egypt

[a resurrected story from the dinosaur computer w/a few minor edits]


An original story based on Exodus chapters 7-11 of the Holy Bible


The hot summer sun beat down on the stone jar that sat atop Menena's head, warming her russet hair. Her light brown skin tingled with sunburn as she walked back to her little house of white stone. Her sandaled feet shuffled in the dirt, creating tiny clouds of dust which rose up to her ankles. Humming softly to herself, she looked ahead to see if she could spot her mother washing clothes in front of their home. Sure enough, the young woman who was Menena's mother was bending over a washtub scrubbing garments in the cool spring water, though most of it had spilled onto the dry, sandy grass. She could see their small donkey penned up in the fence beside the house, being tended to by a little servant girl.

"Ah, Menena," her mother said, smiling as she saw her daughter approaching. She stood up and arched her back, wincing slightly. "You've got the water?" she asked.

Menena nodded, slowly and carefully emptying the jar's contents into the washing bucket. "Yes Mama, I've brought it."

"Good girl," the woman replied, kissing the top of Menena's head. "I'll be done in a little while, then; go inside and see your brother."

Menena nodded and ran to pass through the river-reed door of their house. "Aren!" she cried, running across the floor and flinging off her sandals. The cool stone felt good compared the hot sand of outdoors. "Aren, where are you?" she repeated.

"Right here, stop your shouting," a boy replied, walking into the room. He came over to Menena and ruffled her already tousled hair. Menena only came up to her brother's chest, for Aren was already three when she was born, and now she was ten years of age. He smiled playfully at her as she wrapped her arms around his coarse grey shirt. "How have you been today? Helping Mama?" Aren asked her, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

"Yes, and now you're to watch over me while she finishes washing clothes," Menena said, her eyes twinkling.

"You can take care of yourself perfectly well."

"Won't you play with me?" she asked pitifully.

"All right, fine," he said, kissing her forehead and taking her small hand.


*


Menena rolled Aren over, with considerable trouble, until he lay flat on his back. Then, with a grin, she stood on the chair and jumped onto his stomach. With a groan Aren clutched his stomach then grabbed her and began to tickle her. Upon hearing shrieks of laughter from Menena, their mother rushed into the room.

"What is going on?" she asked, exasperated, and looked around to verify that all the furniture was still intact.

"Let me go- Aren!" Menena cried breathlessly, still unable to quiet her laughing. Aren gave a wry smile and released her, and their mother shook her head with a soft laugh. Her mother turned to leave, but stopped abruptly as she faced the window.

"What...?" she said suddenly, turning around. Menena followed her mother's gaze to the window, its only adornment two pale curtains blowing about in the cool evening air. The bucket of water was still on the ground outside the house, visible through the window. But the water was different, the color was red and thick, so you could not see the bottom of the bucket. It looked like blood.


*


The sky was utterly black, so black that Menena felt as if she were going to be swallowed by it. In the dead of night it was always black, but this was much more. It had been dark all that day, and the day before it. For so long had it been so wholly dark and black that days seemed to run together throughout all Egypt. The little stone house was quiet; Aren, Menena and their mother were all huddled together in one bed. Menena's mother and brother were asleep, but she could not rest. Her open eyes darted this way and that, dreading the sound of humming flies, croak of frogs, or horrid click of a locust wing. The light of the wall-mounted torch cast weak, flickering orange shadows across the small room, but outside of the window all was black.

Even if there had been light outside, Menena would not have wanted to look. Their small donkey had died of a strange plague, its carcass later to be beaten down by hail and rain. Menena whimpered, still able to feel the hideous boils on her skin. But the servant girl they kept had not been affected by the boils; she only seemed very troubled and sorrowful about what had happened to them. There were rumors of a strange man in Egypt, stirring up trouble for no good reason. But the serving girl was always silent, though she prayed often, always silently to her unseen god.

Menena crept out of bed slowly, hearing the servant girl shutting the door. Every day, after the sun set, the little Jewess would walk to her home. Now Menena could see she was going about this evening routine, bearing a small torch. She silently followed the serving girl until she was out of the house and could see the light of the torch. She followed her for a long while, the silence eerie and terrifying. The girl looked around once she reached the street where she lived, amidst several other houses belonging to Hebrew slaves. Menena looked around in wonder as she saw that all of the houses, including that of the servant girl, had been smeared with blood around the doorposts. The door of the girl's house opened and a voice speaking in Hebrew said something urgent. The girl said nothing, but ran inside quickly.

Menena started as a single noise was heard, like a muffled crack of thunder. Looking up to the black sky, she could see neither stars nor moon. Then, slowly from the inky heavens came a slender, sneaky trail of fog. It was pale, almost white, but there were subtle glistens running through it, like sunlight on a babbling brook. It coiled slowly down, weaving in between far away slave houses. Crying out, her voice breaking the thick silence, Menena swerved around in terror and ran as fast as she could back to her house, her bare feet thumping the ground. By the time she reached her home, the smoke was nearly upon her. She raced in the door and through the house until she finally collapsed onto the bed where her family was sleeping. Darting under the covers, she snuggled up against Aren, fixing her thoughts on the slow heaving of his chest to keep her distracted from frightening thoughts. Just as she had finally stilled her own frantic breathing, a chill ran through her body. A freezing wind rushed throughout the house, nearly stopping her breath, filling her very bones with cold. Then the next instant it was gone. Aren stirred briefly, and a frightened tear ran down her face.

"Aren, what was that?" she whispered, putting her hand on his shoulder. The rhythmic heaving of his chest abruptly stopped. She shook his shoulder frantically, gasping. Placing her head against his chest, something inside her wondered if he, perhaps, was no longer sleeping. "Aren!" she whispered again, not even noticing the twinkle of a star that came from the sky. His pale and deathly face was still, and her eyes opened wider, filling with tears.

"Aren?"

"if I had a million dollars"

I think if I had wealth beyond imagination, I know what I would do.

Aside from practical concerns which would be taken care of, and the beautiful task of feeding the poor and dressing the naked and furthering God's work. [so, I'm talking, REALLY unimaginable wealth]

I would love to patron the arts. Films, specifically. Because films are no longer [if they ever were] made for the sake of art and beauty. It's all money, money, money. Filmmakers make films because they think people will spend their money to see the films. And film producers only back films if they think it will acrue monetary gain. That is, mostly. There are always exceptions.

But doesn't that seem like a shame to anyone else? Doesn't it seem like a shame that only mindless or erotic films get made- because people will most certainly watch them? Or perhaps the excellent film that gets an unrelated, explicit love scene spliced into it, because sex sells.

Art is broad. But films are very rarely art. I know there are filmmakers who would love to be patronized- if anyone wanted to spend money on art instead of chick flicks.

That's what I would do. Get good films made.

[[who are you following?]]

Then some Pharisees and teachers of the law came to Jesus from Jerusalem and asked, "Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders? They don't wash their hands before they eat."

Jesus replied, "And why do you break the command of God for the sake of your tradition?"

church

from the things I have learned from scripture...and in my own life...church is many things. church is also not many things, which I think I realize more every day. church, to me, is not hearing a wise sermon once a week. church, to me, is not singing along with a praise band to our Lord. those are good, and I believe necessary things. in fact, worshiping my saviour through song is often the only activity which gives me true peace, because God is allowing me to praise Him in the way He best designed me to.

but it's not church. not really. church is looking around me and seeing my family. is looking around me and seeing Christ in the faces. church is who I am sitting next to, and across from, and that our hearts desire to bring glory and honor to Christ.

perhaps this clears my confusion a little bit. I am not attending my church, I am simply attending what IS church to many people. I am compelled to wait for a season before I can seek out church for myself, but I think this time of waiting is bringing more clarity to me every day.

this definition of church explains why church to me has not often been found in a church-building. I have found church in a half dozen church-buildings, but in a back room, praying, with paint on my face and funny clothes on. I have found church on a website with a handful of girls. I have found church in a chat room, or in letters passed between sisters in Christ. I have found church in my own living room, and in the living rooms of friends. I don't think an evening of watching "A Muppet Christmas Carol" and a time of church have to be mutually exclusive.

and so, I am alone. I pass from church to church, never knowing when the next opportunity will arise. I long to find a real church in a real building where I can go once a week. I know that others have found it. I have seen it, most often in a gathering of young people in a big building on the south side of the river. tears coursed down my face and I felt the freedom and closeness to lift my hands and my voice. I found church in that place. but it cannot be every week, for me. I have found church in a family room, after giving thanks for the Lord's supper, with friends who need no church building.
[I am inclined to think that they have it most right of all.]

and I sigh, and I sing songs and listen to a sermon every week. and I get a real church fix every now and then, but not hardly often enough.
and I wait

Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.
[psalm 27:14]