Real Magic and Faerie Stories

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My love for Faerie Stories, good fantasy, and all good books and shows, grows out of a love of Christ, the scriptures, the preaching of the Word, grace, and truth. I believe good fantasy echoes the True Story. Faerie Stories hinge on moments of Eucatastrophe. Fantasy clichés are just that because they reflect our history. I never grow tired of heroes, real heroes. I never stop loving a girl being rescued. I find satisfaction in villains finding justice. I love faerie stories because they bring a new depth to our world and open eyes that are bored with seeing. In this way, they again mirror truth, the truth of faith and not sight.  

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Sometimes real magic becomes mundane: blooming flowers, falling snow, autumn, moonlight and starlight, our self-healing bodies. We become so used to things, we stop seeing how amazing they are. We know what needs to happen atmospherically for snow to fall. We understand photosynthesis. At some point, the world stops being mysterious and becomes routine.

Faerie Stories tease into the light—via exaggeration—things we have grown used to, things we take for granted. In Faerie Stories the old oak is a wellspring of wisdom, or a sentinel standing guard over your home, or even a moving, speaking creature who keeps back the darker parts of the woods. As we soak in these tree-stories, we see our own trees in a new light. We see their grace, majesty, value, and beauty.  We know the Faerie Stories aren’t true, but they shine a spotlight on a truth: trees are amazing things.

White flowers grow on the side of the highway. Day after day, millions of cars flash by at 80MPH. I often wonder how many people every notice them sprinkled in the grass. I see them because a story I hold very dear has white flowers forever growing on the graves of kings, and one of those kings is one of my favorite characters. I cherish that spot of white flowers as a memorial. Every time I drive past, I’m reminded of that story and that character.  A patch of humble flowers has been brought to light by a story.

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This is one of my own goals in my stories. I want you, the reader, to gain a dimensional view of life. When you see a tree, you see a tree. But, you also see layers of so much more, enriching your world, reminding you, highlighting for you, what an amazing thing a tree really is. When you see that dandelion growing in the front yard again, I want you to see more than a weed. I want crows to make you smile. They make me smile. As a writer, I want my stories to do for you what all stories do for me. They enrich my life. They help me see the real magic that I’ve grown accustom to, bored with. They remind me that life is more resonant than what I can see with my eyes. When we train our minds, even accidently, to see the world in another layer of magic, when we are awed by growing things, trees, storms, butterflies, the lives of rabbits, and other ordinary facets of life, we see God’s post-apocalypse creation for the amazing place it really is. We practice seeing by faith, in a way, instead of sight.

Sight and science are concerned with what’s right before them. They do not deal with the soul. (If that’s not the most magical thing created by God, I don’t know what is.) Faith deals with the unseen. Faith believes in something it can’t see, or touch, or hear.  This is why you can’t just have faith in faith. You must know what you’re having faith in. Every time a movie or book says “just have faith”, I want to scream, “Faith in what? Faith in who?”

We can have faith in ourselves.

We can have faith in another person.

We can have faith in some undefined karma, that we hope never really comes back to bite us.

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Or, we can humbly sit in a pew, listen to the wise preaching of the word, and believe in truth. God doesn’t ask us to take blind leaps of faith. He tells us exactly what we need to believe. He sent men into the world to tell us every week. This faith is so simple a child can grasp it, and so deep we can study it all our lives and never plumb its depths. This faith believes that we are all wretched sinners. We are dead. Each and every one of us. We need a savior, but who would come and die for the dead?

Christ.

The Son of God, Deity himself, became a man, lived and kept the law we couldn’t, died and saved us, his church and bride. He rose again, defeating the death that had bound us, his elect, and made us alive. Christ paid the cost of all our sin. (Grace, not Karma) and gave us His purity. (This isn’t a universal forgiveness. You must come and believe. You aren’t saved just by the fact that you’re human. Not every human is or will be saved.)

I can’t see this. I can’t see that I’m dead, and I can’t see that Christ made me alive. To anyone outside me, I look the same. I can’t see the rags I wore before, and the white robes of righteousness I wear now. To me, I look the same. But, I believe all this to be true, by faith. I believe that Christ sacrifice did pay the cost of each and every sin I commit, have committed, and will commit. I believe He is ruling and reigning now, even though I can’t go see Him. I believe He took my punishment and gave me His righteousness.

I believe this is the True and Great Story, the Real Story, out of which every other good story flows. And I believe that each Sunday, when ordinary men fill the pulpit and preach Christ and his Story, dead men come to life, and sinners grow more holy. This is the real magic. This story is the real supernatural event of our history. God became man, lived how we couldn’t, died for our sins, and rose again. And now, that very same mighty Lord is going through the world and through time to save His people. What a King we have!

It is bad enough when we take the world as a given, thinking we understand everything, and never see how kind it is that we have autumns, or Christmas, or families, candles, and bonfires. Worse yet is when this is true of the preaching of the Word. When was the last time you thought about the power of the mundane preaching?

It raises the dead!

It makes sinners holy!

Have you ever thought about, dare I say, the magic of preaching? The truly supernatural event happening before your eyes each Sunday?

Sundays and preaching can be so ordinary. Every week we go gather together. We hear a variation on the same truth we heard last week. How easy it is for us to just stop listening. How easy it is to just presume upon the preaching. We stop seeing the true magic, we stop seeing with faith. We just look and see humble men, and humble teaching about something that happened long ago. Awake! Awake! Open your eyes, oh sinner! See the world for what it is. See beyond the surface of things to the layers of life. Look! Look! Here is a wellspring of water that will never run dry. Here is a meal that will carry us through a week of normal, temporary tasks that still must get done. Here is real and true and good and pure magic that shouldn’t be missed or taken for granted. Look to the preaching of the word. Let it infuse you and your life so that you can see by faith, instead of by sight. Our sight will fail us. It lies. It tells us we are alive, and pretty good, and basically a nice person. It tells us a tree is just photosynthesis, and never sees a tree!

Open your eyes! Or, better yet, I pray your eyes are opened. For what dead man can make his heart start beating. Life is richer, deeper, and far darker than what we see out of our windows. Fear should wrap around us, but it should be infused with great hope. Life is hard. Life is rocky. Life hurts. But God, who is rich in mercy, raises the dead. He gathers His saints in. He clothes the naked. He forgives the villains. He heals the sick. He befriends the dangerous. Christ came, lived, died, and rose again. He is the one, genuine hero in history. Rejoice weary saint. Gather to hear the preaching again, and open your soul to the magic, the true and real and wonderful magic, of the gracious Word of God.  See God’s grace from the smallest, humble flowers to the greatest moments in history, and in the weekly preaching.

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This is what I try to capture in my stories: darkness slashed with light. This hope that we, the worst of us, can be saved, and not by our own power, but by an undeserved rescue. When I write and read good stories, it helps me see by faith and not by sight. Read faerie stories. Read Warrior stories. We’re in a battle. It helps me to remember that, to ‘see’ it when I read a good war book. It helps me remember the REAL deeper magic when I read faerie stories. There is magic out there. We’re just so used to it we don’t see it. There are real supernatural events that changed the course of history. God really became a man and died for sinners. That happened. And Christ really rose from the dead. And he is really with us on the Lord’s Day when His word is preached. This is real magic. Real supernatural truth.

The dead are made alive!

I read Faerie Stories. They, and all good stories, support and owe homage to His history.  They remind us to live by faith, and not by sight.

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WIPjoy  

I hope they are touched by the underlying horror of so many of the children fighting in wars, dying, being kidnapped, starved and freezing, are the unborn from our world getting their chance at life. It’s a subtle theme in the book, but I hope it sits in the back of the readers mind and paints the whole world with a bit of sadness and horror.
I also hope my readers are touched by Jonah’s story and his confidence born out through the mercy and undeserved rescue he experienced. Along with that, I hope my readers appreciate and grow in their own understanding of warriors and the courage and burdens these men bear.

WIPjoy (Catching Up!)

27: Do you sympathize with the antagonist?
Jonah turned his red eyes on me. He didn’t, he couldn’t blink, or even change his facial expression, but I could still feel the weight of that stare.

“Sympathize? With Cagen? Pain? Fear?” He stood up. “They make foolish decisions and children starve. They destroy everything they touch. They send unarmed girls into battle. They force obedience through what hurts or what we’re afraid of. They don’t surrender even when we’ve lost, but keep forcing us to fight. Sympathize with them.” Jonah laughed. “No. No I don’t.”

28: What are you self-conscious about?

“My hair color.” He raps his knuckles on the side of his metal head. “Before Adele put me in here, I had my normal hair color. But in Greenhome that color changes once you fully belong there. I belong in Greenhome more than anywhere else, I just wish my hair would catch up.”

Wrap up Week:

29: How long do you expect to be working on this WIP?

At least a few more years. I just finished writing Book 2, and I’m now editing it for the first round of readers. Once that’s done, I’ll start Book 3. It also has to then be edited and read. While it’s being devoured by my faithful readers, I will do my final edits on Book 1 and 2. Book 1’s ending needs to be fleshed out a bit more.

So, it’s going to be a while before this baby is ready to see the outside world.

 

WIPjoy 

“Where I live?” Jonah lifted his red eyes out over the broken Streets. “It might look like I live here.” He flung his metal arms wide to take in all the rubble. “But I don’t. I live in Greenhome.”

“Greenhome?” I asked as if I didn’t know. “Is it like this?” I nudge what might have been a bit of building with my toe.

“This? No. Greenhome is good, and clean, and safe. It’s warm and there’s enough food for everyone. In Greenhome kids, born and unborn, have parents. They teach us to read there and about months. It’s a small town with a white rose Hedge going all the way around it that blooms year around. That’s home.  Not this.  Not the Streets anymore.”

WIPjoy

“One thing I’d change in my past?” Jonah repeated my question, incredulous that I would ask such a thing.

“How about not standing up for the weak? How about joining up with Christopher instead of Axe? How about all the maids and crones I abused? How about all the things that made it necessary for Soul to have his hands crushed for me?”

“But then you never would have been salvaged?”

The conundrum was visible on Jonah’s face: his acts had brought him to the point of salvage, and yet because of his salvage he hated them. 

“I think I’ll have to ask Soul about that.” Jonah hefted Scarecrow, his hound-head hammer. He rubbed his cheek, as if an old memory lingered there. “If think of it could change one thing, if never let Pain and Fear take me from my mother.” 

WIPjoy (catching up)

“Five words?” Jonah scratched the side of his metal face with his metal finger, hasp, hasp, hasp. He paused. “You know I hate that I can’t sigh, or frown, or anything. So, I guess machine would be the first thing to describe me.” Jonah bent his metal head, then shook it. “No. No, it’s not the first thing. The first thing is salvaged. The second is Soul’s Man. Third,” he chuckled, “a fighter.”

Jonah raised his head. “Forth, determined to beat the Clowns, and fifth…” he paused for a long moment, raised his metal hand, bent his segmented metal fingers, “…hopeful.”