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When Ellisia, a seventeen-year-old book enthusiast with a passion for learning and a fascination with words, has the opportunity to attend Academy, she’s elated to further her education as well as live near the Palace BookHall—the focus of her lifelong dream. But as she begins to discover the true power of the spoken word, she faces a choice: join forces with a foreign scientist or relinquish her dreams of someday working in the BookHall. As the scientist’s projects begin to threaten the safety of Ellisia’s family, she’s torn between her loyalties and her ambitions. When impending crisis brings a clash of spiritual kingdoms, Ellisia must once for all choose how she’ll harness the power of words. Spoken words transcend her reality, uniting heavenly with earthly and commanding the forces that drive the physical world, and Ellisia’s voice will be the catalyst for sure defeat—or decisive victory. 

A blur of images paraded before her mental vision, sprung from the slightly-yellowed page open on her lap. Curled in her favorite main room corner chair, Ellisia let her imagination travel as rapidly as her eyes. Dukes and drama, intrigue and investigation, foiled plots and feisty populace—every word seized her fancy as her mind rapidly painted each scene in vivid pictures. Her only focus: what the next chapter might hold.

She stuck her thumb under the corner to begin the page turn. Wishing to reread a particularly mysterious sentence, she wavered between pages for a brief instant.

Rap, rap.

Ellisia started, raising her head to glance towards the front door. Judging by the insistent force of the knock, someone had been trying to gain her attention for some time. She sighed, stuck a crumpled bit of paper between the pages, closed the book, and went to the door. Evidently she wouldn’t be finishing her story tonight.

Fumbling with the rusty metal, she lifted the latch.

“Reading again.” The dark-haired girl on the step didn’t even bother with a question mark. “Of course.”

Ellisia sighed and grinned at the same time. “Of course,” she echoed. “Come in, Dresie.”

The neighbor girl stepped past Ellisia. “Carita’s not home?”

“Not just now. And the baby’s with her.”

“Ah, how convenient for me. I hoped we could chat a bit.” Dresie’s dark eyes roved about the sitting room before landing on the book Ellisia had been reading. “I don’t suppose you’d like to head outdoors any more than you usually would.”

“Not really.” Ellisia returned to her chair. “It’s far too cold. I can’t wait until this winter is over in a few weeks.”

Dresie threw back her head, a merry gilded laugh emerging. “You never used to mind the cold, as I recall. Remember when we’d play outside for hours as young girls? With Dixaen? And remember how you’d out-garden both of us?” She paused as her eyes flitted across the bookshelf in the corner. “We used to write about such times in our story journal…you still have that, don’t you?”

Ellisia murmured assent. “I can’t tell you where it is though…I haven’t looked at that for an eternity.”

Dresie’s fingers moved quickly across the titles. “It used to be back in this corner.” She pulled out several volumes, then reached back for a thin, worn cover wrinkled behind them. “Here. Just see.”

The lids fell open, and crooked letters sprawled faintly across the pages. Ellisia scanned them, suddenly transported by the few vivid words and the gaps filled in by her memories to that autumn afternoon.

Nine Years Earlier

“Books? You’d better believe there are books, Ellisia. Why, whole rooms full of books—you can’t even begin to imagine. Rooms bigger than your whole house. And shelves up to the ceiling.”

Dreamy wonder shone in her eyes as she gazed at Caeleb’s animated expression. A whole roomful of books at once! “Have you read them all?”

A laugh rang out. “No, I haven’t. Even you couldn’t possibly read all those books in one lifetime. One of my favorite BookHalls is in Amadel Academy—we call it the Palace Academy.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a school where students learn about anything they want to—and get a certificate in that particular field.” Caeleb leaned back on his hands, his gaze trained on the sky for a moment before returning to Ellisia’s rapt expression. “They do have a BookHall, though, and I enjoy going there because I can usually find a book more easily than at the Palace BookHall.”

“The Palace BookHall.” Ellisia’s words were an awed whisper.

“You’d love the Palace BookHall.” Caeleb plucked a blade of grass and tossed it at her. “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. Or rather, you’d have more to read than you’d know what to do with. You’d never leave. Shelves floor to ceiling. Three stories, at least. All filled with books. And, guess what?” He leaned forward conspiratorially.

“What?” She forced the whisper out, hardly able to breathe. Three stories of books! What next?

“They’re all lined up by color. Each topic is a different color. So when you walk in, it’s a stunning rainbow array of blues, greens, reds, oranges, yellows, purples, browns—floor to ceiling, mind you. And you’d tire yourself out before you reached the other side of the room.”

“Tire myself out …” The echo drifted into nothingness. “Caeleb, I’m visiting that BookHall someday.”

“I’m sure you will, princess.” Caeleb grinned before pushing to his feet. “Looks like Dresie and Dixaen are back. Want to play Captured Bases again?”

“Of course!” She leaped up.

Several rousing rounds later, sunlight stretched the shadows into comically tall versions of their noontime selves, and Caeleb had disappeared inside to talk grownup business with Kaelan.

“We need to go back home now, Dixaen,” Dresie’s black braids flapped as she dashed around the yard scooping up the bases. “Grandfather said we must come when the sun touched the hilltops, and there it is now.”

“Get the ball, too, Dresie,” Ellisia returned. “Put it in the kitchen lean-to.” Seizing a stick, she began erasing the lines they’d drawn in the dirt to mark the boundaries.

She’d reached the other edge of the yard when Dresie came flying back, panting heavily and braids flying. “I can’t open the lean-to. It must be locked.”

“Locked? No, it can’t be. We just got the things out of it earlier. And Carita never locks it while we’re still playing.” Ellisia followed her friend to the lean-to and took a deep breath as she tried the handle.

It wouldn’t budge.

“Can you go through the front door?” Ellisia asked.

Dresie disappeared, only to return a moment later. “That door’s locked, too.”

“What? No, it can’t be.” Ellisia breathed deeply once again as tightness welled up inside her. They couldn’t be locked out of the house. Carita would never do that.

Yet testing the door confirmed Dresie’s words, and Ellisia’s heart sank yet further. Knocking loudly yielded no response, and Dixaen’s strength added to the girls’ efforts still failed to move the handle.

“What will we do?” Dresie’s face drooped as she bit her lip. “You have to get in for the night.”

Ellisia thought rapidly. There was no other way in. One of these doors had to open. Where was Carita? Why didn’t she hear?

A passage Carita had often sung to her shot into her mind. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock …” And there was that other song from Adon Olam’s Word: “Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Adon Olam had said it. It must be true. Ellisia couldn’t open the door, and Carita wasn’t there, but Adon Olam was there always. Softly Ellisia sang the words, then louder and more boldly as she banged on the firmly-shut door. “Open!” she commanded the door. “Adon Olam says it shall be opened. So open and let us in!”

Her right hand reached for the handle as her left hand continued to pound—and the door slipped open. “Thank you,” Ellisia said, stepping in.

Dresie brought the bases in and silently dropped them in the box where they belonged. “It opened,” she whispered. “It opened. It was locked.” She gazed around as if expecting to see Carita standing there somewhere.

“Adon Olam opened it for us,” Ellisia said matter-of-factly. “Or He sent one of His angels to do it. I knew He would. He always does when I say it for Him. He knew we needed to get in.”

Ellisia blinked at the words in the journal. Nine years ago, and she still remembered the relief when that door had opened. Carita had been busy upstairs and hadn’t even heard their knocking. And that conversation with Caeleb…she hadn’t penned much of it in the journal, but every word had been seared into her heart. She’d dreamed regularly of Academy and the BookHall since that day.

“Remember when you told the door to open?” Dresie’s voice cut into her musings. “It just did. I almost couldn’t believe it.” She flipped a page.

Ellisia shrugged. “I remember. I wasn’t surprised. That wasn’t the first time something like that happened.”

“I know.” A note of seriousness laced Dresie’s tone. “I remember a few other occasions later. Ellisia, honestly, did it happen a lot?”

“Some. Not regularly, but I certainly noticed it. Just seemed like part of life to me.”

“Do you remember when Grandfather was ill, and you told his disease to go away? I thought you were being too optimistic and unrealistic.”

“And then you couldn’t believe it when he recovered.” Ellisia sank into the green chair and clasped her thin pale hands in her lap. “I expected that, too.”

“Ellisia, there has to be more to this.” The whisper was earnest. “You know my cousin just married a teacher from Doekh. Those Doekhans know so much more about things than we do here, and my cousin says some of them have studied the effect words have and why.”

Ellisia’s dark eyes caught Dresie’s black ones. “Oh? It’s a matter of study there?”

“I hear so.”

Her clasped hands tightened. “Then I’m going to learn. And find out.”

“How?”

Ellisia shrugged. “I have no idea. But some way or another, I’ll find someone who knows. You have no clue what it’s like, Dresie. It’s true—I sometimes say something, and, good or bad, later I see it happening. I’ve tried not to dwell on it too much, but now that you say it, I do believe you’re right—it has to be more than mere coincidence. I guess I’ve thought it’s like praying—you know how Carita prays. She prays; things happen. But if there’s more to it, I’m finding out.”

“Be careful, though.” Dresie shut the journal and shoved it onto the shelf. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. And I don’t know how much I trust most of those people from Doekh. You know most of them don’t follow Adon Olam.”

Ellisia nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

Scarcely had Ellisia returned to her book after saying farewell to Dresie before a second knock sounded at the door. A sigh escaped her as she again rose to answer—no reading for her today. Was everyone in town out on social visits this afternoon? Her hand again sought the rusty latch.

Then she barreled forward, launching herself into the arms of the stocky twenty-seven-year-old man who stood outside. “Caeleb! It’s so good to see you again! What are you doing here? How’s your grandfather? And your parents? What’s the news? How long can you stay?”

“Ellisia.” He returned the embrace with a broad grin. “Good to see you, too. You know, you’ve still grown since the last time I saw you.”

“Cae-leb …” she scolded gently.

“Not really.” His grin melted into a teasing chuckle. “But truly, it’s good to be back. Syorien’s social expectations do get tiring.”

“I’m sure they do.” She pulled back through the open door, shivering. “Won’t you come in?”

Caeleb entered, swinging himself easily into the room and towards the chair that Ellisia had deserted. He picked up the green-bound novel. “Is it a good book this time?”

“One of the best I’ve read! Especially this year. Though I certainly haven’t had many new books this year.” She bit her lip as her eyes again ran across the pitifully small collection on the corner shelves.

“And why is that?”

She shrugged. “Not enough new books in town here, I guess. I’ve read them all. Either borrowed them from those who have them, or I own them myself.” She plucked the book from Caeleb’s hand and thumbed through it. “This one was one the storekeeper’s wife picked up from a traveling merchant a month or two ago and saved for me until I could buy it. I’d love to be able to read a few more.”

Caeleb eased onto the low divan and stretched his arms behind his neck. “Well, what would you say if I told you that I could give you a chance to do just that?”

The book clattered to the table as she whirled to survey him. “You can? You didn’t bring more books, by chance?” She eyed the bag at his side with a slight frown—it hung as though stuffed with clothing and food, not books.

“Better than that.” Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Ellisia.

“What’s this?” She unfolded it.

“A listing of all the certificates they’re offering at Amadel Academy now. There’s one that brought you to mind.”

She scanned the list quickly, her heart racing. She knew that Amadel Academy—the “Palace Academy,” as it was commonly called—was open only to select scholars, and not penniless ones like she was. And it was so far from her home here in Frydael…

A title jumped out at her. “World Literature?” she exclaimed. “There’s such a thing?” Never once in all her seventeen years had she heard of someone who was certified in literature.

Caeleb leaned back, his hands again resting behind his head. “It’s a new whim in Syorien. Don’t know who decided to offer it or why, but there it is.”

“Truly.” Ellisia was whispering now. A trembling excitement seized her, and the hand still holding the list shook. Grayness swirled about the edges of her vision, but the words WORLD LITERATURE stood emboldened with crystal clarity before her eyes.

“I know how much you love books, and I know how much you want to continue your education. You’ve done an excellent job teaching yourself all these years, and I’d love to see that continue.”

“But you know I can’t …” Oh, how she wanted this.

“I know Carita can’t afford to send you anywhere,” Caeleb went on, plucking the list out of Ellisia’s trembling fingers, “though I know she wants you to get all the learning you can. But I have a proposition.” He grinned as he tucked the list back into his bag and folded his hands around his raised knee. “How would you like to come to Syorien with me and go to Academy?”

Ellisia’s mind whirled. Academy had always been only a daydream. “With you? I couldn’t just…How?”

“It’s simple. You know I’ve been back in Syorien with my grandparents for a while. My parents are in the country currently. We’ve been living down the street from one of my sisters.” He paused. “And now for the news you asked for.”

“What news?”

“Family news, of course. What else would you want to know?” His eyes twinkled.

“About Academy.” The words tumbled out before she could think. She clasped her hands tightly, trying to be patient. Could she truly attend Academy? What did Caeleb have in mind?

Caeleb grinned. “All in time. Family news first.” His smile tantalized her. What about Academy? He continued, seemingly oblivious to her excitement. “My sister just had triplets. Healthy babies, all three of them. But she needs assistance, and for some reason she won’t trust all the daytime care of them solely to me.” He exhaled exaggeratingly, rubbing his palm across his bag, his nose wrinkled at Ellisia. “So—would you come to live with Mae, help her with the babies, and go to Academy?”

Ellisia’s eyes widened. “I’d do anything to go to Academy. What does she want me to do?”

“Mostly just the ordinary housework, I think. She’s been having a neighbor girl help her with the babies during the daytime, and she is adjusting to the care of them, but the other work could use a hand. I figure Carita’s given you plenty of practice.”

Ellisia wrinkled her nose. “Sure.” She’d never enjoyed housework as much as her sister had, but she’d accompanied Carita many times on missions of mercy to neighbors’ homes in Frydael. She knew how to work, anyhow. “I’d do that. And—do you think I would be qualified to enter for the World Literature line? What does it involve? Can I get certified in that?”

“I’m sure you can do it easily if you set your mind to it,” Caeleb encouraged her. “I’m not certain what it involves, but I assume it involves books in some form.”

“Of course.” Nervous excitement bubbled over into a chuckle.

“And yes, you can get certified in that field. It’s a three-year program.”

“When does it begin?”

“Beginning of spring. That’s just two weeks away. Are you interested?” He grinned once more.

“Interested? Is that even a question?” Ellisia flew out of her seat and seized his hand, then released it and sat down again. “I’ll go. If Carita will let me. When are you returning to Syorien?”

“I hoped to make a week’s visit here …” When she didn’t answer, he went on. “But they won’t let me off that long. I’m leaving in five days. Can you be ready that quickly?”

“Can I? I could be ready tonight! I just have to pack my books …”

“There are plenty of books in Syorien, you know.” Caeleb laughed.

She shook her head, an arch smile across her face. “You wouldn’t understand. I certainly need to bring my favorites. There’s something about a particular book you’ve read over and over. There’s simply no other copy that will do.”

“Can’t argue with that one.” Caeleb stood. “Now where is Carita, anyway, that we’ve been left to ourselves so long?”

“She and the baby are over visiting Mrs. Jaelrven and her little flock. I suspect they’ll be at it a long while yet.”

“I suspect so.” Caeleb agreed. “In the meantime, want to play a game of Trux?”

“Most certainly,” Ellisia stated with alacrity. Skirts spinning, she headed for the cupboard and removed the game board and pieces. “If I can calm my mind that long. Are you sure I shouldn’t start packing right now?”

“And leave my lonesome self to laze away on one of the sole four days of the only vacation I’ve had in months? Yes, Ellisia. Go pack. I’ll manage.” He pulled a despondent face, and wooden pieces slipped from Ellisia’s hand as she doubled over in laughter.

“No, Caeleb. Trux it is. You are stuck with it now.”

After an intense game—in which Ellisia came off winner amid much back-and-forth bantering—Caeleb excused himself. Laughing goodbyes were exchanged, then he touched his hat and moved out of the doorway, waving.

She waved back, unable to wipe the smile off her face.

She was going to Academy!

Read more…

Does anyone else love seeing the design progression behind their favorite book covers? I do – I love seeing concepts evolve to create the perfect cover. So I thought I’d show you the progression of the design concepts of Resting Life: Jesus’ Rest for the Busy or Burdened Believer.

I had no vision for this cover. I basically started by giving my designer, the talented Sarah Grace Grzy, free rein. I told her, “Basically I’d just like it to convey the message and be stunning.” (Not a tall order at all… ;))

First, we went over possible background images and mood concepts:

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The sunflower cover is so pretty and bright with gorgeous colors. The feather cover has beautiful color and texture and design, and I love how it’s not a full photograph. The water/tree cover is stunning!
I loved each design for different reasons, but none of them fit the book right.

So it was on to round 2. I sent my designer my author aesthetic pinterest board, and she sent me these beauties:

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I LOVE them both! The colors are gorgeous . . . but it still didn’t seem right for this book. After tossing around other ideas, I came up with some specific elements to shoot for, and here’s the results:

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I liked the nature idea, but the color tones weren’t setting the right mood . . . So we tried again, this time with simple images and some non-image designs:

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I LOVED all these new images, particularly the cliff and the yellow trees . . . but the mountain hut image immediately captivated me.

From there, we made only a few more adjustments . . .

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And there it was – the perfect, gorgeous cover for Resting Life!

Enjoy this short historical fiction Christmas tale for free for the next week!

To Make a Merry Christmas

Erika Mathews
(C) 2020 Erika Mathews. All rights reserved. Do not copy without written permission

“Christmas in Whitstead has to be the most glorious time of year, if I do say so myself.” Eleven-year-old Evelyn Weston clasped her hands together dramatically for a moment before spinning back to the old wood stove to peek at the rising loaves under their warm cover.

“It is cozy; thank the Lord for that.” Her mother smiled as her needle whisked over a cuff hem and disappeared underneath again.

“I cannot wait for Christmas Day! Won’t it be gloriousness and delight, all pine and mistletoe and candles everywhere—and snow and moonlight and gifts together before the roaring fire!”

“—and puddings, and meat, and cake with raisins!” put in nine-year-old Ellis, poking his head up from the reader he labored over, prone before the wide hearth.

“I want to go sing for the neighbors, like we did last year,” little Edith added as she turned her own small lump of bread dough round and round on the table.

“And I want to give us a roaring fire worthy of a Christmas Day.” Eldon, the oldest, kicked off his boots at the door and dumped a load of logs into the wood box.

Their mother dropped her sewing in her lap to smile upon each of her four children. “My dears! I hope Christmas shall be all you wish! Nothing brings me greater happiness than having us all together, especially while celebrating the birth of our Savior.”

Evelyn glanced keenly at her mother. The purse-strings were drawn tighter than ever this year, she knew—but surely there would be enough for a festive Christmas. So many times during the summer months her heart had turned eagerly to the anticipation of the first snow, sledding, decorating their small cottage, planning the modest feast that they might be able to afford, preparing surprises for each member of the family, crunching in the snow to the Christmas Eve service at St. Nicholas—and oh! perhaps finally having the crowning delight of carrying a glorious Christmas pudding to grace the Christmas dinner table!

The bread baking, she tackled the rest of her daily tasks with zeal, her mind busily and happily occupied in planning pleasures. Eldon could cut a tree just as easily as not from the forest when he chopped wood. Grandpapa’s candle supply would do nicely for the decorating. Paper couldn’t be spared; it must be saved to light the fire. Perhaps they would be able to get fruit to hang on the tree and then enjoy for a special Christmas breakfast.

Once the cottage lay in its usual neat order, Evelyn skipped downstairs to the cellar and then upstairs to the loft to search for extra supplies, odds and ends, and bits of things that could be turned into Christmas cheer.

“What are you doing, Evelyn?” Ellis leaped to his feet and clattered up the stairs behind her.

“I’m finding things for Christmas.”

Edith’s humming rendition of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel ended in an abrupt squeal. “Can I find some too?”

“Of course! Get anything you can. Any little scraps, anything! We’ll make a merry Christmas!”

“Is it tomorrow?” Edith asked, jumping up and down.

“No, it’s more than a week away still.” Evelyn knelt by the trunk in the loft and rummaged through the treasures collected therein.

A happy hour later, a pile of short yarn ends, twisted nails, three shredded rags that couldn’t be patched again, wick ends too tiny for Grandpapa to use in a candle, a pheasant feather, and various other items lay collected in a bucket on the floor, and a second happy hour followed as all three younger children engrossed themselves in cobbling together a variety of decorative items.

“Mumsi, can we have some of your yarn for the tree? We’ll be sure to wind it up nicely and put it back in your basket after Christmas.”

“Yes, you may, Evelyn.” Her mother glanced up from another long seam.

“I’ll go collect some sticks to make things with.” Ellis raced to the door, shoving feet into boots almost midstride. “Eldon can always burn them afterwards.”

“Excellent plan! You just wait and see! The Christmas of 1844 will be the most beautiful Christmas the Weston family has ever known!” Evelyn spun, her dress puffing out around her. Surely it would be! It had to be!

~~~

“Dear Father up above in Heaven, please send us a Christmas pudding for Christmas dinner.” The slender form knelt by the old brass-knobbed bedstead, her brown head bowed low over her tightly-clasped hands. “Thank You for answering my prayer. Thank You for Grandpapa, and Mumsi, and Eldon and Ellis and Edith, and please bless us all and help us all to love You with all our hearts. And thank You for sending Jesus to us. Amen.”

The prayer finished, Evelyn snuggled into bed next to her little sister, her old stuffed dog tucked neatly under her arm. Christmas Eve—tomorrow night—floated into her visions under her tightly-closed eyelids. For the whole week, she’d done her best to set the stage for a merry Christmas: helping Eldon cut and bring in a little pine from the forest, trimming it with Grandpapa’s newly-made beeswax candles and bits of odds and ends around the house that anyone else would term as “trash” with no hesitation, trying to piece together something—anything—for a surprise gift, and tiring her poor little brain in a vain attempt to find something for a special Christmas dinner.

Only potatoes and carrots filled the cellar, and only flour for plain bread or porridge rested in the old gray cupboard. How could one possibly create a special meal from the same ingredients she cooked with every day?

But God could send the Christmas pudding. Of that she was certain. All her life, it seemed, her chief dream had been to crown the Christmas dinner with a pudding, and every year she’d waited in vain. But surely this would be the year . . . despite the leaky roof and leaky stove that had eaten into every bit of Mumsi’s meager savings only a few weeks ago. Celebrating the birthday of the Savior of the world in a grand and homey way was worth all the trouble.

The next thing she knew, early sunlight streamed into her attic window and it was Christmas Eve morning. The fire must be built, porridge must be stirred up, and Edith, trailing downstairs with one sock on while humming Joy to the World, must have her dress buttoned.

Yet heaviness weighed on her heart as she cleared away the breakfast dishes. Mumsi hadn’t been able to finish her last dressmaking project, so no money would be coming before Christmas. The Christmas pudding seemed further off than ever. At this rate, she’d be faced with serving stew and plain bread for Christmas dinner.

Not a very festive dish with which to celebrate the Savior of the world.

The bits of thread and rusty nails on the tree looked shabby and sad, and even the prospect of twinkling candles didn’t raise her spirits. As hard as she’d worked, as much as she’d planned, and as faithfully as she’d prayed, it didn’t seem that there would be much of a Christmas at all.

“May I go for a walk outside when Eldon does?” she asked Mumsi, putting the broom neatly in its corner.

“You may.” Her mother smiled.

“May I come? Please?” Ellis jumped up, his prized accordion—a blessing from Grandpapa—in hand.

“Me too?” Edith stopped humming long enough to ask.

Permission granted, the four headed outdoors. Eldon disappeared in search of more firewood, and the three younger children wandered away from the road—even from the tantalizing aromas drifting from the bakery next door—towards the seclusion of the trees behind their small cottage.

Ellis softly played on the accordion as they walked, and Edith joined his tune here and there. Evelyn, in silence, listened to the pensive notes and words:

Come, Thou long-expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free;
From our fears and sins release us. Let us find our rest in Thee.

Christmas isn’t about making everything perfect, Evelyn reminded herself. It is about what matters. Forever, not just for today. How could she and her family find their true rest in Jesus in this season of difficulty?

Suddenly inspired, she made a decision. She’d take this question upon herself as a personal challenge.

Back at the house, she pulled back the curtains, letting in the sunlight that reflected dazzlingly off the snow. She set the tea kettle on, and she kneaded the bread, shaping it into festive and exciting angels, mangers, and crosses rather than just plain rolls.

“Can I help?” Edith crowded against her elbow.

Evelyn wanted to say she could finish faster herself, but instead she agreed. “Of course you can. Here’s dough. Shape it into whatever you want.”

A merry hour followed. Project after project leaped to Evelyn’s ready brain and was carried out as best as possible under the circumstances by her eager fingers, aided by her brothers and sister. After a cold lunch, the family settled into the main room, delighted with the rare opportunity of a chance to sit together in the middle of the day without pressing work clamoring. Cheerful chatter followed, and gradually the conversation became more serious as Evelyn attempted to express a few of her conflicted feelings and efforts.

“It’s not whether we end up with enough for a merry Christmas or not. We are together, and Christmas really isn’t about decorations, or delicious things to eat, or presents, or anything at all that we have.” Mumsi’s soft voice reminded Evelyn.

“I know—but I do want to celebrate Jesus properly. I want to make it special for us to remember Him.”

“But, Evelyn, don’t you see? He doesn’t need any of these things, so why should we?”

“I suppose,” she said reluctantly. Then suddenly a light burst across her face, illuminating it with a divine glow. “Oh! I see it now! Of course! Why, it’s just that He is the gift. He is the feast. He is the decor. He’s everything Himself—the Bible says all this—so that means if we have Him, we have everything with which to make a merry Christmas.”

“Let’s name everything He is.” Eldon turned from tossing another log on a roaring fire. “I’ll start. He is joy—the joy of the season and joy in us, no matter what.”

“He is our peace,” Evelyn added, quoting a favorite Scripture.

“He is our Christmas present,” Ellis put in.

“He is the bread of life that satisfies us forever,” Mumsi contributed.

“He is the Shepherd who takes care of his smallest and weakest sheep.” Grandpapa’s eyes twinkled.

“He is the Baby in the manger!” Edith exclaimed. Then she burst into song. “‘Joy to the world, the Lord is come!’”

“He is our provider,” Eldon said, his voice low.

Round and round the circle they went, naming more and more elements of who their Savior and Lord had made Himself to be to them.  As the declarations flowed, Evelyn found her attention drifting away from the things they didn’t have to gratitude for the things they did. A cheerful, healthy family, all together on Christmas, knowing and welcoming Jesus Christ the Savior of the world—what more could she ask for?

Yet again, the prayer tugged at her heart. “O Father above, please grant us a Christmas pudding.”

In light of the many blessings recounted, it seemed such a trivial thing to request. Yet had not her Father repeatedly assured her that He loved to give good gifts to them that asked Him? “A Christmas pudding for Christmas dinner,” she repeated. “Thank You that You have already arranged it.”

“Now let’s count all the nice things about this Christmas,” Evelyn suggested as the fire burned lower and conversation dwindled. “I’ll start. A nice warm cozy fire.”

“Snow all week!” Ellis rushed to look out the window.

“The party at Whitmore Park!” Edith squealed.

“Being all together,” their mother spoke.

One by one, each shared little blessings, and Evelyn found her spirits soaring.

Sunlight’s shadows lengthened, and it was time to get ready for the grand party at Whitmore Park, the chief estate of the village of Whitstead. Even if she barely knew Lord Fentiman and his family, the prospect of a grand time and a hot supper shone enticingly in the light of their own meager fare.

“Perhaps God will give me a Christmas pudding there,” she sighed to herself. That would be delicious, though it wouldn’t be the same. But no, Jesus was enough. If God gave her anything more, it would simply be extra.

The flurry of preparations, the brisk walk to Whitmore Park, the lights and color and dazzling array of decorations, chatter, and aromas fell like heavenly bliss on Evelyn’s senses. She so thoroughly enjoyed the chats with her good friend Emily Winterhurst—even though she missed Aurinda Button—as well as with various and sundry other Whitstead folks both well-known and little-known. How delicious was the little supper, and how her spirits soared once she left the mansion to tramp to St. Nicholas for the Christmas Eve service!

Inside, the still reverence awed her heart. Notes of carols wafted from somewhere up front, and candles—most of them made by Grandpapa—lit the congregation. She slipped into her place, holding Edith’s hand tightly.

O come, O come, Emmanuel . . . Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

She let the words wash over her. “Thank You, God, that You are with us, and You are enough.” Despite her faded dress, scuffed shoes, and threadbare coat, despite the utter ordinariness of home, despite her own failure to create something special for her family, she had Jesus. And somehow, that knowledge filled her with utter joy and peace. She hugged the familiar words of the service to her heart.

“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord…”

Unto her. Just as surely as unto the shepherds, unto Israel, He was born unto Evelyn Weston and her family.

Snowflakes landed gently around her as she crunched back over the roads to the little cottage. The splendor of talking with and being in the presence of God filled her heart on this most holy night, and a determination seized her.

Back in the warm kitchen, she scooped the fancy-shaped bread she’d made into a basket and plunged back into the night. Two doors down, the Griffith family cabin stood, even smaller and more dilapidated than their own. Surely they too would have little hope of a happy Christmas, but perhaps she, in her own small way, could help.

Leaving the basket on the doorstep, she knocked loudly, then retreated out of sight. Hiding behind a birch trunk, she watched the littlest Griffith boy pull the basket inside, and she heard the echoes of the shouts of his many brothers and sisters as they discovered the contents.

With a smile dancing on her face and a lump resting in her throat, Evelyn skipped back to her own front door. As she paused just before reaching the doorstep, she turned her face to the night sky. Stars shone out from between wispy and fleeting clouds. The full moon hung halfway up, shedding its brightness over the entire street. The snowfall had stopped. A single shooting star streaked across the dark expanse, clearly visible even in the moonlight.

All was right with the world. God had provided again. Even if there was nothing special to look forward to in the morning.

~~~

Christmas Day dawned as usual, bringing the normal daily work of staying alive and keeping warm, fed, and clean. The children played before the fireplace; Eldon tackled little repairs around the house he’d put off while he was out doing odd jobs around town; Mumsi sewed; Grandpapa studied Scripture and polished candlesticks. Evelyn put the house in order, started bread and stew for lunch, and kept Edith occupied.

Heaviness threatened her heart at the meager fare, but she resolutely put it aside. “Jesus will give us Christmas pudding,” she thought. “He laid it on my heart to ask. He will not fail me. He said, ‘Whatever you ask in my name, that I will do. If you shall ask anything in my name, I will do it.’”

But hadn’t He also said, “If two or three of you agree on anything in my name, I will do it”? She hadn’t thought to share her request with the rest of the family. After all, it was only a silly little desire of hers . . . it wasn’t earth-shattering. But He’d said . . .

“Ellis,” she whispered. “Come here. I have something to tell you. And Edith, you come too.”

Together, the three of them scampered upstairs to Eldon, who was nailing a board onto the window frame. Evelyn gathered them around her. “I have something important to say. I’ve—I’ve been asking God to send us a pudding for Christmas dinner. I know it sounds silly, but I think He wants me to ask. He says, ‘Ask, and you shall receive.’ So, if you would, I’d like to request that you also ask Him with me. Together.”

“I will! God will send pudding!” Edith exclaimed at once.

“And I will,” Ellis readily agreed.

Evelyn looked up into Eldon’s eyes. Her older brother was always so cautious . . .

“Are you sure God wants you to ask? It seems . . . maybe . . . presumptuous.”

“He says, ‘Ask whatever.’ Ask in faith. It will be done. I think He means what He says.”

“But . . .” Eldon began.

“In faith,” Evelyn interrupted firmly. “No doubting. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but don’t doubt us.”

“No. I will ask.” Eldon’s eyes still held hesitancy, but he folded his hands together. “Dear Father, we ask for a Christmas pudding, and we believe You will send one.”

“For Christmas dinner,” Ellis added. “Make sure to send it on time, so it won’t be spoiled.”

“That’s today,” Edith put in. “Send the pudding, God, please.”

“Thank You that You hear and answer our prayer,” Evelyn concluded. “And thank You for sending Jesus to earth. We want to celebrate and worship Him. And we want to live in Him every day. Amen.”

“Amen,” her siblings echoed, and then trooped downstairs once more. Dinnertime awaited.

“We must set the table,” Edith piped up. “I will get the pudding spoons.”

“But . . .” Eldon began.

“No, she’s right. God will send it, so we must be ready.” Evelyn handed Edith the six precious spoons that didn’t see daily use in a stew or porridge bowl, and Edith skipped happily to the table.

Evelyn quietly set the bread and stew on the table, poured water, and slipped into her chair. Her family gathered around her. “Grandpapa,” she said, a bit shyly. “I’ve been praying for a pudding. Couldn’t you pray for one too?”

“Why certainly,” he replied. “But why a pudding?”

“Just because . . . I’ve always wanted one to celebrate Jesus’ birth—and we’ve never had one, and God seemed to want me to ask.” A nagging thought lingered in the back of her mind, wondering how God could possibly get them a pudding now, but she pushed it away. Of course God could.

“Our Father in heaven, we thank You for sending Jesus, our Emmanuel, to be with us forever. We thank You for Your provision today and every day. We thank You for our daily bread. We thank You that we are all well and together. We thank You for our kind neighbors and friends, and we pray Your blessing upon them. Bless our home, our table, and this food. If it is Your will, we ask for the Christmas pudding that Evelyn desires—but most of all, we ask for Your glorification and for Your kingdom to come on this earth, today and forever. Amen.”

“Amen,” the family echoed.

Evelyn took a deep breath. Now was the moment she’d hoped to crown the table with cutting a pudding . . . but it would have to be stew. “In everything give thanks,” her heart reminded her. “Thank you, God, for stew.” She heroically lifted the ladle.

Somewhere outside, a dog barked.

Ellis’s head jerked up, then he ran to the front door. “I’m going to look for the dog,” he exclaimed. “Just a minute.” He flung the door open, then let out a shriek. “Something is on the doorstep. Come see!”

In a twinkling, Evelyn dropped the ladle and flew to the door. A bowl sat on the step—a small bowl, but a beautiful one to her eyes.

With trembling fingers, she carried it to the table and opened it, never doubting a moment, yet with a heart that throbbed in anticipation and awe.

Under the towel lay a gorgeous, magnificent-looking Christmas pudding.

“Thank You, Father. Thank You, Father. Thank You, Father.” Evelyn’s eyes nearly brimmed over in gratitude and joy. Jesus was enough—but look at how He delighted to bless His children! See how He answered the smallest and most trivial of prayers! Evelyn lifted the dish, placing it in the center of the table, and though it was small, it seemed better than the most magnificent feast to her eyes.

For it was the answer to a child’s prayer to her loving Father.

With shaking fingers, Evelyn cut the pudding, each movement a small miracle in her estimation. As delightful as the pudding was, it paled in comparison to her Father’s wondrous love and care—for her. He had personally answered her prayer. He had given her exactly what she’d asked for. Not a roast, not a feast, not a houseful of gifts and decorations . . . but He’d given her Himself.

And the Christmas pudding would forever be a symbol in her mind of just how much that Christmas gift meant to her.

She handed the first plateful to her mother, her heart full. “Merry Christmas, Mumsi. A merry, merry Christmas indeed.”


If you enjoyed this story, check out my other works at restinglife.com/books/shop.

IT’S HERE!

Look at this gorgeous, victorious, triumphant cover for Victory’s Voice (Truth from Taerna #2)!

AND guess what! You can PREORDER the EBOOK AND SIGNED PAPERBACK today!

Didn’t Megan McCullough do an awesome job???

ABOUT THE BOOK

When Ellisia, a seventeen-year-old book enthusiast with a passion for learning and a fascination with words, has the opportunity to attend Academy, she’s elated to further her education as well as live near the Palace BookHall—the focus of her lifelong dream. But as she begins to discover the true power of the spoken word, she faces a choice: join forces with a foreign scientist or relinquish her dreams of someday working in the BookHall. As the scientist’s projects begin to threaten the safety of Ellisia’s family, she’s torn between her loyalties and her ambitions.

When impending crisis brings a clash of spiritual kingdoms, Ellisia must once for all choose how she’ll harness the power of words. Spoken words transcend her reality, uniting heavenly with earthly and commanding the forces that drive the physical world, and Ellisia’s voice will be the catalyst for sure defeat—or decisive victory.

This book is so exciting to me, and I can’t wait to release it in just a few short months! Every time I reread the climax of this story, I get chills and new excitement . . . this is SUCH a powerful message and so relevant today. Truly God wrote this book through me.

Don’t forget to preorder the ebook and signed paperback!

It’s launch weekend for the second edition of Promise’s Prayer!
New cover, new formatting, new editing!

First, the important things: the ebook is on sale through tomorrow night for just 99 pennies! After that it goes back up to $2.99, so be sure to grab it today or tomorrow.

The signed paperback of the new edition is available!

Special Post! Interview with “Erika from 2014” and “Erika from 2017”!

I found this fun post from launch week of the first edition of Promise’s Prayer back in 2017 with interview answers I’d written both in 2014 when I had just finished the first draft, and answers I’d written just before launching the book for the first time. I thought it would be fun to share in honor of the re-release . . . with updated answers!

On a scale of 1 (worst) to 10 (best), how well do you think this book turned out?

Erika from 2014: Probably 6 or 7. I’m happy enough with it, but it does need editing. Somehow things never seem to appear on paper as they do in my mind, so it doesn’t match the quality I imagined–yet.

Erika from 2017: Wow, it’s clear that my opinion and love of the book have only improved with each edit. I’d now rate Promise’s Prayer somewhere in the range of 9 – not because I believe it’s the best book ever written, but because I deeply love the characters, the message, the plot, the wording, the journeys of Carita and Kaelan, and the truth of Adon Olam. It’s by far my favorite fiction story I’ve ever written.

Erika from 2020: I think I may be back to a 7 on this question. My writing skills have changed and improved in the last several years . . . and so often as I undertook my most recent edit this year I wanted to entirely rewrite the whole thing. But I still love the story, the message, the characters . . . and everything else about the book. And the second edition is so much better than the first.

Have you ever rewritten or edited one of your books before? If so, what do you do to prepare yourself? If not, what’s your plan?

Erika from 2014: I have edited many books, but actually few of them have been mine. I edited a non-fiction book of mine a year ago. I don’t prepare much; I dive in. My plan is to go through and fix/improve one section at a time.

Erika from 2017: Editing other people’s books seems far easier than editing my own! Most of that is probably psychological as well as the fact that I’m not emotionally attached to other people’s books, i.e. with my own books, I can justify in my head why I chose those specific words or added that specific scene. With other books, I can be more objective. That said, it sounds like I didn’t have a very concrete plan when I first started editing. No wonder it took over two years! I did develop several sub-plans along the way. I read my book several times start to finish, editing each time. Three different times I sent the book to a few friends for opinions and feedback. I edited on my computer, on Kindle, and from the paperback. I scanned every bit of formatting as well as read sections repeatedly for typos. I listened to my computer read my book out loud to me and followed along with it. If there’s a method I didn’t try, please let me know and I’ll add that when I edit Book Two.

Erika from 2020: I’ve edited so many books in the last three years, both mine and other people’s. With mine, generally I let the first draft sit for a while, then go back and edit, edit, edit.

What’s your final word count? Do you plan to lengthen or trim your book? 

Erika from 2014: My final word count is 66, 328, and I’m planning to both lengthen and trim my book, though I’m not entirely certain yet how significantly. Because I know some parts will be added and others deleted, I’m not certain whether my word count will increase or decrease, but I expect at least a minor increase before it is finished.

Erika from 2017: My book has lengthened. The final word count is 71,469 – so I added about 5000 words in the editing process. Several new scenes are included in those 5000 new words.

Erika from 2020: 74,786. Once again, it lengthened a bit with this new edit.

What are you most proud of? Plot, characters, or pacing?

Erika from 2014: I’m most proud of my characters–no question there. I got to know them far better than even I imagined. They really took off with what I gave them and led me places I had no idea we’d go. Even supporting characters developed unique personalities and showed who they truly were. Kaelan showed up much more often than I expected, and other characters whom I expected would take the stage more stayed in the background. Plot and pacing are another story… pacing proved more difficult the further I got into the book, and with it, the plot seemed stagnant too, but my wonderful characters rescued both by the end.

Erika from 2017: I’m still most proud of my characters. Kaelan, Carita, and their friends are so realistic – I can relate to what they are thinking and feeling, and every time I read the book, I’m learning and growing along with them. Pacing is much better now than it was initially, though I’m not entirely confident about it. I’m very happy with the plot now that I’ve identified and filled in the original plot holes.

Erika from 2020: Still the characters, though I’m also quite content with both plot and pacing now.

What are your hopes and dreams for your book? What impressions are you hoping this novel will leave on your readers and yourself?

Erika from 2014: My hope and dream is that those who read the book will be able to relate to the characters and events in the book and that they will think about their own views and perspectives on life, culture, society problems, and their personal life purpose. I hope that readers will evaluate their own methods of approaching their goals, dreams, and what is important to them and ensure that they are making the right choices. I am also challenging the stereotypical “save the world” element of many novels.

Erika from 2017:  My desire is to demonstrate how the real, powerful, lifechanging truths of God’s kingdom (the spiritual realm hidden from our physical senses) could play out in a fictional setting. I hope that readers are encouraged to pray and challenged to trust God with their fears and struggles, relying on Him alone. My goal is that God will use this book to reveal His kingdom to my readers. As C.S. Lewis writes: “By knowing Me here for a little, you may know Me better there.”

Erika from 2020: My hope is that Promise’s Prayer demonstrates the power of the kingdom of God through ordinary people, transforming daily life into His resting life. My goal is that God will use this series to reveal His kingdom to you as the reader. My prayer is that by spending time seeing and knowing God within these pages, you may know and experience Him more intimately in your daily life.

ABOUT THE BOOK

He promised to save the land. She received a divine calling.
But how can mere prayer quench his restlessness and her fears?

Walking behind a plow day in and day out gets boring for a nineteen-year-old who longs for nothing more than adventure. In the midst of the rampant lawlessness and love of pleasure that drive their country, Kaelan Ellith yearns to make a difference. When a promise at his mother’s deathbed gives him the impetus to do just that, he’s off to the capital city to bring back the knowledge of Adon Olam. Despite his natural leadership skills, his schemes keep going awry, and lost people keep passing into eternity without hope. How can he ever keep such an impossible promise?

Shy Carita Kostan knows the voice of Adon Olam, and she desires nothing more than to follow His calling: “Love. Serve. Pray. Persevere.” Yet how can she minister His love to her neighbors when her soul is tormented by their unmet needs and handicapped by her own paralyzing fears?

When the true nature of his promise and her call begin to surface, Kaelan and Carita just might discover how saving the world is entirely different than they imagined . . . if they have the humility and the courage to receive it.

A clean, family-friendly Christian kingdom adventure fiction novel for all ages

Guess what! My book Promise’s Prayer (Truth from Taerna Book 1) is getting a second edition this fall, complete with new formatting, polish, and a brand new cover!

The cover is gorgeous, and I’m so excited to see the new edition. But until then, I’m holding a celebratory sale on signed first edition copies this weekend only! It’s only $11 . . . and to make it even better, I’m doing something I’ve never done before: FREE SHIPPING! Hop over here to order a copy.

That said, you get to see the new cover today!

ABOUT THE BOOK

He promised to save the land. She received a divine calling. But how can mere prayer quench his restlessness and her fears?

Walking behind a plow day in and day out gets boring for a nineteen-year-old who longs for nothing more than adventure. In the midst of the rampant lawlessness and love of pleasure that drive their country, Kaelan Ellith longs to make a difference. When a promise at his mother’s deathbed gives him the impetus to do just that, he’s off to the capital city to bring back the knowledge of Adon Olam. But despite his natural leadership skills, his schemes keep going awry, and lost people keep passing into eternity without hope. How can he ever keep such an impossible promise?

Shy and devoted Carita Kostan spends her days seeking Adon Olam, raising her bookish orphaned sister, and helping others. Carita knows the voice of Adon Olam, and she desires nothing more than to follow His calling: “Love. Serve. Pray. Persevere.” Yet how can she minister His love to her neighbors when her soul is simultaneously tormented by their unmet needs and handicapped by her own paralyzing fears?

When the true nature of the promise and the call begins to surface, Kaelan and Carita just might discover how saving the world is entirely different than they imagined . . . if they have the humility and the courage to receive it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Erika Mathews is an author and editor who lives in the farm country of Minnesota with her husband and children. She’s a homeschool graduate with a Bachelor’s in Communications, a Master’s in Biblical Ministries, and a passion for sharing Jesus Christ and His truth. When she’s not working with books, she enjoys reading, outdoor activities, piano and violin, organizing, and using the Oxford comma. You can connect with Erika at restinglife.com.

ISN’T IT GORGEOUS?

Design credit goes to Megan Mccullough.

Thank you so much for attending this reveal party. Watch Erika’s Instagram this month for celebrations and release news, or hop over to restinglife.com/signup for all the updates plus a free short story.

 May the blessings of the Lord be upon you today!

Hello friends! Erika Mathews here, and I have author updates on my entire series!

Promise’s Prayer: My debut novel is getting republished with brand new formatting, a new cover, and minor editing! The new cover reveal is this weekend! Watch for that and for release date information . . . possibly as early as this fall! Meanwhile, you can grab a signed paperback of the first edition on sale this weekend: only $11, along with something I’ve never done before: free shipping!

Victory’s Voice: I’m excited about this book, and currently it’s with the editor! I just received the cover from my designer, and it’s gorgeous! Watch for cover reveal and release information – I’m hoping launch day will happen not long after the re-release of Promise’s Prayer!

Surrender’s Strength: I finished the draft of this book in April and now it’s with the editor! Cover design is coming in the next few weeks. I hope to make some progress on this book in the fall. Release coming hopefully in 2021.

Sustainer’s Smile: This book is near to my heart and so close to being ready. I’m currently editing this one. Cover design and formatting will be coming soon!

Memory’s Mind: This book is about 75% written. I hope to finish the draft sometime this year.

Romance’s Rest: The final book in the series is about 95% written and I’m planning to finish the draft this week!

For more information on any of these books, click here.

Also, there’s a huge YA book Facebook party happening this weekend, and I have the 3:00 PM CST slot on Friday, July 24. Join me there for numerous giveaways, fun games, and bookish conversation. And bonus . . . if you attend the party, you’ll get to be the first to see the brand new cover of Promise’s Prayer!

If you want to join the cover reveal, I’m accepting signups until tomorrow at 1 PM CST . . . so hurry over!

Which Taerna book are you most excited to read?

Kethin’s arms were as full as his love life was empty. His arms couldn’t hold another item, he was sure. His romantic future…everyone in Frydael seemed to think it needed immediate attention, and most were quite happy to provide their assistance. At twenty-seven, Kethin wasn’t impressed. Or interested. 

“Oh, Kethin. A letter for you.” Mr. Raeson pivoted on his stool behind the Mercantile counter. 

Kethin balanced the weight of baby-toned fabric, sheep’s medication, and paper packages of salt and soda. “A letter! Exciting.”

“I hope so. It’s from your sister, after all.” Mr. Raeson finally slid the bronze-hued envelope between Kethin’s two empty fingers. “Hope she’s well.”

“As do I.” Kethin slipped the missive into his tunic pocket and readjusted his load. “It’s seemed like forever since she’s visited.”

“I know how that goes. Why, my own little Milli was a youngster running ’round this place just yesterday, and now she’s way off to the ends of the earth in all those places I never did see. Me and the wife do miss her every blessed day, we do.”

“Families change,” Kethin acknowledged. “And what a blessing to know that the young ones are living lives that our parents and grandparents never thought they would live.”

“You take care who you call a young one now.” Mr. Raeson swatted his glove in Kethin’s direction. “I remember that first day your pa came in here after you were born. Young one.” 

“Now, now,” Kethin shot back. “We young ones will be carting you around in your elderly years, you know.”

“Oh, I know. I know. Don’t I know, Helda?” The question was directed towards the owner of a long blonde braid that swished into the store. 

“Oh, you know,” the newcomer obliged. “Be careful how you ruffle up dear old Kethin. He’s not the baby you make him out to be.”

“Rather rapidly entering the state of confirmed bachelorhood, I should say.” Another womanly figure slid in through the still-ajar door. “Say, is that your life-calling? No one would have thought it of you.”

Kethin’s laugh rang against the pots and pans hanging on the back wall. “Oh no. Not my calling but my current state. One can’t claim one’s calling in that area so early in life.”

“Very true,” Helda replied, her voice smooth and lilting. “For all one knows, one may be on the very cusp of the life event that should precipitate him from blessed singleness into happy matrimony. One’s state might alter in a fortnight. Kethin’s, especially.”

Kethin once again shifted his load, stepping towards the door as Helda edged towards him. What was it about him that made girls speak this way in his presence? It wasn’t as if he was about to marry anyone. Especially her. 

“Thank you, Mr. Raeson. Good day, Helda and Olive. Pleasant shopping to you both.” Nudging the door with his elbow, he backed out, leaving a parting grin shooting into the shop before he turned to the street, knocking the door shut with his toe as he pivoted.

“Kethin! Kethin! I’m glad I caught you.” 

“Ted.” Kethin nodded in the direction of his rapidly advancing friend and lifted a finger in greeting, that being all he could manage in his currently loaded condition.

“Kethin. I have a proposition from my father. He’s been looking out for you. Knew you’d be in town today.”

“You nearly missed me. I’m headed home.”

“I was detained. Business, as always. But what I came to say: My father wants to speak with you. Urgently. Something to propose. Oh, it would be jolly. But I can’t say. He wants to. World is up and sky is down, as one might say.”

“Whatever you’re driving at, it sounds profound.” Kethin’s grin flashed. “I’ll come. Now, I assume.”

“Now’s the dog’s ears, as they say.”

“Truth be told, I’ve never heard anyone say that.” Kethin fell into step behind Ted.

“Except me.”

“Except you.”

“And Red. Red says that all the time.”

“Except you and Red. Congratulations, you’re ‘they.’ What ‘they’ say is what you’ve said. Redman and Theodore Hawkins, the official ‘they’ of Taerna.” Kethin quirked his mouth in Ted’s direction. “Now we know. How’s Rosy?”

“Just swell, just the dog’s ears—except don’t tell her I said that. No, it’s the dog’s ears to have a girl like her. You couldn’t imagine.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t. She seems like the perfect companion for someone like you.” And Kethin’s eyebrow rose. It took a spunky girl like Rosy to handle Ted’s flighty yet innocent craziness. 

“Heh. Don’t tell Red. He thinks his little mouse is the most stunning piece of creation within the Four Countries.” 

“Oh, Rue suits him. Couldn’t have the two of you acting just alike now. I’d be worried if you found identical girls.”

“Come, when’s it your turn?” Ted swung his head abruptly towards Kethin. “You’re, what, twenty-nine now?”

“That’s Kelton, not me. I’m not nearly so ancient as that.”

“Him, too. Are you planning to settle down together as a pair of bachelors?”

“Ha! Far from it!” Kethin chuckled. “Sounds pretty attractive, actually. Compared to the hubbub we currently live in. No, Kel’s enthralled with his learning and studying, and whatever it is he does up there on the mountain sometimes—visiting the hermit or taking a break from the farm, I suppose—and teaching Tae and spelling Liliora on shifts with small squalling people—no, I’d say he has no time to meet anyone, let alone pursue them. He’s happy. He’s always been that way. Let him live his own life.”

“And you?”

Kethin swallowed. Him. “I’m busy enough, too. Someone’s got to take care of the animals and the cooking.”

“You just choose to. You wouldn’t be the first to put creatures before people.”

“That’s not fair…” Yet a smile lurked at the corners of Kelton’s cheeks as he followed Ted up the path towards the tall stone-built house.

“Fair, too. I’ll believe it when I see you with a woman.”

“Ted. Come on. I’ve told you before, I don’t know anyone I would want to spend the rest of my life with, and until I do, I’d rather stay as I am than pursue women I don’t want to marry.” 

“Don’t believe you.” Ted yanked the door open.

“Believe it or not. It matters naught to me.” Kethin’s tones were light and jesting, and he followed Ted into the spread-out front room of the parsonage.

“Father, here’s Kethin. Almost missed him.”

“Ah, thank you, Ted. Run along now, while we talk. I’ll call you later.”

“Oh, I shall! See you, Kethin.” And Ted abruptly bowed himself back out, the door shaking behind him with the force of being suddenly shut. 

Kethin stood alone in the presence of Ted’s father, a preacher with erratic habits and even more erratic speech, yet the only true preacher who had remained in Frydael the past few years. Mr. Hawkins was rather on the short side, alternating between absentminded and cuttingly sharp-witted. A rim of gray fluff crowned his head, descending into a frame around his chin characterized by unruly curls that somehow became his rounded features. His eyes sparked small yet stunningly bright blue in his face, and his forehead crinkled one moment in deep thought and the next in mischievous fun suitable for one young enough to be his grandchild. The father of four, he’d long since learned to parent his lively brood without the wife of his youth, who’d left earth long before Kethin had met the family. Redman, Theodore, Cora, and Flori—or Red, Ted, Cor, and Flor, as they were familiarly known—had somehow blossomed and thrived into young adulthood, each with brilliant prospects of soon beginning families of their own. 

“Preacher Hawkins.” 

“Kethin. Sit.” He jerked his head towards an empty chair, his tones kind. “Oh. Dump your things on the table. No matter.” 

Kethin slid his armload onto the one table corner that was currently visible, then slipped into a chair. “Good day to you. I hope all is well with your work and study?”

“All well, very well, well, certainly well enough. Or, no, perhaps not well at all. You see, the work of Adon Olam goes forth, but the laborers are few. The needs are many. He says pray for laborers, and I’ve been praying.”

“That’s good to hear. Then surely He will send what is needed.”

“Red and Ted, they do well enough, but they’re aiming to start their own families now. They aren’t around much anymore. Yet how shall they hear without a preacher?” He broke off, seemingly irrelevantly. 

“Indeed, I’m grateful for your services in that capacity. You don’t know how the whole town has brightened since you moved in here. I hear someone mention it nearly every time I’m in town.”

“Truly?” The eyebrows lifted in clear delight. “Praise Adon Olam for that. I wouldn’t think it. Still don’t. But any rate. To business. You, Kethin. You’ve been on my mind for some time.”

“Indeed.” Why did everyone seem concerned for his welfare today? The whole town wanted to run his life. But they didn’t know him. Not that well.

“Adon Olam has called you for a very specific purpose. Oh no, don’t think I’m about to propound to you what that is. No, I couldn’t tell that any more than the next man. He’s got to tell you. But I have a suggestion. A proposition.”

“Ted told me as much.”

“Oh, did he tell you what it was? That rascal. I’ll have to—”

“No, no, he told me nothing else. Just that you had something to ask me. That’s all. He wanted to tell me, certainly, but he didn’t.”

“Ah, fine son, there. Anyhow. It’s kind of a messenger thing. There’s a town nearly two days’ journey to the west. Needi, they call it. Someone there received a copy of the Word of Adon Olam from someone in Frydael—I don’t know, a relative, a friend—and started reading it. They’re rather a tiny, secluded town, and it was new potatoes to them. Now they’ve asked for someone to teach them. I can’t go—I’m called here—and I can’t send Ted nor Red, not with their ladies here. Most of the young sprouts hereabouts have a lady or a family or something or ’nother. But you came to mind. And that’s the proposition. If you don’t mind it.”

“You want to send me to a small town—for what?” Kethin asked evenly.

“As a messenger person. An evangelist. A proclaimer. Ambassador. They need Adon Olam. They’re asking. You can do it. Tell them His words and bring them to Him.”

Blankness washed over Kethin. What was Mr. Hawkins asking of him? This was no job for him… “Sounds like something Kelton would be good at,” he muttered, but even as he spoke, he knew Kelton couldn’t do it. Kelton wouldn’t travel that far for so long, and he couldn’t draw a crowd, keep a crowd, or speak to a crowd. Kaelan would have been a better fit, but now his family needed him. 

Mr. Hawkins didn’t seem to hear. “What about it? What think you?”

Kethin licked his dry lips. “I have no answer for you just now. It’s something to consider, indubitably. I’m not certain it fits with my life at the moment. But I will think it over and let you know.”

Mr. Hawkins leaned forward, his big fingers tapping the arm of his chair. “It’s more than just the messenger. It’s a chance to know Adon Olam—to live for Him—to see Him work in and through you—to know Him as reality in you.”

Kethin blinked. “Understood. I’ll pray about it.”

“Thank you, Kethin. That’s all. Either way, let me know. I’m praying for you. I want you to know His reality… He loves you.” 

The final three words whispered softly in the silent room. Kethin shifted, a bit uncomfortably. Why was the preacher singling him out to preach to this afternoon? 

“Amen,” Kethin replied at last. “Thank Him for that. If that’s all, I’d best be getting these things home.” Standing, he swept his load off the table into his arms once more, tucking fabric under his elbow and balancing paper packages between his chest and forearm. “Thank you. I shall look forward to seeing you again at meeting time.”

Mr. Hawkins didn’t reply, just nodded his head at Kethin. With a backward glance, Kethin found himself outside the door once more. 

That was odd. Wonder what to make of it.

Yet every interaction with the preacher was always unique. Kethin had never quite been able to figure him out. Sometimes he spoke so similarly to Ellrick, to Kaelan, to Kelton, to those Kethin knew and loved best and who knew and loved Adon Olam. Other times, the preacher’s ramblings left Kethin wondering if he was even speaking of the same Adon Olam. And now this erratic preacher wanted to send Kethin to some tiny town? He’d certainly need confirmation from Adon Olam if he was to pursue that route anytime soon. He wouldn’t mind traveling, but it would need to be for a purpose. And he wouldn’t mind teaching people, but…

How could he teach other people about knowing Adon Olam?

Sure, he knew Adon Olam well enough. It was a phrase he’d heard spoken commonly in his home since babyhood. Usually the word had dropped from his mother’s lips, but later Kaelan, Laelara, Liliora, and especially Kelton had picked it up as well. Kethin had heard the Word read and spoken many times. He knew the stories about Adon Olam working. He’d listened to the testimonies of His power. And yet…

Surely Adon Olam never worked the same way twice. Surely that was why Kethin had never quite understood the passion with which other family members had thrown themselves into the Word and prayer. Certainly, the Word and prayer were important. He himself read the Word and prayed, at least most days. But his brother Kelton… Kelton had forsaken the family to live on a deserted mountaintop for who-knew-how-many years. Something about a monkish life seemed to appeal to him. But here he was, at twenty-nine, still living at home, still only surviving, helping the family, and secluding himself in his room whenever he could. 

Kethin didn’t want to be like Kelton. 

But somehow, he envied Kelton, too. Kelton was at peace. He was always so calm, so wise, so unhurried. He always knew what to do. He never seemed to be bothered when he needed to drop his own interests and help others. Kelton might not be popular, but people respected him. People gave him space. The person Kelton was inside couldn’t be hidden for anything. He showed his real self to everyone, and people treated him accordingly.

Kethin, on the other hand, didn’t feel a bit that way. He couldn’t deny that he made friends easily. Everyone seemed to open up in his presence, to tell him how they truly felt and what they faced—who they were inside. Saying all the right words to them was easy. Making them feel understood—it came naturally to him.

Yet Kethin himself never felt understood. He was putting on a front, a false self—yet was it truly a false self? He didn’t even know, but the Kethin inside felt trapped, never visible to the world, never known by anyone, never truly loved for who he genuinely was. People admired his looks. He couldn’t deny that, annoying though it sometimes was. They seemed drawn to his personality. Still, that wasn’t the real Kethin, and he knew it. 

No wonder he was twenty-seven years old and had yet to meet any woman to whom he’d give a second look as a potential life partner. 

He didn’t even know himself. How could anyone else? 

And how could he encourage other people about the state of their soul when his own soul felt so unsettled? 

He needed to find his place in the world. But that wasn’t here.

He swung the barn door open with two fingers.

Here was the only prospect he had at the moment, and so far it had sufficed. He wasn’t about to make a huge change without a reason.

At the familiar scent of hay and sheep wool, he let out a long-drawn sigh. Here was a rather splendid place, after all. 

Abel, the Icelandic sheepdog, bounded up to him, tail wagging and mouth panting in delight. He thrust his cool nose into Kethin’s hand, and Kethin dropped his load onto the bench to wrap his arms around his dog and bury his hands in the long, soft fur. 

Here was a friend to fill his heart. Abel understood the real Kethin. 

A sheep bleated. Chickens scratched and clucked. A goat banged his head against the fence twice. In the haystack, something rustled and then was still. Birds tweeted their shrill cheery calls, and cicadas drummed somewhere in the distance. 

This was his happy place. As exciting as people were, it was hard to compare them to the familiar comfort of his barn companions. 

With one final hug for Abel, Kethin tore open the sheep medication and set to work. 

2

Red and orange spread across the western sky before Kethin remembered the letter. Nudging Abel to the side, he pressed his fingers into his tunic pocket. Yes, it was still there. 

After washing his hands rapidly at the barn spigot and drying them on the towel hanging on a nail from one of the support posts, he sank down into his favorite corner of the hay—the one where he could witness the sun descend through two broken-off boards—and ripped open the envelope. Why had Laelara written to him and not to the rest of the family?

Dear Kethin, 

Greetings! We are well. As busy as usual. Goodness knows that Jaemes and Kaia make enough clamor and busyness for a large number of adults, but it keeps me occupied and I like it that way. Jaemes is looking forward eagerly to his sixth birthday next month, and I think Kaia is nearly as excited as he is. 

The honey harvest promises to be bountiful this year, and you should see how pleased Braelyn is. I am anticipating expanding my candle business this winter.

Of course, he is busy at the academy preparing for the upcoming term. That is why I set pen to paper today. Because he has a proposition for you.

Another proposition? It wasn’t only Frydael that wanted to plan his life, evidently. 

An opportunity has opened up. A teaching position in agriculture. They need someone to take over the teaching of animal handling, interaction, and care. It is something that has not been taught here before, but the school council has agreed that there is a need for it. Braelyn recommended you, and they have agreed to hire you, provided you agree. See the included note from Braelyn with all the official details, but the term starts three weeks from today, so I shall hope to see you before that time with your affirmative answer. 

Just between you and me, I do think this is perfect for you. You have always wanted to work with animals on a more permanent basis, and you would be excellent at teaching. The students here are an amazing group. You would fit right in. I say this to assure you that I am not just writing on my husband’s behalf. This is something I know you will love. Kethin Ellith, animal-care educator…

The words on the page faded away, and it had nothing to do with the quickly dying light beyond the West Taernan Hills.

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