An Affirmation for Women - by Lakin Easterling

I heard once that Lucifer was the most beautiful angel. That he outshone every other, and was breathtaking in form and sound. He was likened to the bright star on the horizon of dawn, a silver twinkle along the vastitude of the day’s unfolding orange and pink and lavender. I’ve also heard that in his heart resides a bitter thorn for the word Woman and the beauty she holds, because she is a completion, a crowning glory, the magnum opus of creation. She is the beauty, the morning star, of a people crafted from planetary substance, filled with the breath that Lucifer himself used to inhale before exhaling the first note of a song.

In short, we have holy breath. We are filled to glowing with the vibrato of a God who delights in elegance. And in that breath, we have been challenged.

The challenge arises from mothers, from fathers, from siblings, lovers, friends, children, aunts and uncles, coworkers – whoever and all – over the fact that there is something the Holy Song has left in our garden-shod bodies.

Our voice is the uncovering of the treasures left behind in our genes from the very beginning of conception.

Our voice is the unleashing of the holy onto the ordinary substances of this spinning vessel.

Our voice is the permission for humanity to bloom like the dawn, to soften the edges between light and dark, to cross over the threshold of night and day, and to make space for the glory only image bearers of such a Maker could restore.

Ours is the voice that has been told it is not enough and too much. Ours is the voice that has been deemed too provocative or not revealing enough.

Ours is the voice of a great and holy power that comes behind the preparations and deems it truly, undeniably good.

Ours is the voice of confirmation, of encouragement, and of completion. We carry beings in our bodies, forming them fully from specs and atoms until they are ready to be whole enough. We do that! We make, we create, we shift from tiny infant to infinite imaginative child to unfolding feminine hearts to fully formed queens of nature and existence in order to birth those same transitions in the rest of the world.

And we have been told our transitions are void? Are not welcome? Are unnatural? We have, and we have listened.

We have exchanged our hour of daybreak for an hour of mourning.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for the same God that dwelleth in the light also dwelleth in the shadows.

Though we walk through the hours of drenched lashes, improperly balanced scales, roughly shod feet and dirty homes, we are kin to the same Son that walked through mud and a sea of bones, recalling life from every dead man begging for sight or healed limbs. Though we walk in the hard fought with crimson nails and lips, raw from the cuff of injustice, we are Bride to the Healer and the Maker and the Spirit.

Be not afraid of your darkness, Beloved, for in the womb of shadows pressing too close, you are rolled and burnished bright as pearls. Be not afraid of your light, Beloved, for in the pressures of a soul opening into the world, you become fully formed into the purpose you were designed for.

Be not afraid, Woman, of your name.

Be not afraid, Woman, of your birthright.

Be not afraid, Woman, of your transitions.

You are alive. You are alive. You are alive!

Be free in your glory, in your presence, in your voice and heart and mind and body and soul. Dance naked across your kitchen floor! Sing loud with the windows of your car rolled all the way down at a stoplight! Share a piece of chocolate with a stranger. Embrace your physical life with the laughter pulled in by holy breath and exhaled with the hope that every fence and every boundary and every checkmark that has tried to diminish your spirit has been broken by a Savior who is less Knight in Shining Armor and more Last of the Mohicans. He is wild and strong in his love, and empowers in his love, and bestows with his love. He fights with a banner of love and sets a feast with the abundance of your oppressors. He keeps you, Beloved.

He keeps you, Beloved.

He keeps you, Beloved. He is not afraid of the depths you will go to, nor is he jealous of your heights. He knows your glory and is steadfast in helping you ascend to it.

His love is a freedom, the sky in which your star is set. Be not afraid of your place. Be free in your being. Be Woman, fully alive.

Reminders - by Melody Farrell

About a year and a half ago, I began a project that has changed me forever, and changed me in all the best ways possible. Bobby Triplett began writing a fantasy fiction series, the Epic of Haven, and I became his editor. Although I thought I was merely agreeing to fix some grammar and continuity, nothing could have possibly prepared me for the journey that was to come when I agreed to edit this book.

And so I must say, with every fiber of my being, with every ounce of passion and honesty and clarity that I possess: I am so very grateful that I didn’t know. I’m so thankful that I didn’t realize the time it would take, or the emotional toll that would have to be paid, or the sheer scope of work that would be involved. I would have said no. And if I had said no to this book, I would have missed out on the most impacting, liberating, inspiring experience of my life.

The best part of the whole process was that I got to write an “Editorial Companion Guide” to go along with the book and unpack some of the themes and truths that are layered into the narrative and the dialogue and the heart of the story. What follows is an excerpt from the Companion Guide:

When I uncovered the fact that “reminders” were a theme in this book, it kind of blew me away. It was like God was telling me precisely what I needed to do to hold onto my own hope by revealing this little nuance in a novel. 

Let me tell you the story.

I don’t like the beginning of this book. Sorry, R.G. … but then again, it’s not news to him! The poor fellow had to bear through the agony of three or four massive rewrites and rearrangements of the first few chapters of this tale. I wanted a flashy opening, something to grab the attention of the reader and compel them to keep reading until the intrigue of the beginning tension was resolved. I wanted a mysterious attack on a young child by a velociraptor, or a naked, dead dude in the middle of the Louvre, or an improbable reaping of someone like Primrose Everdeen. 

The author, on the other hand, wanted the slow introduction of world-building through poetic narrative and long exposition. If he told me once, he told me at least 20 times that it took Tolkien 80 pages just to get out of the Shire. I tried to tell him that he wasn’t Tolkien yet, but he just wasn’t hearing me.

And he was right, I suppose. He didn’t need a velociraptor after all. 

But he did need just a little intrigue. (I’m getting to my story, just bear with me.) I remember praying one night, asking God what we could do to the first few chapters to add a little more fascination for the reader. And He gave me an idea.

I added just a couple paragraphs about Tolk sneaking back into the church after Cal’s baby dedication. I didn’t even know why the idea came to me, it wasn’t particularly interesting or engaging, but then again it kind of made sense. It kind of seemed like something Tolk would do. I had him take the torch of illumination with him, although I had no idea what we would do with it later on in the story.

Well, the great R.G. got ahold of it, and it ended up that when we finally meet Tolk again, the torch becomes something that the old Poet had kept all this time to remind himself of what he had witnessed. To remind himself to keep hoping. That was cool, I dug it, and it was a nice addition to the story. I didn’t really think much of it other than that.

“You see, this ... this was meant to be but a reminder. A token of remembrance, so that I would not forget to hold onto hope.”

Cal stared at the old man, not fully comprehending his meaning. Finally he said, “Remember to hope? How could you, a Poet, forget that?”

“Oh Cal, even the most tenacious hope can be buffeted with overwhelming doubt, or at the very least dulled by the relentless passing of days. But it is in those times that we must hold fast to things which remind us why we hope in the first place.” He gripped the torch tighter and shook his head with a bit of disappointment. “I should never have put this away.”

Later on in the editing process, I came across another instance where a character had kept an item as a reminder to hope. Deryn speaks to Eógan of the ancient blade Gwarwyn, and it turns out that Eógan had kept a little memento of his own.

“Tell me Eógan … do you still have its scabbard?”

“Indeed I do,” Eógan smiled. “When I could not heal the broken spirit of Caedmon, I kept this as a reminder of my crumbled pride and as a token of hope that maybe one day I could amend for my past failures.”

I found this extremely similar to what Tolk had done, and I almost thought we should go back and change the Tolk thing … but I kind of liked the repeated theme, so I decided to leave it.

Then, I came across a third time where a character has a tangible reminder. The Poets give Cal the gift of his armor for this very same purpose.

“My Poet friends wished me to stay with them, but deep down they knew that I must continue on my own. After we had broken our fast together on my last morning, Elder John, the one who fished Moa and I out of the river, came to me with this very gift.” Cal looked down at the resplendent bronze armor that he wore. “He told me to take it as a reminder of my time under the mountain, and of the great battle I would fight, and of the true prize that I seek.” Cal’s eyes had grown damp with the remembering.

When I came upon this fourth instance of the exact same thing, I literally got goose bumps. 

Armas thought on what Engelmann was saying for a moment before he spoke. “So ... if the gilded branches are not talismans for the favor of the THREE who is SEVEN, as you suggest, then why does your brotherhood hold them in such high regard?”

“Not high regard, son. They are but a reminder—or at least, that is how I see them,” Engelmann told him. “Each day that I pass through the doors of the mother willow, I am again reminded of the apparent failure of my life’s work and calling,” he told him, fully aware of what his words implied. “But let me tell you, son, those golden sticks there ... they are also a reminder for me to hope.”

“Hope?” Armas asked.

“Yes, Captain, hope,” the Arborist answered him. “For the enlightened power of the THREE who is SEVEN to show itself again, and that those who remember to seek it will not be disappointed in the end.”

I remember writing a note to Bobby in my “red parentheses of doom” about this striking trend. Okay, he coined the term “red parentheses of doom”. I would have just called them parenthetical questions, but whatever. It was how we communicated regarding the countless inquiries I had about continuity and structure and timeline and motive and everything else.

But this time, it was not a question I inserted into my parentheses. It was a humble and inspired realization that this theme of tangible reminders permeated this story. I’m not sure the theme was at all intentional; at least not to the degree that it affected my heart. 

But there it was, nonetheless. And God was using it to speak to me.

Much of my hope is wrapped up in this book. Not in the success of this specific book, but more in the promise of a future of writing and editing and affecting hearts through this medium. I do think that doing this is part of what I was made to do.   And, as I have said before, that is a scary thing to hope for. When you find out what it is that you were truly created for, it becomes really easy to see all the reasons why you might fail to become that creation. 

And that is when you need the reminders. The tangible monuments to the moments with God that you have experienced, those moments of clarity, where all the fear and failure melt away and you are left with hope.

The best part of this whole thing is that my reminder, my monument to keep hoping, is this book itself! When I hold the final, published book in my hands, and remember the impact it had on my life and my heart … I will be reminded why I will always keep fighting for this hope. The story of hope is indeed my reminder to hope.