From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

February 2, 2021

Snowfall

There isn’t a groundhog in his right mind who would stick his head out of his winter den today. Not here. We’ve just had a foot of snow fall overnight, the luscious light kind, dripping down drooping hemlocks and the raised bare arms of oaks and maples. Especially around the island, the protective trees draped in white snow are lovely. There is a stray rodent, certainly not a groundhog and most likely the gray squirrel I saw on a tree a day or so ago, who races into the shed and invades my wall. Micah is watching for him from her cat shelf. I wouldn’t want to be that squirrel. She is a mighty hunter.

Right now it is peaceful. The cast iron tea kettle on the woodstove is boiling out the last bits of steam as the cast iron stove ticks upward as it heats. When it cools down, the sound ticks downward; it’s got its own music. On their beds, Ready and Abel breathe in and out as close to the stove and each other as they can get. The newest addition, Tigger, inherited from a 91-year-old friend who recently passed away, sleeps enthroned on the armchair next the heat on his favorite blanket. This doggy woodstove world is all new to him. He was a civilized pampered thing before, raised in central heating and winter visits to Florida, in expensive accomodations. He would lift his delicate hind feet off the icy ground, almost walking on his front feet, if you hauled him out on a leash on a winters’ day. Now he’s grown his first winter coat, goes out by himself into the snow encrusted driveway, belly deep. This little Toy Fox Terrier is now inspecting the chipmunk dens across the road in ten degree weather. He’s found out he’s a dog.

There’s soup in the crockpot. It is all so tranquil now, although four hours ago I was scraping off the the car, got stuck on a patch of ice, shoveled the tires out and was rescued by my neighbor and his plow truck from the town plow’s snowbank blocking the driveway. I had to go feed some cats downtown whose people are in Mexico. Soon I shall have to shovel out the woodpile, like it or not.

All I have to do to change all this is to turn on my laptop, and view the drama of a lifetime, the war of good and evil we are in. It’s a relief, is it not, to finally engage the murky enemy who burrowed under our terrain and corrupted America in every corner? Now the ugly thing is exposed, the objective clear. America will be cleansed and saved, because We the People are awake and clear-headed at last, sounding the alarm to the still drowsy deluded ones who did not want to know. How close we’ve come to going over the edge and under! As bad as it’s been these last few months, the evil is uncovered. We war in the Spirit in prayer and on the ground with pen, with words, with alarms and shofars and truth ringing out in the streets. We Appeal to Heaven, and Heaven has heard. God has got this.

Wait for the vision to become reality; it will not fail, a clean, on fire America with her rightful President to lead, to light the torches of freedom to the world again, one last time.

It will happen just as sure as the sun coming out again, beaming hot light on this white frozen stuff, it will flow down the bank and into the brook. Spring will be here soon, and the Mayflower above the chipmunks’ den will bloom pink and white again.

Evil and long dark winters never last once they come to light.

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

November 22,2020

Turn, Turn, Turn

“To everything (turn,turn,turn)

There is a season,(turn, turn, turn)

And a time to every purpose, under Heaven”

This is from the Book of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3; 1-8. The above version was sung by the Byrds in the’60’s, and was a huge hit. I remember it well. My mother brought the radio upstairs for me to hear, because I was in bed with the mumps, at 12 years old, and they played this song over and over. It stuck; it was running through my brain as I looked out to the island from the kitchen window this morning.

It is the season of the naked tree. The trunks and branches, stripped of leaves and exposed to the encroaching cold, are gray, drawn inside themselves, no warm sap running to give the bark the glowing brown tinge. In the Spring, that will change; red color will creep back into bushes, brown into twigs, branches, limbs as the sun returns.

But for now they retreat, expecting the onslaught of sleet or snow, as gray clouds heap up above them today. They will not be harmed, no, they will take the time to rest from the work of summer. Deep inside themselves, they will be restored in stillness.

In the house, as the cold comes, we cover up. The woodstove, full, roars its flames. The dogs and cat grow thicker hair. I put on thicker clothes in layers. I fill big pots full of soups and stews, keep the curtains closed till the sun comes out, and plan to add new plexiglass storms to the big windows. We pile together on blankets and burn extra lights. We are not trees; we are frail when naked.

There is a stripping going on outside in the wider world. Men have sought to do this country evil, and covered themselves up, thinking they were safe. The earth will not bear them, the Lord of the earth and heavens will stomach them no longer. It is their time. They preyed upon the nation from which they thrived, meaning to enslave her. They are being stripped now, of all covering. They will have no shelter, no home, no place to revive, for they are withered and rotten from within. They are cracked, they will break. They will be thrown out onto the pile to be burned, so to speak, like dead trees. The nation will breathe freely again, as the sunny blessings of Spring return.

It will only be a long dark winter for those who are dead inside already. It is their time.

It is America’s time to live and glow more brightly than ever.

Turn, turn, turn.

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

November 12 ,2020′

Clearing

As the autumn progresses, the meadow grasses in the runoff die down and the leaves have fallen off all the trees encircling the island, but for the hemlocks. I can see right through now. For two years, injuries have kept me from going out there, but now the way is clear. Soon I will go to my sanctuary. The Lord, as He promised, has put me back together, bones, sinews, breath.

It seems a parallel with America. Our God is clearing up the mess as we participate. We will not back down. Praying, fasting, speaking out, believing in what He has told us. That if we humble ourselves and pray, repent, He will hear us and heal our land. We know Him. He does not lie, and the mouths of those who speak lies will be stopped. And so comes the greatest clearing up of dead and overgrown killing weeds–the evil in our midst–that has ever been seen.

His chosen leader Donald Trump will keep his rightful place.

The time of darkness is not now.

We will see and be seen clearly by the nations, a shining City on hill, alight with Christ.

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

October 26, 2020

Not Asleep

Here it is the wee hours, with an icy cold rain outside, a fire snapping in the woodstove, dogs piled on the bed or floor. The cat is snooping around for mice, or did she crawl into the closet for another nap? I am not asleep.

The Spirit of God has me awake, with intermittent naps. I keep watching the Trump rallies on Youtube, praying for the President and for more to gather. I pray for people to see and hear, to understand the danger they are in, because if the Left gets its way, none of the poor fools who believed their lies will save or keep anything. “He who seeks to save his own life will lose it,” Jesus said many times. They lie to use people, then they rob them, or worse.

I speak wherever I can: to clerks at the cash register, people in the aisles, people at work, at the laundrymat, people at church, my family (carefully) and some eyes light up; others shut down. I never feel I’m doing enough.

We’ve been asleep or despairing while they led us to corrupt ourselves for decades, till most believed that evil was good, that license was freedom, that killing babies was a right. That we could make God over to suit ourselves, we could make our own “truth,” our own rules.

We cannot. We must take Him on His own terms if we want Him to save us at all. He will not be told how to save us. He will not be told how to love us.

He has sent us help. Donald Trump may not be a quiet gentleman, but he has the heart of a lion, he obeys the call of God, he has left his old life behind. The Father has sent us Jesus, so we can repent, be cleansed of our filthiness, and rise up healed. We can live in light and hold it aloft. But first we must wake up, hear His voice, and follow.

I am not asleep; I am awake in the darkness, light on, and the darkness cannot hide it. There is an army throughout America, praying, awake. There are people all over the world praying for us, that we will awake and cherish what God has given us; to keep our calling to shine Christ’s freedom to the nations. They see the danger.

Be brave. Vote for Donald Trump.

Throw off the shackles of fear, of lies, and shine with life.

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

October 19, 2020

Dear readers, it’s been a long time since I’ve written, and it’s good to pick up the pen again. (Yes, I write with a pen, on paper, first, hands on, brain and spirit connected to the tool is the best.) This is the beginning of standing up in this blog, of a march to win a battle, for we are at war.

An island is a good place to recharge, to heal, to wonder and to listen. I have gladly shared my island with you. Nonetheless, every day I must leave it and go out into the world to accomplish the work Adonai has given me to do, and while doing it, speak when the Spirit says to speak. For all around me are many souls afraid, many eyes weary above masks, who need to know that Christ is Who they crave. That America standing for Him is a gift and a treasure not to be thrown away, dutifully standing down as the powers (small p) of hell try to throw darkness over us.

This is what Tolkien was picturing as Frodo and Sam staggered up Mount Doom with the last strength in them, to throw the cursed ring of power into the heart of the flames.

We must give up our own precious, pathetic grasp on our desires for personal, willful license, comfort and pleasure that we have been wallowing in for so long, decades now. Look where it’s brought us! Throw the ring of your desire into the flames; let it be consumed in the agony of Christ, and be restored to purity, sanity, clear vision and health.

Be robed in His life, His love, His power. Be His!

We cannot be a Nation of scared rabbits. We have a calling; that’s why America is special. We have charge of the lighthouse for the nations. In this time of darkness over the world, we must beam the light out strong in the night.

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac     Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

September 17, 2018

Real Peace

It seems I took a short sabbatical from writing, as my peace and quiet were upended too, like the cat’s. But it was for a good reason; living for myself would be pretty pointless anyway and isn’t real peace at all.

Things settled down. Yesterday I was reading about Tasha Tudor, and wishing I could live more like her, until I looked up her biography on Wikipedia, and found her life had its own share of brokenness. I’ve got plenty of that myself; don’t need to borrow hers. I’ll be satisfied to live as simply as possible in a little house by a brook, and not be upset that I can’t weave my own clothes. At least here I can cook on a woodstove sometimes, and have dogs and a cat.

She had wonderful gardens. Mine are wild, the perrenials are halting, the vegetable garden needs work, and even she said patience was the key. And she worked from home!

One by one, my literary heroines and heroes have been shown to have had such difficult lives, so very human. Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of “The Secret Garden,” was divorced. Lucy Maud Montgomery, of “Anne of Green Gables” fame, who recorded such beauty in her writings, revealed in her journal how miserable her marriage was, her depression so terrible, that she took her own life. Louisa May Alcott, who wrote of such close family life, had a pretty tough one herself, wanted to get away from writing “childish pap” (but it paid the bills), and died young after being ill for years. Henry David Thoreau died young too, depressed and bitter because his books weren’t selling and no one was listening.

It isn’t the circumstances that make you happy. (Although it helps.) Probably because these people could create transcendent worlds or simply be aware of the wonderful living world around them, they could escape themselves sometimes, live as well as they did, and give us what they saw. But their sadness or trouble, mostly that some couldn’t overcome it in the end, saddens me. I think they gave us the best that was in their hearts, and that we cherish.

It’s better to have a little, have it real, have a heart full of living joy that really does transcend the circumstances–because of knowing Who loves us. That’s real. You can live on it, and give it away too.. That as my friend Mike would say, ‘is the most fun you can have.”

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac

Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

September 5, 2019

Peaceful

There was more company this week, three friends, one of whose birthday is today. They arrived late on Labor Day afternoon, and I squinted to see who they were. (I didn’t have my glasses on.)

They trooped in, and found seats, as I offered them a drink, and fretted about the dog sand on the rugs and the black spot on the white curtain where Micah comes in the window. But they seemed perfectly content.

“It’s peaceful here,” said the occupant of the armchair. I wondered how she could say that with Ready standing by her, wagging her hairy doggy self in excitement, and Abel doing the same by me. He knows better than to pounce on the guests and lick their faces off, but he wants to do it really bad.

But it was true, it was peaceful. No electronic noise filled the air. Grasshoppers and crickets through the open windows did, and cross breezes, and late afternoon September sunlight.

.The youngest one said she’d be able to stand this for a couple of days, and then she’d be bored. But she’s used to three kids. My birthday friend just looked glad to be sitting down with no dog in her face. She was elegantly cool in a summer dress, enjoying the quiet, maybe.

It just feels removed here, although it isn’t really. I live ten minutes from town, and have neighbors. And if I’m judging my plops right, a moose stopped by the house while I was out. See, we’re on the main drag! We are surrounded by untamed nature, and I guess that’s part of the peace, though nature can be wild and destructive. I’ve seen it here. But the peace stays, and I think it’s more Who lives here, and everything else is from Him.

So, on baking hot late summer afternoons, I’m happy to share some peace, in spite of the very hairy excited dogs.

The cat took off. Apparently, her afternoon peace and quiet was wrecked.

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac     Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

August 29, 2018

Moorings

A friend asked me yesterday how I could have quiet peace inside me when I could see the chaos in the world. She had none herself; acutely sensing pain, disorder, injustice, upheaval, although knowing  Who holds it all together, she cannot feel His peace.

I’ve been thinking about it. You’ve got to have something that holds you fast to the core, to a home base. You’ve got to have a personal sense of a personal love that keeps you enfolded, even as you move through life, because move through it we must. There’s got to be a place of stability where you shore up, balance when you are moving, a steady wheel, a fixed goal, and a way to get there, a path, a map, or a guiding light, and a trust in that light when you can’t see it.

The light can be defined as God Is Good. This is a constant, not to be discarded in the face of all the horrors that say the opposite. Those horrors will disappear like fog at His coming, and even be used to show His complete goodness. That’s the major mooring–let that go and all else is open to question. It follows that His Word is Truth, even and most especially when we can’t figure it out. The error is in us, not in the Word He gave us. They say we only use ten percent of our brains, and our hearts are a little off, too. Maybe we should hold still and ask to understand?

The other is that He came to live with us in one of the bodies He created, let us hate and kill Him, and came back alive still loving us, with power to make us like Him and live with Him, if we choose. He’s coming back, even though He left a long time ago by our reckoning, what’s 2000 years?

So we are not isolated or insignificant in a cosmic plot of destruction. We are precious and He wants us Do we want Him?–is the question that decides whether we will have moorings or be awash in fears.

He will hang on to you if you ask Him.

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac     Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

August 20, 2018

Ripening

The New Hampshire summer is ripening everything, and colors are changing even already. The rich green leaves have mellowed into a shade imbued with a touch of gold. Here and there, a single branch will spark out red and yellow, maple leaves on fire, just a hint of later blazes All around the island, the warm tips of orange-gold jewelweed and goldenrod stand tall and full. On the island, there are mushrooms I’ve only seen photos of: one an orange horn-shaped goblet, filled with rainwater. And the bright red blackberries are at last turning a shiny black, and sweet.

The air is sweet, with an August cotton candy smell I can never find the source of, but something has reached its full flower. It’s a mixed joy to revel in all this; we know the full gold glory will blaze up, grow brown, and cold will come. But nothing will be lost It all just goes to sleep.

This happens in people, too. I know someone who feels the signs of autumn fallen upon her,  but maybe is aware not so much of her life’s larder stored to overflowing, even now with more coming. She sees the crinkling of the skin and the frailty of her bones; I see the glow of the flame in her soul which lights up all that, like fire on quartz. It gets brighter.

She moves gently now, this woman who could ski downhill or support a dozen causes on the fingers of one hand. There’s a difference; the vigor has diminished, but the loving heart is stronger. Words may not come as fast, but they come with care, they build up and never cut. She has a humor about herself and a kindness to other’s faults, knowing grace from on high that is hers, she gives it freely where she sees pain or need. Having had loss, she doesn’t grasp what’s left, she raises her open hands to give thanks.

She’s a lamp on a table, illuminating the fullness of her harvest and home, aglow in the shortening summer’s twilight.

 

From An Island In New Hampshire

By Banah Isaac     Wright’s Hollow, New Hampshire

August 13, 2018

Humidity and Reading

Totally, I had good intentions. But it was dark this morning, the first hint of shorter days, so I slept till 7:00. There were chores to do, and a day of laundry, cleaning house planned, determined, set in granite. But it was humid, overcast, woods dripping drizzle; the air heavy; my flesh sluggish.

Chores got done. Chicken went into the crockpot, nicely seasoned, and all the little (?) animals got fed, bed made, dishes rinsed and ready to wash. I would eat a late breakfast and then turn into a human dynamo.

But I picked up a book. It was Edward Grinnan’s  (the editor of Guideposts) “Always By My Side”, about his dogs, and particularly about his golden retriever Millie, and the many ways those dogs saved his life. That book has been sitting here a year, because grief has a way of not going away. The story reminded me of Jewel, and Baron, and as much as I think of them always, I was afraid reading it would hurt.

But I couldn’t put it down, and it hurt, but also comforted and reassured. He said his dogs saved his life–we’re talking soul life as well as flesh here–and it’s true, because Jewel saved my life, and we saved Baron’s and he protected us. When they died, it was bone sucking pain and emptiness. They died a year apart from each other, and Jewel was never the same again after Baron was gone. They were like a ballet of life and love in motion, gorgeous, joyous. There was no question ever, that God had sent them to me. We just knew. And Edward Grinnan knows, so what his book did was reinforce what was already in my gut And when they leave us, we bleed inside, even though we know they are free, home and painless.

God made the animals first, then us, and led Adam to the animals to see what he would name them. He made this loving connection for us; He’s still doing it We got to keep the dogs close in particular. If we keep our hearts open, He’ll send us another to love.

So only the dishes got done, and supper. Ready and Abel are waiting for theirs. They are panting in this humidity, very much alive. If I can get this rolltop desk to roll up in this sticky, cricket-singing evening, we’ll set this tale to print.