Z Cash later.

Cowboy grudgingly agreed.

When they got home and began to unthaw Honey Bunch gingerly opened. The book. It’s lettering was ornate and there were a lot of cherub-y illustrations but the book seemed to be a book of lists interspersed with stories. The stories had intricate little illustrations. The lists seemed surprisingly bossy.

Telephone Call

Um, so you are pregnant?


We are worried about you-about the baby.


Well, no job, no church, your boyfriend does not want to marry you?
We need money!!! Mom should get dad to send money. They are so judgmental. If they wanted to help they would send us money.

Mom is worried you will do something stupid…to the baby.


You know, like putting your cat in the fridge?

The cat is fine. The cat wanted to be in the refrigerator.

Promise me you will not put the baby in the fridge. Or the washing machine or dryer. No appliances. babies do not belong in appliances.

The Narrator Naps

Hey. Wake up. You know you came highly recommended and you need to do your job (bozo).

N (sleepily). Huh? Did you just call me Bozo?!

Yes. I did (albeit sotto voce). You have decent hearing.

N. Light sleeper.

Whatever, you are on the clock sista. Where did those two knuckleheads go?

Last I saw them, they were headed for Miss Havisham’s.

Miss Havisham’s? I did not write a character named Havisham. That was Dickens. You know, Great Expectations?

N. yeah, I know. That is my nickname for the extenuated older female relative that they are traveling to scam cash from.

Um, how exactly?

Well a basic combo–Honey Bunch will shop her impending delivery of a child, Cowboy will back her up with some well-played humility and yes ma’ams and both will suggest that if Miss H can’t spare the ducats they could sleep on the futon.

She has a futon?

Oh, yeah, it is buried under 20 years of laundry and a bag of high-end dog food.

How can you sleep through all of that trudging/scheming/prevaricating?

N shrugs. I am a professional. Seen it all.

The Narrator Ruminates

There is nothing more monotonous than watching someone think. Well. One more thing–reading about a person thinking.

As in–the narrator thought. She chewed on her dilemma. She explored scenarios in her head. She plotted, schemed, planned. Ultimately she just sat and thought, just like The Thinker only more clothes, less abs.

She thought about maternity wards. They have a hushed holiness about them. She thought about the nurses who kept such careful watch over the wee babes. Everything feels safe in a maternity ward, except perhaps for mom. Mom can be stressed. Heck, mom can even fear for her life, her child’s life.

As a professionally trained, bonded, and insured narrator she had performed the necessary internships in nursing homes, elementary schools, courts of law and fast food joints, but it was her elective stint in OB that had stuck in her craw.

The babies are so perfect, so new. It is as though their nurses are their angels–washing, swaddling, protecting their little patients. In a world of chaos and violence that frequently spills out over the heads of children, most were given a day, maybe two of safety.

After that all bets were off…

Honey B and the narrator

Honey likes memes with cats, puppies, and rude phrases which stretch the patience of the narrator, who generally perches over her shoulder quietly tsk-ing.

The narrator is concerned about the way caustic emotion seems to erode Honey’s traction on life and grammar.

Honey writes about her predicament:

Tore up? Wat ya mean tore up? I din tore nuthin’!!!!
It was you that tore stuff you bleeping bleep.
Your the one who tares stuff!

Honey, your spelling and grammar are abysmal, chastens the narrator.

Honey looks dumbstruck, not because she doesn’t want to tear into the narrator but because for some reason she can’t .


She blinks at the narrator. Why can’t I cuss you out? She asks glumly.

Well, it is my magic powers of narration. A gift from the author, who, incidentally finds your mad swings at communication tragi-comic. Would it kill you to write “you’re for you are?”

Insubstantial as smoke

After Herculean attempts at allo-lactation, she gives up. Her mermaid ancestors have failed her. In the intervening days she has prevailed upon a highly skeptical she-goat to abide with her and the child to act as a wet nurse.

Gwendolyn the goat: lifesaver.

The failure of the experiment fills the dragoness with a nameless grief. It is irrational and contradictory to expect dragons to parent much less nurse, but this failure cuts her deeply. She is keenly aware of her scales, her reptilian heft, so much about her unmotherly.

She sits in the mouth of her cave and rakes her long talons into her scaly hide in a mindless show of hopelessness.

What are you doing?

Gwendolyn demands when she arrives to find the baby hungry and his mother a crumpled figure of despair.

The dragon chuffs. Turning away to hide her own blood and the gashes she has made in her skin.

Gwendolyn stomps her feet. You must get ahold of yourself! You have a baby now.

The she-goat curls up next to the hungry baby and nurses him.

Get up right now! She commands. Go clean yourself up. We have work to do.

The dragon reluctantly obeys.

The Baby

At first there was stillness, the even breathing of the child. The dragon marveled at the tiny child–how beautiful he was and how much she loved him.

She could not bear the thought of ever being away from him. She was afraid of what the world held. Plus, she was beginning to worry about food. What would she do? What could she do? She was a dragon.