Quick Thoughts on the City Harvest Trial

A friend asked recently what I thought about the City Harvest Trial. As usual, I avoid making public comments about issues like this because everybody has an opinion and wants it to be heard but doesn't want to hear anyone else.

But I've been thinking about it a bit more recently, and even though I confess I haven't followed the news as closely of late, I do have a few thoughts to share.

(Back story: six leaders, including founder and lead pastor Kong Hee, of City Harvest Church, a mega-church in Singapore are accused of conspiring to channel S$24 million into two companies using "sham bond investments" to fund the music career of Sun Ho, Kong Hee's wife. Another S$26 million was allegedly used to cover up the first amount. Source: Channel NewsAsia)

Assumptions, assumptions
(You know what they say about assuming.)

When the news first broke about the arrest of the six leaders, I was back in Singapore, just about to head out to dinner with my parents and some friends from church. So of course, that was the dinner conversation. My mother, who's an accountant and has helped with bookkeeping at the church we used to attend, said almost immediately that it's easy for folks to make assumptions because we all need someone to blame.

Personally, I have my biases against mega-churches. One of my dearest friends is the junior high pastor at Willow Creek, and she and I often joke about how different styles work for different people. I have a lot of respect for Gretchen and the work she does with the junior-highers, but I just don't know how to wrap my mind around how a mega-church works. Admittedly, that affected my bias toward the situation, and I was ready to make assumptions about a situation of which I didn't know the full story.

Church as Family
One of the things I love about the Church is that it can be family. At the same time, that can cause problems. My mum pointed out was that often in church settings, we sometimes shift things around in the finances without doing the necessary reporting. "It's all in the family," so it doesn't really matter... Or does it? Perhaps it doesn't matter as much when we're dealing with petty cash. But as the church grows and budgets increase, "petty cash" becomes more significant, and we could run into trouble with "it's all in the family".

Accountability
Because we work in a "religious" setting, it can be easy to spiritualise leaders and those overseeing ministry, as if they can do no wrong so we don't worry about reporting or asking for transparency. Not that we shouldn't trust our leaders, but as a safety net for all involved, proper accountability procedures should be set up and followed--something I personally struggle with because I don't have an official organisation that provides that level of accountability.


So there you go, my few thoughts on the City Harvest trial. I don't know who's right or who's wrong, and I don't think I'd be a fair judge. But I know there are lessons for us to learn from this, and those are the three I've learnt so far.

Where We Come From: Holiness and Unity Part #4

One of my first lessons on ecclesiology came not from a textbook or lecture, but from a conversation with a dear friend. Caldwell Manners was a first year student at the School of Theology back in 2004 when I was starting my freshman year at Anderson University. He was the first friendly face I met on campus. I had come knocking on Uncle Mac and Auntie Jean's home the day I arrived in Anderson. They weren't home, but this Indian kid came to the door. I didn't know what to make of it except that he was friendly, and I was awkward. By the time we had a second conversation, I knew we were going to be friends.

I don't remember how it started, but one evening, we found ourselves having a lengthy discussion about denominationalism. At the time, I had no interest in theological education because as far as I was concerned, theologians were either dead white men or nerds who buried themselves in books and didn't know how to interact with the real world. But Caldwell simply asked if I thought that God's ideal was for everyone to camp under the same church roof and sing Kumbaya (granted, those weren't his exact words). I felt like the right answer was to say, "Yes, of course that's God's ideal," but something in Caldwell's tone of voice hinted that he had expected something different.

And I don't remember how he explained it, but I remembered that conversation for a long time. It wasn't until years later that I understood that it was ok for us to claim Wesleyan, or Church of God, or Nazarene, or even Calvinist or Baptist--as long as we could leave each other on the common ground that we all love Jesus and each other. I began to understand that we are story-formed people, and that the variety of denominations created space for all stories to be embraced.

There are traditional churches with pipe-organs and sanctuary choirs, and there are the hipster churches with their cafes and praise bands.
There are country parishes with the pianos that accompany every hymn, and there are gospel choirs.
There are house churches and underground churches, and there are churches that meet on the streets.

These styles of "church" came into existence because story-formed people came together under different contexts, each bringing their own God-woven story and deciding to share them in a particular manner that was comfortable to them. And they all simply display the creativity of the God we worship.

The beauty of the Church of God theology I embrace is that there CAN be unity in all of the differences. We don't all have to interpret baptism the same way or use the same word to describe communion or the eucharist. But we all believe Jesus died for us, and wants us to choose life with God. And we all live under the "Love God, and love your neighbour as yourself" rule, which means we should all be able to work side by side for the Kingdom.

Over the past couple of weeks, I had the privilege to spend a significant amount of time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church in New Zealand. The thing I love about spending time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church is that I get to interact with the Pacific Island and Asian communities, and to hear songs and prayers in different languages. And we get to sit around the tables with our Nazarene and Salvationist brothers and sisters, talking and learning from each other.

One of the questions raised in our conversation was this: What impact does context have on our understanding of holiness? Should it have an impact?

The conversation around the table was lively, and I was intrigued by the question so I brought it back to our small group yesterday and asked the ladies the same question.

Let me just say, they blew my mind.

Sylvia began by saying, she wasn't exactly sure how or why yet, but she knew the answer had to be that context DOES impact our understanding of holiness. She went on to describe that those living on the fringes probably understand their need for holiness far better than those of us who have been living a good life. We often assume that because we have been good, we have also been holy. But holiness has nothing to do with being good as much as it has to do with realising our need for Jesus.

Nina talked about how holiness would mean something different to a Buddhist than to us, and how we don't touch the heads of Maori children because the head is tapu (holy/sacred). It made me realise that the question was actually really open-ended, but MY context as a Christian has already impacted my understanding of holiness in that I hadn't even considered how holiness might be understood by those who didn't follow Jesus.

(Seminerdian friends, I'm aware there's still a load of stuff to unpack from that question, but that isn't the point of this post.)

The point is this: We don't all have to love pipe-organs more than praise bands or ukeleles, and we don't all have to have a trim latte before church. We don't even have to understand holiness in exactly the same way, except in that holiness requires us to love God and love our neighbours as ourselves. And that is what brings unity.

And that. That is where we come from.

Tribal Stories: Sands

The winds were starting up again. The darkness of the night limited her ability to judge what the sands were going to do this time.

She had gotten quite used to life on the desert road so that whenever the winds started up, she would begin preparing for the sands that would come. Sometimes, they were just small gusts of dirt. Other times, the sands would blow so hard that even when she shielded her face, her eyes would still feel their sting.

As she readied herself for the sands, her mind drifted back to the encounter with the giant. The day came and went uneventfully, for which she was relieved, but also uneasy. At first she thought it was because she had gotten used to the perils of life during the war that an uneventful day was a nice change. But she couldn't shrug off the feeling of uneasiness. Were there to be unforeseen consequences because of an uneventful day?

But she knew her job on the desert road wasn't to worry about the giant. No, she was there to help prepare the land to produce crops for the desert people as she passed through on her way to the southern lands.

Tilling the land in the city had been easy because her mothers and grandmothers had taught her the way to work the dirt there. But her mothers and grandmothers had warned her the desert lands were a different task altogether. The climate was different, and the crops to be planted were also different. And she learnt the frustrating lesson that she could till and she could sow seeds, but then the winds would start up and the sands would come, and they would unearth all the work she had done. There had been nights where she would cry herself to sleep, frustrated with the winds and the sands. Was it even worth it? After all, she was just passing through. Why be concerned for the desert lands?

"We are simply to be faithful to our work. The forces that hold us together will bring fruit to the work we do in time," her tribespeople once said. She didn't understand, but their words haunted her frequently and would help ease frustration. Before long, the sands would come again, and she would lean into those words again.

She also knew her time in the desert was coming to an end. While she was relieved and looked forward with anticipation to the possibilities that the southern lands held, she had come to realise in the recent days how attached she had gotten to the work of the desert and the desert people. She had come to the desert alone, uncertain of her work. But in the time that she had spent working alongside the desert people, shielding each other from the sands and figuring out how to plant crops in their land, the desert people, too, had become a part of her tribe. The pain of leaving the city was only just starting to heal. She wasn't ready for another dose of pain when the time on the desert road ends.

She fingered the rocks she held in her hands for they had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

She didn't have much, but she had the rocks. And she had her people whose stories she took with her as she continued on her journey.

Looking to the heavens that night, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.

Tribal Stories: Held Together (Guest Post)

She sat in the field, watching the sunset. It had been a hard journey. She had been home for nearly two fortnights, but she still didn’t feel completely restored from her days in the prairie lands. Looking back, the time seemed to have been short, compared to the time she had spent in other villages, but the difficulty of living on the prairie had made the days seem long and endless. She was sustained with the word that would come from the tribespeople and by the forces that held them together. It had been often in these two fortnights that she had sat in these fields, watching the maize and the wheat, giving thanks for these forces and for the tribespeople who made those forces feel almost tangible at times. Tonight, she thought of the wanderer of her people. The wanderer, who had become her sister.

Word had come from the southern desert lands where the wanderer labored and spoke the peace of their people. She knew of the troubles that had been swelling there in the desert heat. Her wanderer-sister was weary. It was difficult at times to simply trust the forces that held them all, to also hold so much together in that southern desert land. She reached for the rock that their sage had given them, the sage who had long gone on to live fully in the Kingdom: “He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” We are the people of peace, and Love is our story, she reminded herself. Those forces do not break, no matter how strong the troubles, no matter how great the war. He was holding her wanderer-sister together too.

She thought again of the long gone sage. It was this same sage who had commissioned the older tribespeople to their work, telling them, “You are to be about building villages on the edge of the kingdom. This is your task.” We are trying, she said aloud. Her hands still ached from the tent ropes she had wielded in the prairie lands, trying to build a small village there. She turned them over and over, noting how the rope burns were now fading. She had labored hard, but the tents she had set up were always whisked away by the violent winds and heavy rains that always seemed to come from out of nowhere. The work had been difficult to say the least, and she had become so used to the feel of rope in her hands. The ropes were useful in the work, to be sure, but her hands were not meant to pull rope; they were meant to hold stones. The wanderer had reminded her of that. She had learned that she had to let go of the rough, dry rope in order to feel the smoothness of the stones, for they wouldn’t both fit in her palms. When she would let herself remember this truth, the coolness of the stones would soothe the places where the work had done damage. She reached for the other two stones, and squeezed all three together in her rope-worn hands,

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbor as yourself."
“He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”

She would not be in the homeland for long. This, she knew for certain. There were villages to build on the edge of the kingdom in other lands. What was not certain was what was waiting ahead on the journey. Yet, this was true for all of the tribespeople. They were making a new way in the lands to which they had been scattered. This was their work, their task; this is what they must be about. The forces that pushed them forward also held them together and to one another, and for this confidence, in the face of so much uncertainty, she gave thanks.

The sun was setting, and the sky was still pink from the warmth it had left behind. She lifted her face to the stars that dotted the sun scorched sky and breathed blessings and thanks for her mothers, and grandmothers, and for the sages, and her dear tribespeople. She prayed for protection and strength of heart for her wanderersister. Especially, this night, she gave thanks for the One who is before all things in the journey and is holding all things together in even the most uncertain of times.

Faith Crises

The earliest one I remember happened when I was about eight or nine. It was at our church camp, and Pastor Neivelle had shared the story of his life as an ex-con. I remember him saying that even if our lives are not as colourful as his, God still wants to use us. As an eight or nine year old, I struggled with that. I was the good kid that stayed out of trouble. How could God possibly use me if I didn't have a fascinating story to tell? Pastor Neivelle then said we could invite Jesus into our hearts and he would help us figure that out. So I did.

Only a few years later, another crisis season hit. My brother and I had been the stars of our Sunday School as the kids who had been a part of the worship team since we were eleven and thirteen. We were also the Sunday School teachers' dream because we knew Moses from Abraham and found great joy in acing Bible quizzes. But by the time I turned thirteen, all I could think of was that someone was eventually going to call me out as a fake. I did all the right church things and tried my best to believe in God, but I didn't know what any of that meant. I even knew the right answers to the questions in the grown-up Bible study, but my questions were starting to be bigger than just about righteous living. You didn't have to follow Jesus to be a good person. I had been a good person my whole life, but I somehow knew that still wasn't the same as following Jesus or worshipping God. Those were frustrating years, and since I couldn't find answers in Church, music became my life. It only worsened the guilt of pretending to be a good Christian, but I didn't care since being a band geek gave me a high.

The year I turned sixteen, Pastor Caleb sat me down while we were at another church camp. He listened to my questions and he prayed with me. He talked me through the role of music in my life and what it could look like. About a year later as I was getting ready to leave for Anderson, he gave me the words from Luke 5, "Go a little deeper". It became the theme verse for the next big wave of what I now call "all the crazies". I don't remember much of what else happened then, but I remembered thinking maybe that season of crisis was over.


I was at the Connect Rally last night sponsored by the Wesleyan Church in New Zealand and the athletic department from Indiana Wesleyan University. Several of the youth and athletes from both Auckland and Indiana shared parts of their life story. There was a common thread in all the stories: crisis moments. Sports athletes whose worlds revolved around the sport they played crashing out because of injury and finding God in those moments. Family crisis, bullying and the death of close friends.

The thing about crisis moments is that they are often pivotal points in our spiritual journey. We hit those low points and in the moments of darkness and wrestling comes a point where we make a choice whether we hold on to the things we have always believed in, or we let go and embrace something else.

As I sat listening to those stories last night, I couldn't help thinking about my own faith crises. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a wuss in my seasons of crises. I wrestled, but I was always too afraid to let go completely of all the things I've always believed in.

When Keren died, I found myself surprised that I never questioned God. I remembered feeling like my world was completely shaken, but it was more because I was realising these things do actually happen in real life than because I was questioning whether God existed. I wondered then if I was wallowing enough in the depravity.

When I started seminary, I was looking forward to that season of existential crisis that all my other seminary friends talked about. But even my season of existential crisis was short. There had been two deaths in the family within a month of my starting seminary, and only a year after Keren had passed. I found myself struggling with being far away from family in that time, and began wondering if my call was even real. It was around 3am one night and I was trying to finish writing a paper on sanctification when I began realising I couldn't talk about sanctification if I wasn't even sure at that point if God was real.

In that moment, I panicked. And this is where I sometimes feel like I had wussed out instead of completely diving off the deep end. I emailed Greg and told him about my crisis moment, and explained that I probably wouldn't be able to finish my sanctification paper while I wasn't sure if this God thing was real. Then I turned my computer off and went to bed. Even in those moments, I prayed and prayed that when I woke up in the morning, God better show up and prove that God was real. When there were no fireworks or handwriting on the wall the next morning, I panicked even more.

I told Paul the next day about the crisis moment, and he gave me the very annoying, "aww, how cute" smile. I wanted him to push me off the deep end, but instead all he said was, "Even if you don't believe, God is big enough to believe in you." I silently cursed him out inside.

When I eventually came around, it wasn't because I had done all the scientific research and digging to prove that God is real. No, it was because Paul and Jen and Amity amongst others kept doing the very annoying, "aww, how cute" thing of reminding me that my faith was bigger than that.

As I thought about all these moments last night, I found myself wishing again that I had been braver and dove off the deep end into the unknown and embracing the possibility of life without God or acknowledgement of a greater being. The truth was, in all those moments of faith crises, as small as they were, my biggest fear wasn't of the unknown. I've lived with enough unknowns to not be afraid. I was more afraid of what I would become if I didn't have hope and certainty in a being that is bigger than the limitations of my human mind. I was afraid that in that dark space, I would no longer have reason to live. And because I'm too much of a wuss to even inflict self-harm, I would just be trapped in this in-between space of neither living nor dying.

And for that reason, I will always have great admiration for those who have dove off the deep end and is continuing the search for Truth because I think they have greater courage than me. And I get to live vicariously through them in their search for Truth and asking bigger questions that I lack the courage to ask.

This weekend marks six years since Keren's passing. I daren't claim to have achieved much in the last six years, except to have learnt to turn the crisis moments into stories that perpetuate the hope that keeps me going. It's the only way I know to find resolution to all of these crises.

Tribal Stories: Tilling

She patted down the last bit of dirt, covering the last of the sprouts. Dusting her hands off, she pushed herself back on her feet, took a step back and took a deep breath.

Days had passed since her most recent visit to the city. The road had led her down an unexpected winding path toward the giant, giving her a bit more time to think. In the last few days, she set up camp at the base of the mountain and waited.

Her mind drifted back to the days before the war. Life had been pleasant. Simple. Her mothers and grandmothers worked the earth, and when she had been adopted, she eventually picked up the trade as well. She remembered the long hours of tilling the land. As a child, it wasn't the most pleasant way to spend the days because it seemed like tedious work with nothing much to show. But her mothers and grandmothers would always say that tilling was an important job; for a well-tilled land made good seedbed for crops.

As she grew older, she began to understand her responsibility better. There wasn't much to show, but she began to enjoy digging deep into the ground, turning up the earth, and loosening up hardened dirt. It used to frustrate her that she would only be allowed to help with that little bit before she got moved to a different plot of land. She wanted to do more; sow a few seeds perhaps, even help gather in the harvest.

"We don't always get to choose what we're good at, child," her mothers and grandmothers would say.

So she decided to learn everything there was to learn about tilling--it was her responsibility to their people.

In the more recent days since the exile, she began remembering that there was tilling to do even in the desert lands if she were to help the desert people begin life. As she spent her days working the land, her mind was still on the giant, and she feared what he might bring for the people in the desert lands. She wondered if her work on the ground would be worth it if there was to be no life after the encounter with the giant. And she wondered too, if she--they--would get away unscathed, and if she had what it took to stand up against him.

Then she remembered what her mothers and grandmothers used to say.

"There is no 'Them'. There is only 'Us'. We are all Us."

She brushed away the first tear with the back of her hand. Perhaps that was the hardest part of the war--that it was all "Us" fighting against "Us". But the years of war left her wondering if they still believed they were all "Us". She herself, she knew, was guilty of forgetting every once in a while. One of her tribespeople once had to remind her to dig deep into the stories of their people--that Love was their story.

The giant, too, was "Us," and only wanted what was best for the desert lands--even if she may not completely see eye to eye with him. She hoped they both remembered that when they eventually meet.

She picked up the rest of her tools, including the two rocks.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

Looking to the heavens that evening, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and even for the giant. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces had allowed her that little extra time to not just till the land but sow a few seeds this time around.

Tribal Stories: Earth and Time (Guest Post)

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field while the last rays of daylight disappeared over the horizon.  Many weeks had gone into the preparation of this year’s crops, and soon it would be time for the harvest to come in.  He always felt a sense of ambivalence about this time of year:  the harvest could be magnificent, or it could be eliminated through any of a number of tragic circumstances.  Storm, drought, thievery, and even the nature of wild beasts threatened to harm the labor of his hands.  He could sense that the harvest was near.  For all his readiness, though, only Time would dictate when the ripening would be complete.  All he could do is sit and wait…and keep watch.

News from a far-off land occupied his thoughts:  details of the escalating war in the southern desert lands.  He first learned of this news while conducting business in the city.  The wanderer, soon to depart for the war-torn south, had met with him in the city some weeks earlier.  She was concerned about the war, and yet she felt compelled to give herself for the peacemaking efforts.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage.  He could not fully understand her native dialect, but their common respect of Earth and Time helped them to communicate with each other. 

Earth and Time.  His business, his activities, his religion revolved around these two poles of faith.  From his earliest days, he had been taught to respect Earth and Time.  He had learned his father’s trade, that of growing crops for the community’s good, by studying his father for some years.  Now he worked his own field, applying the basic principles of his religion, the depth of which he was only now beginning to appreciate:

“Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.”

“Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.”

Respect for Earth was easy; growing crops took all his strength, but those crops gave life to him and his community.  He could not understand Earth, but he depended on Earth’s love for each year’s needs.  Respect for Time was more difficult.  Surely, Time dictated when the ripening would be complete, but from his childhood a question plagued him:  How could Time give friendship?

Once he began working Earth on his own, he learned the true value of Time:  not to ripen crops, but to strengthen relationships among fellow laborers.  Growing crops was a lonely profession, but his time in the city had reminded him that he did not labor alone.  The wanderer, different as her journey was from his, sat next to him in the city one night some weeks earlier.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage, and then she spoke of how he was included in those groups.  She gave thanks for Time which had brought them together in the city.  She gave thanks for Earth which would connect them even after they parted ways.  And then she pulled two small stones out of her pack, gave them to him, and said:

“You say, ‘Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.’
You say, ‘Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.’
I say, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’
I say, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’
Perhaps we are not so different.”

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field.  Daylight was fleeing.  The harvest was not yet ready, but soon it would come, just as it always did for his father.  He rolled the two small stones over and over in his hands.  And then he looked to the heavens and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, for Time indeed had given friendship. 

Tribal Stories: Gypsy

It had been another restless night. Between another haunting dream and the critter's visit the day before, she hardly slept a wink.

The critter had brought a fresh basket of supplies and a word of warning. There was a giant up ahead in the mountain who was known to be temperamental. Her tribespeople who had had previous encounters with the giant had come home with battle scars, but there had also been others who had friendly encounters and came home unscathed. She recalled the promise she had made to her tribespeople, that when the time came to meet the giant, she would hold to the stories of their people as her guide.

Even though she came from a people of peace, she couldn't shake the feeling as if she was getting ready for war. As she gathered up her tent that morning, she made up her mind to head for the city not too far away. In the more recent years of war, she would visit the other cities nearby whenever she needed to clear her head. The little adventures renewed hope for her to keep at the restoration efforts, because they reminded her of what good cities could achieve.

She knitted her brows together as a sad smile crept on her face. For all the years of war she endured, her instinctive reaction in times of uncertainty was still to return to the city--even if not the one she just left behind. The city was everything she had dedicated her life to, and even in the worse years of war, it remained the parent that taught her all she knew. That morning, she needed comfort and reassurance that the forces were still at work to make all things good--and the only place she knew to go was back to the city.

When she arrived that morning, she hadn't unexpected to run into the gypsy lady, even though she knew that was a place she frequented. Their first encounter had been equally unexpected. She was walking home with someone she had just met in the market after the day's work, and the gypsy lady was there at the door to greet them as they came through. In the short exchange, she couldn't help noticing she had the pattern of threads on her sandals. She couldn't make sense of the threads at the time, but she ran into the gypsy lady again and again--too many times that she eventually realised the forces were at work again. In the more recent years of war, the gypsy lady had been the first to remind her of her dream of village life when she invited her back to her village.

She hadn't encountered the gypsy lady since before the night of the exile. In all their exchanges prior, the conversations had been brief, but there had been enough trust built between them that she knew to depend on the friendship of the gypsy lady. She had promised herself not to talk about the exile, but as mystical encounters go, the gypsy lady asked enough questions that she found herself giving away half the exile story.

Again, her friend reminded her of the village life. Again, she felt the beckoning to the southern lands.

As the friends parted ways that day, she found confidence in her steps again. The giant was still ahead, but she had found peace enough for the next leg. Even if she would have to battle the giant, the forces continued to be at work for good.

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As she began her journey back to the road, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, and for the gypsy. Most importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.

Tribal Stories: Threads

Her fingers grazed the surface of the water lightly. Good enough, she thought. Her feet badly needed soothing after the distance they had covered, but she wasn't sure how the afternoon sun would have affected the water in the stream.

She stuck one foot in then another, as she slowly exhaled and allowed the shallow stream to wash over her feet. Of the days since she left the city walls behind, the last few had been the hardest. The more distance she covered, the further away she felt from her mother and mothers, her grandmother and grandmothers, the sages and her tribespeople. What if the southern lands were only a myth conjured up by the sages? What if there would never be life there? What if all that they had taught her would never be enough for her to survive by herself outside of the city walls? What if they had all been wrong about her leaving, and she had simply been too prideful to turn around and walk back?

She thought again of her tribespeople. Would they understand that she was still a part of their cause? Would they forgive her for walking away while they were entrenched in war? And more importantly, could she forgive herself?

There was a stinging in her eyes as she fought to hold back the tears. She hadn't cried since the night at the tree with the sages and her tribespeople, and she was determined that she wouldn't. Warriors don't cry, she told herself. They all knew it was going to be a hard journey, but she hadn't expected it to get this hard so quickly. She missed the comfort of the city walls and the predictability. Even if the wars continued to rage, at least there was a routine and rhythm to life in the city. Most of all, she missed the conventional wisdom of her mothers and grandmothers and the sages. No one knew what laid ahead on that road, except for the forces that held them together. On the easiest days of the journey, she could be at peace with that.

She waded a little deeper into the stream, trying to forget for a few moments that the road was still calling. There was an odd texture under her right foot, and the stream was shallow enough that she caught sight of a small piece of red material.

It was a pattern of threads she recognised from the ancestral home. She fingered it lightly, wondering how it would have gotten there in the barren desert. There was something haunting about its appearance in the desert road, but she couldn't quite place it.

And then she remembered. It had been many, many years ago before the war, and even before her arrival in the city. It had appeared in her very first dream, before she understood dreams to be significant, and even before she knew about the existence of the city. She remembered the dream too well, and all the dreams in between, if only because of the ways they haunted her.

So much time had passed since that very first dream. The years in the city had cost her the innocent wonderment she used to have for those dreams. It wasn't that she didn't believe in them anymore--she couldn't help it because they haunted her especially in the years of war. It was that she had stopped being in awe of the way they carried her through the uncertainty.

And the threads. There was no way to explain how and why they bothered her, except that it was as if the forces had timed their appearances. The years in the city taught her to be rational, but nothing about the threads was rational. Not when she had found the threads on the road into the city at the very beginning, or when it was on the material worn by the village people when she first met them. There was nothing rational about it appearing on the unexpected basket of supplies the sages handed her when she first began her apprenticeship collecting stories either. As she allowed herself to dwell on it, memories of the other numerous occasions of their appearance came to mind.

"Trust your instincts," her mothers once told her. She hadn't realised it then, but she had only learnt to fully do that not just because it had been wisdom from her mothers, but because the threads would show up after as a mystical guide.

She still struggled to make sense of how walking away from the city walls was supposed to help with the war efforts. She only knew it wasn't that she no longer believed in the city walls, or that the village life would be better. The sages once spoke of the mystical ways of their ancestors. That mysticism came from the stories of her people gave her peace enough to keep walking the road of the unknown. She could only trust in the stories of her people that it will all make sense when the time came.

The road was still calling, but she pulled herself out of the stream and pitched her tent for the night. As she laid her head down that evening, she picked up the rocks marked with the stories of her people and recited the words again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind." "You shall love your neighbor as yourself."

And then she looked to the heavens and whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critters, and for the village people. More importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.

No Words

Dear Keren,

I feel like out of obligation to what has now become tradition, I need to say something on here because it's your birthday.

There's so much to say, but at the same time, nothing at all.

So I'll leave it at that.

Happy Birthday, dear friend.

Me.