Story-Teller

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved telling and writing stories. I started with simple ones, just little stories with pictures I colored myself to illustrate them. Then I moved on to poetry, which is still one of my favorite pastimes. In 9th grade, I wrote a fantasy novel entitled "The Dragon Slayer". It was extremely fantastic and dramatic, I can assure you. In 11th grade I attempted a Jane Austen- style romance. None of my efforts at authorship seemed worthy of publishing, however. I wasn't satisfied with any of them. I tried and tried to put the images in my head onto paper, but it just didn't seem to work. I could envision the scenes and conversations and characters (believe me, I have a great imagination), but they just wouldn't go onto the page.

One night last year, as I lay in bed trying to come up with a good story line, an image popped into my head. It was a girl, dressed in dirty rags, staring up at a mansion, brightly lit from the inside. She clung to the iron bars surrounding the building as tears streamed down her dirty face. Instantly, the entire story line came into my head. I drifted off to sleep shortly after, and the next morning sat down at my computer. The minute I began to type, the words flowed from my fingers. In half an hour, I was done. I was amazed. God had given me a story. Actually, it was God's story. All I did was write it down. For several months, I have pondered getting it published. But the more I think about it, the more I feel I should simply give it to you, my readers, the same way it was given to me. Freely. So here it is, and I hope you enjoy it.

The Masquerade
A God-inspired story written down by Kara Martus

You stand outside the wall, with your face pressed against the immense, wrought-iron gate that reaches all the way to the sky. On either side of you, the unscalable walls stretch as far as the eye can see, and along them are piles of dirty, smelly garbage. You’re cold, and you’re bone tired. You’re dirty, but there’s no water to clean yourself with, not even enough for a drink, and no comfort. Through the gate, you can see the beautiful ballroon with walls of purest gold, its brilliant lights shining out of the large windows. Music plays, and parts of the joyful melody waft out of the open windows, along with the laughter and voices of the happy participants inside. Other outcasts, like yourself, are standing with you outside the gate. You keep up a tough front, and hide your desire from them, but no one is fooled.
“No way am I going in there!” you say, but your heart is aching even as you say it. As the others wander away into the fog, you stand all alone, still staring at the ballroom, and wish that somehow, someway… but it is too late. You look down at the rags you are wearing, stained and crusted with filth. You tremble as the bitter, icy wind blows across you, and push your matted hair out of your eyes. Silently, as a tear trickles down your muddy cheek, you turn to go. Suddenly, the gate creaks open behind you. Amazed, you turn and stare in wonder. A handsome stranger, dressed in an imaculate white tuxedo is standing in the gateway. He holds out his hand to you, and smiles.
“May I have this dance?” he asks.
“But sir!” you gasp. “Look at me! I am filthy! My clothes are in rags. Why would you want to dance with me?”. You turn your back to him, ashamed to have this wonderful stranger see you in all your misery and weakness.
“Come,” he calls, softly and tenderly. “Come just as you are. Take my hand, and trust me. I can make you clean. Dance with me.” Could it be possible? Do you dare to trust him? What if it’s not true? What if he’s only making fun of you? But then you look into his eyes, full of love and longing, and your hand reaches for his.
Instantly, you are standing in the doorway of the ballroom. The room is filled with people, all dressed in spotless white. They twirl and glide around the room, some of them dancing better than others. You can hear the music clearly now, and its beauty fills you with joy and peace. You wonder what the dancers must be thinking of you, a filthy stranger clothed in rags. But it doesn’t matter; you are dancing with the handsome stranger now, and he tells you his name is Jesus. Jesus: what a beautiful name. You look down for a moment and, astonished, find your rags are no longer there. Instead, a dazzling white ball gown covers you. You are clean! Your hair has been washed and curled. Satin slippers cover your once-bare feet. Your skin is beautifully white, white as snow. Joy fills your heart, and you laugh in pure ecstacy. Your partner, who is just as delighted, laughs along with you.
For a while, nothing else matters. Only that you are dancing with Jesus, and he loves you. Then, you being to notice the other dancers around you. Some are happily dancing, like yourself, but others seem different. For one thing, their faces are covered with white, expressionless masks, and their cold eyes glare scornfully at you from behind them. The masked ones have stopped dancing, and parade about the room, holding the masks to their faces. You look down, puzzled at what the could be staring at. Is there a stain somewhere? Is your hair falling down? You see nothing, but you still feel uncomfortable. Maybe something is wrong with your face, or maybe you aren’t dancing well enough. For the first time since you entered the room, something else matters more than dancing with Jesus. As your partner twirls you around, you notice a table in the corner of the room. Masks, like the ones covering the faces of those watching you, are stacked neatly on the table. A man, dressed in black with a hideous mask over his face sits behind the table. You want to keep on dancing, but now that you’ve seen them, you can’t bear the cruel looks of the masked guests. You must have one of the masks! You drop your partner’s hands, and rush over to the table.
“You desire a mask?” the man in black asks, rubbing his hands together. “The price is your joy.”
“My Joy?!” you exclaim. Must you give up the joy that has filled your heart ever since you walked into the ballroom? It seems like such a high price to pay. “I won’t be happy anyway if they are staring at me all night,” you reason with yourself. And so, you give up the priceless treasure of your joy, for a porcelain mask.
You put it to your face, and run to join the other masked ones. It’s harder to breath behind the mask, and the music no longer sounds as lovely as it first did. However, the others no longer stare at you, and seem to accept you as one of their own. They criticize the other dancers as they pass them by, commenting rudely on their skill (or lack of it) and causing consternation and embarrassment in the hearts of many, while puffing up the pride of others, and causing them to stumble. From time to time, as you parade and stare right along with the rest of them, you catch a glimpse of Jesus. He is dancing with someone else now, but his eyes, as they catch yours, are filled with sadness. Remorse fills your heart. You wish you could still be dancing with him, but you’d need both hands, and you’d have to hold the mask up. If you let it down, even for an instant, the others might see you for who you really are. You force yourself to turn away, and continue walking. Your arm begins to get tired, but you can’t let the mask down. The woman beside you seems tired too. Her steps are slow, and her breathing is labored. She is trying to hold up her arm with the other, trying so hard to keep the mask up to her face. With every ounce of the little strength she has left, she hangs on to the mask, but it isn’t enough. The mask starts to slip away. As if on cue, all the masked ones turn and form a circle around her, glaring at her, but still maintaining a nerve-racking silence. Then, the mask falls away, and breaks into a thousand pieces. Behind it, the woman’s face is filled with anguish and despair. Her eyes are rimmed with red, and countless wrinkles speak of anxiety and exhaustion.
“No!” she cries, weeping as she clutches the broken shards of porcelain to her chest. Her violent sobs rack her body, and she cries as if her heart is breaking. Suddenly, Jesus is there. He kneels down by her side and looks into her eyes. The room is still, but the music continues to play softly.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently, “Didn’t you know that you mean more to me than anything? All these others, their opinion means nothing to me. If you let them, they can destroy your happiness and steal your joy, but as long as you only care about what I think of you, your joy will remain full.” The woman wipes her tears away, and looks into his face. “I can give you your joy back, but in order to do so, you must give me your mask.” She looks down at the broken fragments in her hands. A doubtful look is on her face, but she looks into Jesus’ eyes, and trustingly places the pieces in his hands. He smiles, and whispers something in her ear. Her face lights up, and as she gazes adoringly at her savior, she is once more transformed into the beautiful, confidant woman she was before the mask enslaved her. Jesus stand and helps her to her feet, and she smiles radiantly at him as he leads her to the dance floor.
You watch them, dancing happily, and your heart aches. What will be your decision? Will you join the dance once again, or will you hold on to a mask that will only cause you grief and pain? Slowly, you pull the mask away from your face, and look down at its placid red lips and empty eye sockets. Your mind is made up. As you start towards the dance floor, the mask slips from your hands and falls to the floor, cracking in half. You turn around and look down at it. A smile spreads over your face, and as you look up, you catch Jesus’ eye. He’s smiling too. Joy once again fills your heart. The mask is broken, and the masquerade is over.








This story certainly has a very special place in my heart, and means a great deal to me. Throughout my short existence here on earth, I have seen many, many times, the effects of masks worn by the princesses of God. The result is always frustration, anger, anxiety, fear, worry, insecurity, and judgment. God created us as women to be confident in our roles as wives and mothers, or simply as his daughters. We were made to shine, to be radiant for Him, and to pour out ourselves in sweet abandon for him. But all too often, the masks that we wear rob us of our God-given strength, and keep us from reaching our full potential, which is to serve and love him in the area he has placed us in, whether it be raising children, or bringing his good news to the masses. The effort of wearing our masks, of keeping up a good front, causes us to pour out all that we have into that one meaningless task of holding our fake face up to the world. We judge each other, and rip each other apart, while behind the mask, we are falling apart too.
Through this story, I hope to issue a call to all the women who are our have ever worn a mask of porcelain perfection. Because that’s all it is. Underneath, you are still you, and no mask will ever change that. Porcelain is great for looking beautiful, but porcelain is also great at one other thing: breaking. So, come, break your mask with me. Stop hiding behind it, and show the world who you really are. Start reaching out to your sisters in Christ. If we continue to hide, to glare and criticize, we will tear each other apart. United we stand, divided we fall. Think of the impact we could have on this world, if we would ignore our differences, and unite under the common banner of Jesus and his good news. What are you waiting for? Break your mask.

Entitled "Warrioresses?" or "Are Women Called to Fight?"

I know it's been an awfully long time since my last post. Things have been pretty crazy, and I've been like a chicken with my head cut off, running here, there, and everywhere. Be that as it may, I am back, and with your permission, I will write about something that has been troubling my mind for quite some time.
I don't know about you, but I love a good adventure story, and it's even better if it's a true one! Scottish Chiefs, Ivanhoe, and Lorna Doone are some of my favorites. Anything filled with knights and battles, chivalry and honor, strength and courage is my delight. Strange, I know, but I prefer boy's books to any others. Medieval history is my favorite. And one of my favorite websites is The Bravehearted Gospel. If you haven't visited it yet, you need to. I so enjoy reading the blog posts, which are always an encouragement to fight for the truth. This is going to seem very strange, but I scored a 21 out of 23 on Eric's "How filled with the manly stuff are you?" quiz.
Now those of you who know me well realize that I am as girly as they come. I hate snakes, and bugs, and frogs, and anything slimy. I love dressing up in frills and ribbons. I like to paint my toenails different shades of pink. But the one thing I am passionate about is the Truth. Anytime I read The Bravehearted Gospel, I find myself wanting to preach the gospel loud and long to crowds of people. I want to stand up straight and proclaim from the mountains that Jesus Christ is Lord. And I want to fight, fight, fight for all the He stands for and all that He is. Now, the question is, is it wrong for women to fight?
My answer is no. I am not condoning women joining the army. That is something I do not agree with at all. I am not saying that women should be preaching from the pulpit. I don't agree with that either. What I am saying is that there is a gap in the spiritual army of God, and we women need to be willing to fill it. No offense to any gentlemen reading this, but you are few and far between. Men that are willing to stand up for what is right, and true, and holy are lacking in this generation. Look at the biblical example of Deborah and Jael. When godly men were lacking, God raised up women to fill their place. I understand that they may be the exception to the rule, but our times call for exceptions. If you notice, when you read the stirring passage in Ephesians 6 about the armor of God, Paul had just finished speaking to men, women, and children. It wasn't as if he was only talking to the males of the congregation. He was talking to everyone!
So, what should we as the mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives be doing? We should be using our God-given gift of nurturing and encouraging to raise up the men in our lives to be strong and valiant men of God. We should praise every effort made on their part to stand for the truth, no matter how small it may be. And in the meantime, we should stand in the front lines in their place. We should fight for what we hold dear. We need to fight for our homes, for our right and privilege to be women. We need to stand up for the millions of precious lives lost through the horror and abomination that is abortion. And we need to make the Truth known, the Truth that Jesus Christ died for our sins, rose from the dead, and will come back to earth in order to judge the living and the dead, the good and the wicked.
How ashamed I am that I am such a helpless creature. How frusterated I become with my sinful self. I am a selfish, defiant and rebelious being, at emnity with God and Man. In my own strength, I can do nothing. But praise be to the God of heaven and Earth! He has saved me from my sins, and called me to live a brand new life in Him. On my own, I cannot fight for the truth. My strength is worthless, and my striving is as that of a tiny ant attempting to move a mountain. But God's strength in me is enough to move not just one mountain, but the Himilayas. Oh, how I wish I remembered that fact more often! How much time I would save if I just let him take over! Praise God for his infinite patience with me. I am as far from the lofty calling I have described as any of you. I am not asking for miracles. I am simply asking that you join me on the journey to reaching that calling. God did not call us to live a comfortable life in Suburbia. God called us to do great and mighty things for Him. Will you join me on my quest? Will you come with me so that God can accomplish his eternal purposes through our lives? May our prayers together be an echo of this prayer written almost 400 years ago by a princess facing martyrdom for her Lord.
O Lord, Be Thou Unto Me
A Strong Tower of Defense,
I humbly entreat Thee.
Give me grace to await thy leisure,
And patiently to bear
What Thou doest unto me;
Nothing doubting or mistrusting
Thy goodness unto me.
Only arm me, I beseech Thee,
With Thine armor,
That I may stand fast.
Above all things, taking unto me
The Sheild of Faith,
Praying always that I may revert myself
Wholly to Thy will,
And comforting myself in such trials as it shall
Please Thee to send Me;
Seeing such trials are profitable for me;
And I am assuredly persuaded that all that Thou doest
Cannot but be good;
And unto Thee be the glory and power forever,
Amen.
~Lady Jane Grey