Isaiah 19:1-25.

"The burden against Egypt.
Behold, the Lord rides on a swift cloud, And will come into Egypt; The idols of Egypt will totter at His presence, And the heart of Egypt will melt in its midst.
'I will set Egyptians against Egyptians; Everyone will fight against his brother, And everyone against his neighbor, City against city, kingdom against kingdom.
The spirit of Egypt will fail in its midst; I will destroy their counsel, And they will consult the idols and the charmers, The mediums and the sorcerers.
And the Egyptians I will give Into the hand of a cruel master, And a fierce king will rule over,' Says the Lord, the LORD of hosts.
The waters will fail from the sea, And the river will be wasted and dried up.
The rivers will turn foul; The brooks of defense will be emptied and dried up; The reeds and rushes will wither.
The papyrus reeds by the River, by the mouth of the River, And everything sown by the River, Will wither, be driven away, and be no more.
The fishermen also will mourn; All those will lament who cast hooks into the River, And they will languish who spread nets on the waters.
Moreover those who work in fine flax And those who weave fine fabric will be ashamed;
And its foundations will be broken. All who make wages will be troubled of soul.
Surely the princes of Zoan are fools; Pharaoh's wise counselors give foolish counsel. How do you say to Pharaoh, "I am the son of the wise, The son of ancient kings?'
Where are they? Where are your wise men? Let them tell you now, And let them know what the Lord of hosts has purposed against Egypt.
The princes of Zoan have become fools; The princes of Noph are deceived; They have also deluded Egypt, Those who are the mainstay of its tribes.
The Lord has mingled a perverse spirit in her midst; And they have caused Egypt to err in all her work, As a drunken man staggers in his vomit.
Neither will there be any work for Egypt, Which the head or the tail, Palm branch or bulrush, may do.
In that day Egypt will be like women, and will be afraid and fear because of the waving of the hand of the Lord of hosts, which He waves over it.
And the land of Judah will be a terror to Egypt; everyone who makes mention of it will be afraid in himself, because of the counsel of the Lord of hosts which He has determined against it.
In that day five cities in the land of Egypt will speak the language of Canaan and swear by the Lord of hosts; one will be called the City of Destruction.
In that day there will be an alter to the Lord in the midst of the land of Egypt, and a pillar to the Lord at its border.
And it will be for a sign and for a witness to the Lord of hosts in the land of Egypt; for they will cry to the Lord because of the oppressors, and He will send them a Savior and a Mighty One, and He will deliver them.
Then the Lord will be known to Egypt, and the Egyptians will know the Lord in that day, and will make sacrifice and offering; yes, they will make a vow to the Lord and perform it.
And the Lord will strike Egypt, He will strike and heal it; they will return to the Lord, and He will be entreated by them and heal them.
In that day there will be a highway from Egypt to Assyria, and the Assyrian will come into Egypt and the Egyptian into Assyria, and the Egyptians will serve with the Assyrians.
In that day Israel will be one of three with Egypt and Assyria – a blessing in the midst of the land,
Whom the Lord of hosts shall bless, saying, 'Blessed is Egypt My people, and Assyria the work of My hands, and Israel My inheritance.'"
Isaiah 19:1-25. NKJV

Waiting: A Random Short Story Inspired by a Painting.

Waiting; that's what she'd always been good at. Sometimes waiting was okay, such as when she'd wait for the bread to finish baking; yet sometimes waiting was hard. The longest and hardest season of waiting was Edward's prolonged absence. She'd first met Edward when she'd been thirteen, content to run about in grassy meadows barefoot and follow her father around the docks, looking at the majestic ships at rest in the sheltered harbor. Edward was a simple sailor working for her merchant father at the time; he was barely nineteen the day his ship sailed into port. She'd dallied behind her father staring at a particularly massive ship and, upon noticing his absence, shot off running like a young deer, weaving in and out of the crowd looking for him. The next thing she'd known, she'd collided into a sailor and her momentum had sent both of them tumbling in the dust.


When her tumbling had ceased, she'd sat bolt upright and stared, wide-eyed and rather frightened, at the sailor. Edward had also sat up yet his tanned features held no trace of anger in them. Rather, he was laughing as he smiled reassuringly at her. Seeing his smile, she'd relaxed and a shy smile of her own stole across her dirty face. Years later, Edward would tell her that the smile had stolen his heart.


"Here, I say, what is all this?" Her father had demanded, not harshly, as he suddenly strode up to the curious pair, still sitting in the dust where they'd landed.


Up she jumped as a jumble of words flowed out in explanation. "And now, Papa, Mama will be so displeased that I've ripped my frock again." She concluded, gazing mournfully at the gash in the faded fabric of her dress.


"Now, now, never ye mind the frock dear one," her father reassured her as he took her in his strong arms and then glanced at the amused sailor. "Are ye well lad?"


"Oh aye, sir, well I be. This wee lassie couldn't hurt a fly even if she tried."


"Has yer ship just gotten in lad?"


"Aye sir; we had an awful time o' it with the storm a' all but we got in all right, sure 'nough."


"What be ye name lad?"


"Edward, sir, Edward Mackenzie."


"A right pleasure to make yer acquaintance Mr. Mackenzie. The name's Avery MacBrady and this here is my daughter Gleda."


That had been their first meeting. Two years later, on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, she'd met him a second time as she walked the docks with her four young sisters. It was sunset and Edward was returning to his ship when he caught sight of her. The last rays of the sun had changed her eyes to sparkling diamonds. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Squaring his shoulders, he'd escorted the girls back home. The next day he'd visited her father and asked his permission to court Gleda.


Now Avery MacBrady was not an ambitious man; he was content to remain a relatively well-off merchant and desired only that his future sons-in-law would be good honest hard working men. He liked Edward, having heard many good reports of the young man's honesty, courage and cheerfulness under the often taxing conditions of being a sailor. Yet he didn't want his daughter to be won so easily and made a show of having to think it over; two days later he visited Edward and gave his permission.


Gleda, when told of Edward's intentions, was at first surprised and then her childish shyness returned. His first two visits were rather silent ones for both were shy. Gradually, however, they overcame this initial feeling and soon could be found strolling in the garden discussing books and future plans or wandering about the meadows, fields and forest enjoying each other's company with Gleda's siblings never far away. A year passed then two then three. Their courtship was frequently interrupted by Edward's duties and the long separations saddened Gleda but they were never very long.


One day, in early summer, when she was eighteen, Edward joined her in the garden. "I've bad news lass. I'm being called 'way on a long voyage and shan't return for many a month love."


She'd picked another rose, nonplussed. "Edward, ye've been away for many months on other voyages afore. Why should this be different?"


"Lass, I'll be gone longer than a month I fear."


The rose dropped from her hands. "Truly Edward?"


"Aye; truly lass."


He'd left that very afternoon. She'd tried to keep up her spirits but after several long months had passed; with no word from him, her cheerfulness began to dim slightly. A year then two passed with no news of her betrothed. When the date for his expected return came and went and time raced on, sorrow entered her heart and she ceased to smile altogether. She put aside her colorful gowns and went about with a shawl over her head. When she was twenty-four, eleven years after she'd first met Edward and on the sixth anniversary since his departure from her, she found herself restless and went outside to the grey meadows where once she'd wandered so gaily with him. A strong wind was blowing that day, threatening to take away the flower MacBrady had placed in her hair that morning. Her back to the wind, her shawl over her head and her skirts billowing round her legs, she looked out to the sea, waiting, wondering. A soft step behind her caused her to turn round: Edward, ragged, scarred and with stubble on his chin, stood there as real as life. Gleda's heart soared upward from its black depths of despair as she flew into his strong arms, content and overjoyed to be his now that the wait was over and he had returned to her.

A Round of Interesting Blog Posts 3.

All-righty folks, here are the links to all {or most of} the interesting blog posts I've read in the past week at the various blogs I follow. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did! :)

Book reviews! I love book reviews!! Head over to Casey's blog, Writing for Christ ~ The Audience of One for this first review:
http://enjoyingthewritingcraft.blogspot.com/2011/05/beyond-borders-with-people-of-book-by.html  When you're done there, pop in at Reviews by Jane for not one but two book reviews: http://reviewsbyjane.blogspot.com/2011/05/to-win-her-heart-by-karen-witemeyer.html  http://reviewsbyjane.blogspot.com/2011/05/lightkeepers-ball-by-colleen-coble.html  Once you've read those, hop over to Lady Elenatintil's blog and read this review:
http://elenatintil.blogspot.com/2011/05/once-upon-time-world-above.html  Finished? Good, for now you can wander over to A Muse in The Fog Book Review and read this:
http://muse-in-the-fog.blogspot.com/2011/05/book-review-confessions-of-catherine-de.html  And now for the final grand review over at The Blog of a Writing Maiden:
http://awritingmaiden.blogspot.com/2011/05/in-search-of-honor-review.html

All done with awesome book reviews for the moment, let's read some good advice that makes you go, "Huh." :) Since you're already at The Blog of a Writing Maiden, stick around for this well-written post:
http://awritingmaiden.blogspot.com/2011/05/why-being-home-schooled-is-worth-it-and.html The Inkpen Authoress probably had fun writing this post on, well, writing:
http://inkpenauthoress.blogspot.com/2011/05/if-you-wrote-like-i-write.html My dear friend made a very good point in this post:
http://lettersofaskpen.blogspot.com/2011/05/fantasy-writers-little-advice-from.html The folks at Young Ladies Christian Fellowship had a grand post on politeness: http://ylcf.org/2011/05/the-curse-of-politeness/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+ylcf+%28Young+Ladies+Christian+Fellowship%29

And, for a grand closing effect, head over to Unedited Photography for this post:
http://unedited-photography.blogspot.com/2011/04/crocui-take-two.html
http://theshadowofthebear.blogspot.com/2011/05/captured-by-evil-prince.html And read this lovely poem over at Strictly Speaking run by a good family friend:
http://charles-thorell.blogspot.com/2011/05/am-i-solider-of-cross.html

Have a good week and keep blogging! God bless!!

Isaiah 5:26-30.

"He will lift up a banner to the nations from afar, And will whistle to them from the end of the earth; Surely they will come with speed, swiftly.

No one will be weary or stumble among them, No one will slumber or sleep; Nor will the belt on their loins be loosed, Nor the strap of their sandals be broken;

Whose arrows are sharp, And all their bows bent; Their horses' hooves will seem like flint, And their wheels like a whirlwind.

Their roaring will be like a lion, They will roar like young lions; Yes, they will roar And lay hold of the prey; They will carry it away safely, And no one will deliver.

In that day they will roar against them Like the roaring of the sea. And if one looks to the land, Behold, darkness and sorrow; And the light is darkened by the clouds."
                                ~ Isaiah 5:26-30. NKJV

Start Here Book Review.

Title: Start Here: Doing Hard Right Where You Are.
Author: Alex and Brett Harris.
Genre: Nonfiction, Christian, Teens, Sequel, Handbook/Guidelines.
Plot: Written in the summer between their freshman and sophomore years at Patrick Henry College, Alex and Brett Harris put together a handy manual containing answers to many of the questions Rebelutionaries have been asking, as well as some inspiring and amazing stories of real teens breaking the chains of society's low expectations and doing hard things. The writing style is fun with plenty of the twins' humor laced throughout yet it successfully delivers a comprehensive sequel to their serious prequel and renews the call to join the Rebelution.
Each well organized chapter covers a different set of questions. Beginning with the simple summary of their first book, Do Hard Things, the first chapter covers the you-are-here part of the whole adventure opening before you. In order, each of the following nine chapters {all in all totaling ten chapters} talk about getting started, what to do with that great idea you've got, the side effects and challenges that you'll have to overcome, priorities, how to keep motivated in the middle of the hard thing, going against the crowd on "popular" issues that you might/should consider bad, what to do when you're finished doing a hard thing, and two last chapters that leave you inspired and ready to head out and do hard things. Two real-life stories are also included in one of the last chapters which are the remarkable stories of Ana Zimmerman who hosted a Love the Least event in her hometown of Ithaca, New York, and John Moore who, along with a team of supportive adults and willing teenagers, created the amazing film The Widow's Might which won first place in the 2009 San Antonio Independent Christian Films Festival.
Along the way, the authors also answer many such questions as: "I'm ready to get started on something; what should I do now?" "What kind of planning do I need to do before I launch this thing?" "How do I raise money for my project?" "I want God to be at the center of every hard thing I do. What does that look like?" "How do I keep my motivation for doing hard things pure?" "How do I keep up my enthusiasm?" "Can doing hard things be fun?" "What if doing hard things makes me unpopular?" At the end of the book is discussion questions and a list of one hundred hard things you can do right where you are {which is a pretty impressive list if I do say so myself!}. This book is definitely a must-read for today's teens and for those who have already read its groundbreaking prequel.
Likes/Dislikes: What can I say? From the first opening line of "Simple ideas and unbelievable dreams" I was hooked! This is a well written humorous yet serious book and fairly easy to read, not just because of the fun flowing style but also because its only 137 pages long! ;) Teens, parents, youth pastors, everyone should get a copy of this book and read it; who knows? You might be inspired to do something hard.
Rating: G-12 and up only for reading level; highly recommended for family reading!
Date Report Written: May 18, 2011.

Tower Challenge First Submission!!

                                  In My Own Little World.

                                       By Elizabeth P.

Obviously I should have known better.

   Two hundred feet below me the river swirled and plunged, sounding like a happy monster on a holiday. All around me, “my world” of forest and flowers twirled in a dance of deep green and Easter blue. I call it “my world” because the woods and creatures therein seemed to belong to me; they were my home. More specifically, the Trunk was my home.

   This was years ago. I would never think of living in a three hundred foot tree abandoned by elves in the Dark Ages unless I was young, ignorant, and immature. Which I was. Back then. Now, I flatter myself, I uphold at least the appearance of maturity.

  It was a time of pure foolishness, a time infused with childish verve. Coincidentally, the times I enjoyed in the Trunk – and roundabout – were some of the best times of my life.

  Anyway, the Trunk was big. What made it seem bigger were the various toadstools popping out sporadically from its base. Some smaller ones {some the size of large ottomans, others with roofs like round couches} made their way UP the Trunk, but they kept clear of my “living quarters” above in the branches. Have you ever imagined sleeping on blossoms at the tippy-top of some peach tree? Who knows what variety of deciduous the Trunk was, exactly – I only know there were plenty of blossoms all year round, even in winter, when they turned dark purple and black, but bloomingly magnificent – and that I not only slept on top of them, but have a garden inside a yellow one. Even the raspberries in that garden turned yellow…but I’m getting off track here. Yes, the Trunk was huge. Big. A towering – well – tower. Etched in its bark were all sorts of writings and approximations. Most of them were reminiscent of squirrels. “Mr. Chatty, is two today; Height: the same as last year” accompanied a rather intricate drawing of a father squirrel proudly brushing his tail while brandishing a piece of carrot. Eventually I met Mr. Chatty, along with most of the animals in the wood. {Some of them were hired as servants. For instance, Luna the ant-eater was an extremely frightful personage, but she proved wonderful sucking up all the red ants. All in all, I had about twenty servants, all very obliging, especially the hummingbirds. They cleaned the flowers with the butterflies. I know you men of little faith don’t believe me, but have you ever been intoxicated in the Trunk on Cleaning Day when the hummingbirds are taking advantage of all the nectar-wine and spreading it about with their quick little wings? I thought not!}

   My favorite servant was Doubtee, the most skeptical Burmese tiger this world has ever known. He helped construct my water-wheel and wind-mill, {both very useful for all sorts of things}, but too often got his claws caught on the silk scarves with which I decorated. From tree to tree those scarves fluttered and the sunlight would glimmer orange or pearly pink or turquoise. My Trunk was bouncing with colors.

   I slept in one of the blossoms. It smelled like a plum blossom, but in spring was totally white except for the turquoise stamen – one of the millions clustered at the tippy-top of the tree. These flowers were special, for instead of closing at night and opening at day, they remained unfurled for the moon and the sun constantly. That is why, in fall and winter, I moved my room to one of the lower blossoms. It can get dreadfully wet in the throat of a flower. Every morning, the sun shone in and reverberated off the walls of my room with a golden splendor. I’d stretch, then slide down the tunnel of the blossom. Once I reached the stem, beyond the sun’s light, my way was lit by the lightning bug jars which sat in little carved out spaces in the walls. Polished and gleaming, the inside of the stems was like part of a rich library or study. I had a library, in fact, but no one wants to read first the morning unless they have something important on their mind.

   There are fifty-four different ways to scream delightedly, and I hit them all on key while sliding down all four hundred twenty-two different tunnels. Not all my tunnels were closed from the light; some “halved” branches worked wonderfully as water-slides after a good spring rain.

   I needed a refreshing drink of water every morning, and what better way to reach the river than to swing there? My swing was not crude and wooden, as swings are apt to be. Nor was its rope brittle and hurtful to my little hands. Oh, no. They must have been cords of velvet holding that swing, but they were green and moss-like. The swing itself was my invention: of orange plush and firm, not an empty sack to fall into and become instantly squished. My swing had to rotate down the Trunk, beginning past the branches of my living quarters, swooping out in a wide arch, so I could view the whole forest and beyond. Way out in the distance I saw a land starkly attired in what seemed to be realism. That land always has annoyed me, and may have been the only flaw in the landscape, but I usually looked on the lake called Lily. Its waters were rainbow-hued, of course, for the sky was always that way, except for rain-storms. Then it turned completely white-gray and the lake looked like liquid snow. Anyway, once my swing reached the soft grass below, I rushed across the stepping stones by my water-mill and made for Lily. There my swift kayak carried me out to the very center, where I leaned in to drink. This idea has come to me the first day I saw Lily, but as I leaned over excitedly to dip my mouth into the waves, the whole kayak tipped over and I fell straight down to where the water turned violet. Needless to say I repeated this mistake again and again every morning for all the years I lived there. A morning swim never felt so rejuvenating, and the water, unlike the best swimming pools, did not sting my eyes. Rather, I could see even more brilliantly after diving into the soft simmering colors.

   After that, I would sun-bathe by the huge rock over-looking the river, a mad rushing torrent which I listened to while reading book after book, usually poetry about life, love, happiness, and occasionally how to make the fluffiest cake in creation. I studied all my life how to make the perfect cake, but never succeeded in Trunk, because I could never bake anything, except in my solar oven. I always forgot about cakes in that oven. I had to constantly watch, or else Furtive the hamster would sneak them to his lair underneath Trunk’s roots. I grew frustrated, Furtive grew fat, and the solar oven far too steamy. {How do you turn off a solar oven, anyway?} I contented myself with an apple for lunch and a handful of almonds from the almond tree. Lunch-time was fun, since I got to promenade past the fruit trees instructing them to retract any pokey twigs because I was about to climb up and find the perfect apple. {The only reason little children are poked by sharp twigs when they climb trees barefoot today is because they never ask for retraction.}

   All afternoon I did a variety of things, but all of them have to do with swinging and climbing and swimming and searching and exploring and daydreaming and reading and occasionally eating. None of the rabbits ever liked me because I appreciated their carrots far too much. I felt like an outcast sometimes, living all alone in Trunk without anyone. I mean, the hummingbirds cared, and the butterflies, but they couldn’t stay forever. They came, they cleaned, they left. Luna was a dear, but as I said frightful to look at. I always felt so guilty, staring from my left big toe to my right big toe while trying to carry on a conversation with her. And I never could learn the language of the river. {It just ROARED.} Doutee was the best chum a person could want, but characteristically silent. Squirrels are squirrels. They chatter, they gossip, they worry their tails off about chestnuts and acorns and their whole life is spent twitching and jumping from tree to tree. They never take naps, and die young. I must have written a hundred books, complete with illustrations, of twenty different squirrels’ families living in those woods. All at different times, of course. Finally, “it” got to be too much. What was “it” exactly?

   I don’t know. But every night as I climbed up to bed, I’d stare for a while at the hollow face of the whitest flower of all, that mystery moon, and try to figure out what was etched on its skin. Those writings proved far too complex for my weary eyes. And every night, I’d gaze out on the world, and my world was dark. There was that structure in the distance, that brown place. Evidently it wasn’t lit with lightening bugs; the lights there did not flicker, but remained steady. I wondered if it was at all like my world. If it was, then there must be one of me there, too, someone who had already learned the dull Brown language and someone who went to sleep at night and gazed up at the same hollow flower and woke up at the same time every morning and went swimming in the same brown…Oh, that poor person! I thought. It never occurred to me that more than one person would live in a place. After all, this was my place, my wood, my world, my tower, my haven of security, and everyone else must have one unique to themselves as well.

   But what a dreadful lot of security. Even if the Brown language was dull, my curiosity was suddenly hungering to know what it sounded like. I talked to myself in twenty-five different languages {not counting the woodland dialects} and I didn’t know which one was the first one I started off speaking when I first arrived at the Trunk.

   How did I arrive here, anyway?

   Things were a blur in my mind. I went to sleep and during the night rolled into one of the stamen and ended up with blue dust sprinkled throughout my hair. Without thinking I rolled down the tunnel with a shameful lack of grace and grabbed tingingly for my swing. I opened all the windows on the way down the Trunk and said hello to the butterflies and hummingbirds who were all working cheerfully and efficiently – and quietly. I started singing at the top of my lungs and instantly the squirrels’ chatter began. Faster I swung on that silly old swing, till I stood up on it and squinted my eyes.

   Two hundred feet below me the river swirled and plunged. Jumping up and down on the swing, I pushed it to the limit. Suddenly the velvety moss snapped away, and I was borne through the air – that butterfly-filled, rainbow-hued, shifting heaven of exquisite delicacy.

   I used to live in the Trunk. My home, my wood, my world. But I saw Brown in the distance. I needed to know how the distance looked like from the opposite side of the horizon. You what I discovered? There wasn’t just one person out there; there were a lot of people, but only some talked to me. Some were silent as Doutee, some squirrelish gossips. And not all of them stared up at the moon each night and wondered what life was like in the Trunk. Apparently it just looked like a rainbow to the people in Brown, {and they have a twisted foreknowledge that no one lives in rainbows.}

   Turns out only one person in Brown ever did wonder about me. His language was very hard to learn, but learn it I did. I can speak it and write it now, though heaven knows neither of us live in Brown anymore. This narrative of my past is written in Brown for your benefit. Funny thing is, we tried to visit the Trunk, just so I could show off some of my favorite things, like the kite you can actually fly on top of and the horse that can run across Lily Lake – but we couldn’t access it at all. We even tried diving through the rainbow and ended up with a nasty sunburn.

   Obviously I should’ve known better.