One William Wallace

King Edward of England had long been eying Scotland and had positioned himself to be her overlord. But the king overlooked the fierce nationalism of her citizens and was completely unaware of the existence of one William Wallace. As the second son of a minor nobleman who was to inherit neither title nor land, William was preparing himself for a life in the church until the day his father was killed by the hands of the soldiers occupying his country. It changed the direction of his life.

Seen as a rebel and an outlaw by the English, yet a hero and defender by his countrymen, William steadfastly defended the sovereignty of Scotland. A ferocious defense to be sure...warfare in medieval times was harsh, merciless, unfair, and brutal...as was life in that era. Recruiting like-minded citizens to his cause, Wallace soon had an army of volunteers, all as passionate for freedom as he.
"We come here with no peaceful intent, but ready for battle, determined to avenge our wrongs and set our country free." William Wallace, before the Battle of Stirling Bridge-11 September 1297


In defense of his actions, Wallace asserted that he had never been a traitor to the king of England because he had never been Edward's subject and had never sworn fealty to him. Indeed, Edward was only the king of the nation that had invaded his country. Likewise, as Christians, we have not bowed the knee to the despotic prince of this present world, satan.


Wallace's only response upon being accused of treason against King Edward: "I can not be a traitor, for I owe him no allegiance. He is not my Sovereign; he never received my homage; and whilst life is in this persecuted body, he never shall receive it."
Braveheart's cry of "Freedom!" echoes down through the ages and we hear it even as we struggle for the territory satan is seeking to invade. He already has a toehold in the media, in the government and in the justice system: every vile word broadcast in the guise of entertainment, every unborn child killed legally in the name of convenience, and every oppressive, ungodly ruling handed down by liberal judges is testimony to that toehold.

Gather your band of like-minded revolutionaries... storm the castle of Lochmaben and capture Stirling Bridge. Repudiate the enticing offers of amnesty from the prince of the powers of the air. With strength of purpose and unswerving dedication, vow to never surrender. At the end of the age, the battle will be ours and we will have freedom!

This Battle

I never thought I would be in this battle. Innocently I believed that there was a "no tribulation zone" and that I was stationed there. But honest motives and all the best intentions cannot shelter or inoculate anyone from the fiery attacks of the devil.

Satan has an impressive arsenal at his disposal and most of his weapons don't appear to be such at all: music that sends false messages, media that glorifies wrong values, advertising that appeals to the flesh, worldly friends that lure us from our First Love, and pastimes that promise to be so much fun... satan lurks in the shadows, practicing guerrilla warfare. A dart of temptation here, an arrow of suggestion there. And it isn't long until hand to hand combat ensues. Or until one surrenders to the enemy...who really didn't seem to be an enemy...at first.

Paralyzed by Perfection

I dream of the perfect room: floral chintz sofa, plump battenburg lace pillows, white rocking chair, wild flowers tumbling out of a milk glass vase, filmy white curtains billowing in the breeze, buttery yellow walls, Queen Anne table with a softy glowing Victorian lamp and me, sitting in this charming room, sipping a cup of steaming, fragrant tea.

Not so charming reality intrudes--shabby burgundy couch and chair, dining table turned school table, bookcase overflowing with books, heavy drapes, a filing cabinet and an old brass lamp. I haven't vacuumed in awhile and the school books are scattered carelessly across the table. The windows are streaky and the window ledges dusty.

Feeling defeated, I gaze around the room again--where do I start to turn this space into the room I dream of? Because it is so far from what I want it to be, so far from the perfect room I keep in my head, paralysis sets in and I'm unable to do anything. Even simply cleaning the room seems impossible. I'm paralyzed by the perfection I demand of that room.

Here and there, one can catch a glimpse of the vision I have for my living room: the teacup and teapot collection, silk flowers in a yellow and blue vase, a pastel quilt draped across the back of the couch, an antique end table topped with a crocheted doily and lace panels behind the drapes.

Encouraged by these little vignettes, I banish the books from the table, and thin out the bookcase. Brass cleaner soon has the lamp gleaming and Windex makes the windows sparkle. I drape a doilly over the lamp shade and replace a modern picture with an heirloom portrait. I tie one of the drapes back with a fluffy tassle and the sunlight streams in. The whistle of a teapot calls me and soon I am holding my cup of steaming tea. Maybe this isn't the room of my dreams but it is the room of my reality. Today, I'm ok with that. And tomorrow, maybe I will figure out what to do about that couch...

I Give Me Back to You

It's not that I don't want me,
In fact, I really do,
It's because my life isn't really mine,
Lord, I give me back to you.

You've provided all my worldly goods,
You gave me every friend,
Filled my life with deep-down joy,
And a love that will not end.

So I commit unto your will,
This body I once called mine,
Fill it with your Spirit, wholly,
And with a purpose divine.

Make me aware of each deed
That You would have me do
Of each word that I might say
To bring someone to You.

Lord,I pray You might reveal
Your perfect will for me,
And be with me, help me grow,
To be all You'd have me be.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Bear Lake

From the lake's dark depths
Boulders arise,
Like monsters with
Malevolent eyes.

By the water's edge,
Evergreen tree grows,
Dabbling in the lake
Brown and woody toes.

Jagged tooth mountains
Menacingly stand,
Guarding the lakeside
And snow-sprinkled land.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

The Sharecropper's Dream

Barely admitted,
Nonetheless there,
Dreams of ownership,
With vows of care.

Hope of her heart,
Work of her hand,
Crop of her own,
A dream of land.

Harvest the wheat,
Thresh it all down,
Load up the wagon,
Take it to town.

"Where's my share?"
The landlord cries.
And deep within her,
Something dies.

The truth hits hard-
There is no way.
Dreams last the night,
But wither by day.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

We Lost...

We lost...

The dismal echo
Fills my mind
But there's victory
Of another kind.

Victory over self,
Over one's fears
Victory in spirit
Lasts through the years.

There's pride involved
In a well-played game
Whether lost or won
It's still the same.

When you fought your hardest
And gave your all,
It matters not
who got the ball

The ache is there
Of course it's tough
To pick up the pieces
when the going gets rough.

Somehow victory
Seems to be more
Than beating a team
Running up the score.

When the game is over
When your best you've done
Though it might seem otherwise,
You really have won!

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)