Dazed Starling: Advent 2023

THE DAZED STARLING

advent WINTER 2023

Founded in 2021, The Dazed Starling: Unbound is the online literary journal of the Department of Modern Languages & Literature at California Baptist University. The Dazed Starling: Advent is its annual winter edition.

Address correspondence to: Dr. Erika J. Travis, Managing Editor The Dazed Starling CBU, Modern Languages & Literature 8432 Magnolia Avenue Riverside, CA 92504 (etravis@calbaptist.edu) The Department of Modern Languages & Literature offers a Master of Arts degree in English, Bachelor of Arts degrees and minors in English and Spanish, and a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and minor in creative writing. To learn more about the programs and professors in the Department of Modern Languages & Literature, explore www.calbaptist.edu.

The Managing Editor would like to thank Dr. Chuck Sands, Provost of CBU; Dr. Lisa Hernández, Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences; and all of those who offered their encouragement, guidance, and friendship during this publication process. The Dazed Starling is currently published with funds generously provided by CBU’s Department of Modern Languages & Literature.

©December 2023 Respective Authors

Dazed Starling

Advent

Winter 2023

DS: Unbound Advent 2023 Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, Thank you for joining us for the Advent edition of the Dazed Starling: Unbound. Advent is the traditional time of preparation for the celebration of the birth of Christ. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, the lighting of candles, singing of carols, and reading of Scriptures remind us that the miracle of the Incarnation is rooted in and produces hope, faith, joy, and peace. They testify that no matter how dark the world may seem, the Light has come into the world, and that Light will not be overcome.

So whether or not you light candles on an advent wreath, we invite you to enter into this season of anticipation with us.

Come, prepare your hearts and rejoice with us for we who were in darkness have been given the Light of the World! We hope these creative works reflect glimpses of that light and remind you of the mystery and miracle of God's great gift to us.

Merry Christmas, The Dazed Starling: Advent Editorial Team

Berniece Alspach, Gretchen Bartels-Ray, Jennifer Tronti, Erika Travis

CONTENTS Hope Heat Rising The Hope of SoCal Snow Dust to Dust

David Isaacs Madison Head Aliya Beaupain

Faith Bethlehem One Sunday Service Forever Green A List for December

Gretchen Bartels-Ray Abigail Lopez Katharyn Grace Elizabeth Rhodes

Joy Light of the World The Grinch, Cindy, and Me Another Year Living A Thousand Concertos Inheritance

David Isaacs Rebecca Harrel Peyton Bell Sarah Murphy Grace Crandall

Peace No Matter Who is Home Lost The Shepherd Fireplace Tile Humble Distance

Peyton Bell Samantha Corona Sarah Murphy Mikaela Schmierer Grace Crandall

Hope

THE PEOPLE WHO WALK IN DARKNESS WILL SEE A GREAT LIGHT; THOSE WHO LIVE IN A DARK LAND,THE LIGHT WILL SHINE ON THEM. ISAIAH 9:2

Heat Rising

David Isaacs

The heat rising from the advent candles beside the pastor’s lectern makes the cross on the alter seemingly squiggle and squirm in a provocative tango.

The candles flicker, the cross sidesteps— Like a hare fleeing a fox Like a squirrel escaping a snake Like a sinner dodging the truth.

As the heat rises and the chorus swells, The cross re-centers, a shadow dancing behind it that decorates the manger, pulsating over the infant’s face.

But we see in spite of the shadow: the manger, the cross, the light, the shadow, Not glaring or jarring but infused with life and beauty, awaiting the next candle’s being lit.

The Hope of SoCal Snow

Madison Head

‘Twas three months after Christmas when SoCal was shocked By a white winter flurry, and everyone stopped.

The hope of the season had long since passed, But something was coming that would help it last.

The room was bland, and notes I was writing, Waiting for something, anything exciting.

It was there in the classroom—the college lecture hall That I saw something falling just beyond the wall.

It was something that I had never seen before.

Through the window, what I saw was hard to ignore.

I pointed and said, “It’s snowing out there!”

Was it rude? Disrespectful? I didn’t care.

It was snowing outside in the SoCal sky, And we had a request Professor couldn’t deny.

“Can we please go out and see the snow?”

She nodded and said, “Of course you can go.”

A room of students ran out in a flash, Down hallways and stairwells, without a crash, Till we stood outside with snow falling down.

We laughed and smiled, looking around.

“Have you ever seen something so great?”

I had never seen the beauty that nature can create.

As whimsy filled the air, I threw back my head And followed my thoughts wherever they led.

Snow gives hope in the Christmas season, But this time, Christmas wasn’t the reason.

The snow gave us hope for the months to come, For the things to do and who we could become.

As I stood in the grass with a smile on my face, It felt like the world was giving me an embrace.

No matter what would happen, I knew I could cope Because the snow had given me some much-needed hope.

Dust to Dust

Aliya Beaupain

I don’t remember individual New Year’s Eves. What I remember are impressions. The burl-wood table in the upstairs room, the glasses of sparkling cider. The distant boom of starburst fireworks over the midnight waters of Lake Washington. All the years blur into one moment, a collective breath taken between one span and the next.

I don’t remember individual New Year’s—but I remember the words people said.

“Blank slate.”

“New leaf” “Resolution.”

Resolution. That last one, most of all.

Every December, people built their castles in the air. Every December, I was one of them. This is the year, I swore to myself.

This is the year when everything changes.

I’ll do better this time. I’ll work harder this time. This time, this time…until the river of time had drained away, and I was left at the end of another twelve months, with empty hands and empty promises. The book, unwritten. The body, untrained. The trust in God, not given.

Resolution. Resolved to what?

What is the point of wishes built on dust? What is the good of promises we never meant to keep?

Maybe we do it because we see a spectre waiting in the smoke, not of the past, but of the future. The ghost of possibility. Maybe we do it because once in a while, someone makes their dust bound dreams come true.

Until that person is me, I resolve to keep resolving.

Until it’s me, I’ll keep on building castles in the dust.

faith

THE WORD BECAME FLESH AND DWELT AMONG US. WE OBSERVED HIS GLORY, THE GLORY AS THE ONE AND ONLY SON FROM THE FATHER, FULL OF GRACE AND TRUTH. JOHN 1:14

BETHLEHEM Gretchen Bartels-Ray “Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried.”

–Ruth 1:17 House of grinding, kneading, rising, House of baking, House of breaking.

When I exposed your feet at the threshing floor, that place of bread not yet born, did you see a small flicker of how our grandson’s son’s son would sear the sky with his glory in the light that sparked in my eyes that night?

Long after we are buried in grain-growing ground, the Bread of Heaven, who knew that bread could fall like snow, will be placed in a manger to take, eat, re-member, be filled.

House of grinding, needing, rising, House of aching, House of making, Bethlehem.

One Sunday Service

Abigail Lopez

“This morning, class, we are going to church,” Dr. Wallace told his 8 a.m. groggy practicum class after they sat down their breakfast plates. “Yesterday, Minton and I”—he gestured to the other professor who co-led—“were exploring Chinatown. I know that most of you were probably there also for dumplings or fast food.” At that last remark, he made a sad face, knowing American college students love their greasy combos. “Well, we discovered a church. The pastor explained how they work—” I need not reiterate the speech, but I knew my last free Sunday morning would not allow us to go get breakfast out again. I am a Christian, but having the same toast thirteen times never exceeded expectations. I would have preferred to get breakfast again at Pancakes on the Rocks than go to church.

The Rocks is Australian history in brick. A person would know they left the Rocks when buildings exceeded two stories, prohibiting city code. However, the modernized restaurant interior in the midst was more appetizing than my toast staring back at me. Despite that, my coat was on for a June winter.

The walk was not horrible at all under the bluest sky. Then, I saw the church standing out with its brick and massive windows from Gothic architecture, a European style. It was a beautiful, century-old building where the metro link ran in front. I wondered how the church witnessed skyscrapers grow.

Once inside, the Pastor shook hands with Dr. Wallace.

Then, we were directed to sit in a communal room to socialize with the congregation before the English service started. The Cantonese service was still in progress, and before that, there was a Mandarin service so that all could hear the Gospel.

I sat down on a chair and stirred up conversation with one lady who held a toddler. She asked the same questions that everyone was asking. I bulletined my responses, “Yes, from California Baptist University and learning about Aboriginals. I am an English major with a concentration in creative writing.” I felt like I was at a family reunion, except when the initial lady said her daughter was also named Abigail.

Then the word came that the pews were open. Our class moved upstairs, and the Pastor began in a language I did not know, but there were English subtitles on a PowerPoint. I read that, but what became interesting were the testimonies of those being baptized.

In the subtitles, I read one lady’s speech about how she was raised in a Buddhist family, moved to Australia, and, from that way, found the Lord in this church. She was the most emotional of the three being baptized, but her storytelling tone struck me. I was captivated by how much we had in common, even if we sat together with different cultures, where pancakes were not on my mind. Ultimately, the word of God is an element that unifies us, and it made me grateful that I went to church that morning.

Forever Green

Katharyn Grace

The Evergreen tree, built to withstand unforgiving icy lashes of manmade winter.

Frigid spikes and needled rain, rain, rain, down onto the undeserved ground.

Wind nipped and frostbit heels flee a slithering chill. Chattering teeth, hearts frozen solid.

The Evergreen tree, built to be broken, splintered into many. A sacrifice.

Its trunk and sap, fuel for fire.

Burning brightest and the warmth of new life. A promise to survive the winter.

A List for December

Elizabeth Rhodes

Christmas with Bing Crosby, VHS and chocolate-covered Candy canes. Granny's pie Still cooking. Turkey turning.

Frosted windows. Iridescent light Crawling into every living room.

Somewhere in the world are Machines doing the lung's job.

A punch of pain to heal cancer, Another empty stomach. A yelp!

A lone dinner. A dusty grave.

A jingle of a single coin in a cup.

To some, Christmas is just a word.

Displayed plastic Santas in the yard.

Letters from a family member. Another Bottle of wine to go on the shelf.

A check, a card, ring of a cash register, A Christmas kitten calendar.

It could be a patiently wrapped present Given to a neighbor who lives alone, A hot meal for the man on the curb.

A phone call. A handwritten Note to the "It's been a while, but--" A visit, a knock, a hello, an "I'm sorry."

joy

AND THE ANGEL SAID UNTO THEM, "FEAR NOT: FOR, BEHOLD, I BRING YOU GOOD TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY, WHICH SHALL BE TO ALL PEOPLE. FOR UNTO YOU IS BORN THIS DAY IN THE CITY OF DAVID A SAVIOUR, WHICH IS CHRIST THE LORD." LUKE 2:10-11

Light of the World David Isaacs His was not the explosive light of a dying star destroying a startled galaxy; Nor an atomic bomb Blasting demonic thunder, enlightening a desolate desert; Not the Luxor Lamp’s upward beam, blinding satellites and passing comets, a lighthouse among Sin City’s casinos; nor the late-game stadium lights searing the evening shadows, dazing rowdy fans leaving the stands.

Not the helicopter’s searchlight Scouring the undergrowth For thieves and peeping toms; Not the light that dazzles angels, forcing them to shield their eyes with fearsome wings; No It was the gentlest candle gleam in a darkened cave feebly reaching up and out, alighting on a mother’s cheeks.

The Grinch, Cindy, and Me

Rebecca Harrel

December 21, 2022. The Christmas lights lost their twinkle, the plastic tree left green confetti on the floor to be cleaned later, and unwrapped presents I purchased sat in my closet.

Christmas was here, but not like years before. I spent the first two weeks of winter break working until I had wrist surgery. Then, my need to “rest” kept me stuck at home. In my massive cast I couldn’t cook, clean, or even bathe myself, let alone bake Christmas cookies and wrap gifts.

Decorating with one hand was more frustrating than fun.

Only one Christmas tradition wasn't ruined: watching the live-action How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

I loved the movie, yet this year, I couldn’t stand the bright colors and shrieking Whos. So, I busied myself scooping cocoa powder, sugar, salt, baking powder, and flour into a cup for chocolate cake in a mug, the only meal I could make one-handed.

As the Grinch ranted about the horrors of Christmas, I heard the echo of my own thoughts. I didn’t hate Christmas. I just wished I could skip forward a month to escape this stressful season.

Then there was Cindy Lou Who. Her melancholy laments in a too-happy family lifted a mirror to my own frustrations. I wanted to sing my way to Christmas joy, climb Mount Krumpet to make someone smile, but my mountain was too high.

When my treat finished cooking, I rejoined my family on the couch. I bit into my food to be met with a ghastly burnt brick lacking any semblance of flavor. I winced as I forced myself to swallow. How did I mess it up? I refused to admit failure as I choked down another spoonful of my horrid creation. Cindy sang in the background. I focused on her words rather than the charcoal flavor.

Cindy cried out about the change in her life as Christmas forgot the little girl who time had done away with. Had Christmas changed with her, or had she simply grown blind to its charm?

Lights, decorations, and presents used to excite me. Not anymore. Even my delicious cake was more like poison. I put down the cup, admitting defeat. “I think I messed up my cake.”

Mom glanced over. “Can you make another?”

“We’re almost out of flour. There was only a little in the blue container.”

“The blue…” My mom’s laugh made me jump. “That’s cornstarch.”

My frustration fled as our laughter drowned out the movie.

I wasn’t the same kid I used to be, caught up in the glimmer and gifts. Maybe that didn’t matter. Perhaps I didn’t need Christmas trees and gifts, just time to rest with my family.

After all, as a wise Who once discovered, all you need to find Christmas is a little bit of love.

another year living Peyton Bell another year living and I am learning to be gentle. the world blooms for me, as red as any rose, and there is such hope to be had.

I am ever sure of it.

I take lessons from the sunlight and her outstretched palms. she teaches me to love all the while, as much as I can spare, and to make a game of life by finding secret gifts all around, like bright ribbons on the Christmas tree and my favorite holiday songs on the radio.

I am learning to greet happy things with open arms and to hold sad things with open hands.

I am celebrating the fact that this year I am the kindest and wisest I have ever been, and I am wishing on every star that next year I can say the same thing. surely, there is no greater Christmas gift than that.

A Thousand Concertos Sarah Murphy I, a concerto, with taut strings and hollow wood.

I, a concerto, with just the shell of a cello.

I, a concerto, alone, without my orchestra.

But His fingers move like grass blowing in the wind.

My strings begin to groove, and sounds whisper from within.

He plucks each of my strings with a zing, and music pours out like paints onto a canvas.

My wooden body leaps like a spring, and He colors me into a song of pure bliss.

My one instrument sings like a thousand concertos to bring Him praise.

Inheritance

Grace Crandall

Take up your inheritance of righteousness in the small ways you can— do the reading, walk the path, create the essay, go to class. lean forward into conversation, jump at the opportunity of patience. hold the door open, shake their hand.

This is your now, this is the Promised Land.

peace

FOR A CHILD WILL BE BORN FOR US, A SON WILL BE GIVEN TO US, AND THE GOVERNMENT WILL BE ON HIS SHOULDERS. HE WILL BE NAMED WONDERFUL COUNSELOR, MIGHTY GOD, ETERNAL FATHER, PRINCE OF PEACE.

ISAIAH 9:6

no matter Who is home Peyton Bell what a gift it is to say I love you as I step out the door and mean it no matter who is home.

Lost

Samantha Corona

Still were the headlights of my car As the feline innocently stared back at them And I wondered where it came from And I longed to bring it home To provide the peace of what it is to be seen To offer the safety of what it is to be understood To give what the wilderness never could As for the lost soul I often happen upon, Which stares back at the light within me, I wonder where it came from And I long to guide it home But I hesitate, With fear that it will only run away Afraid of the unfamiliar And the cycle so continues

The Shepherd

Sarah Murphy

O Lord of my heart, You search through the wilderness for the one lost.

O Lord of my heart, I see You in the stillness of my thoughts.

I dream of rolling, green pastures where sheep graze the land.

Your presence makes me whole.

I drink from peaceful, blue waters made still by Your hand.

You soothe my troubled soul.

O Lord, You set me apart to shepherd my heart.

Fireplace Tiles Mikaela Schmierer

Humble Distance Grace Crandall Maybe I’m not ready.

Maybe I will miss the half-past-seven golden ichor coating the crowns of places with people names—Staples, Yeager, James.

Maybe I could find myself longing to keep the quiet hum of the library, the clouds arching above campus, the soft whoosh of the door opening, the turn into the parking lot where my spot waits like a missing tooth, the brief rain as it arrives over the hopeful grass of Lancer Arms.

Maybe I will grieve, after all, to set down the names I’ve been remembering.

To drop, one-by-one, the mannerisms & axioms of my coworkers, classmates.

To never again see them walking from a long way off, haloed by the evening light that holds them in its grasp.

To give them up to whatever functions of time they must endure; to say, “drive safe,” for the last time and hope they understand.

Maybe my heart will break to leave it: the rasp of leaves on the asphalt, the trees and their sloping shoulders, Fortuna mumbling to herself, the crisp, rosy morning light of early shifts, the humming of the truck as we pause before stepping onto the Front Lawn’s dewy palm, the quiet jokes lightly tossed between two friends as they work side-by-side late enough into the night that the foxes creep out from under the library and present themselves to be whispered over.

And maybe it will hurt to wave across the humble distance, on that blue-gowned day when all the world is farewell.

But maybe, when we meet again in the after-everything, we will say, “remember that brief growing apart?

Child’s play. Child’s play.”