The Mountain Laurel Presents:
December 2020
Staff Credits The Mountain Mistletoe is a special Christmas edition of The Mountain Laurel. The Mountain Laurel is North Greenville University’s art and literary journal; its purpose is to produce a collection of prose, poetry, and visual art that is both technically sound in craftsmanship and creative in content. The Mountain Laurel’s 2020-21 managing editor, Davis Lisk, loves all things Christmas and has wanted to produce a Christmas-themed Mountain Laurel for some time. This year seemed, for a variety of reasons, the right time to do so. We hope that The Mountain Mistletoe captures the holiday season in all its moods—joyful, melancholy, whimsical, nostalgic, and reverent. Merry Christmas from The Mountain Laurel!
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Editorial Staff Davis Lisk, Managing Editor Taylor Rose Elliott, Poetry Editor Kimberly Rhyne, Prose Editor Staff Macy Cochran Charissa Garcia Kasey Abigail Hansen Karson Harsey Lillian Hemingway Kyle Jackson Leslie Meyers Aubrianna Nelson Zachary Senter Faith Yeargin Advisers Hayley De Gonzalez, Art Rachel M. Roberts, English
Table of Contents Art Alien Christmas, Lauren Drake Golden Glow, Jessica Lee Rascio Shadow Casting, Leslie Meyers Baby in a Manger Flower, Tayler Brooks A Winter Slumber Land, Faith Yeargin Tangled Luminaries, Leslie Meyers
9 13 15 25 27 28
Poetry April, Come She Will, Taylor Rose Elliott Savior, Tayler Brooks Picture: Clement Clarke Moore, Taylor Rose Elliott The Bell and the Candle, Davis Lisk The Gift of Hope, Leslie Meyers A Beautiful Thing, Michael P. Greene Passing By, Karson Harsey To Each Her Own, Michael P. Greene Faerie Christmas, Davis Lisk Tomorrow Will Be Christmas Day, Dillon Lisk It May Not Look Like Christmas, Abby Nix The Story, Leslie Meyers Christmas Ended in March this year, Taylor Rose Elliott Prose Guiding Stars, Josiah Steelwell Christmas in the Wood, Davis Lisk
10 14 15-17 18 19-21 22 23 24 25 26 26 27 28-29 6-8 11-12
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Guiding Stars by Josiah Steelwell
Many a Christmas Eve night ago one might’ve spied what would’ve appeared to be a lone star, cut off from her celestial companions by the snow-laden clouds, and left to weave in and out of the frost benighted trees. But it was not lost, nor indeed a star. It was merely a rustic lantern held aloft by an equally rustic man. And close on his heels followed a multitude of rustic villagers with many an ancient carol borne on their misty breaths, which floated to Heaven as an offering of incense. And as a certain Star did guide the Magi to a certain babe, so did this star guide the villagers to every household in the nearby countryside to thaw the winter weariness from the hearts of the inhabitants in return for a simmering bowl of wassail to thaw their own frozen forms. 6
One of these forms was rather smaller than the rest, but the said youth made up for his dimensions with a robust singing voice. Unfortunately, it seldom harmonized with the elder, more ripened voices, for as the traveling choir would round a bend or scale a hill he would halt and catch his breath, peering intently at the scene before him. The delicate snow, the shadow veiled woods, and the darkened sky all enticed him, banishing all thought of the carols for a moment, leaving him alone to immerse himself in the beauty of that wintry night. Eons seemed to pass in the blink of an eye before a nudge from the passing townsfolk would rouse him from his reverie, and he’d take up the melody again, a verse or two behind. This habit soon brought him from the front line to the rear of the assembly. And perhaps he would’ve noticed his position before long if not a very avalanche of snow had slipped from an overhanging branch onto the little fellow. Soaked to the skin, with chattering teeth and a running nose he stumbled to his feet and glared up at the offender ready to box its ears. But he soon forgave it as his eyes met the naked limbs of an aged oak stretching out and away into the night air. The enticement was too much to bear that time, so without thinking he pulled himself into the great tree arms and perched atop the highest branch within
reach. Then gazing into the deep, slate-black, snowy sky he put forth his hand in the hope of drawing back the clouds as a curtain and seeing what wonders lay beyond. One cloud lower than the rest did just brush his fingertips when he was startled out of his reverie by the guttural squawk of a crow in his ear. The truth set in: he was more than a verse behind then, he was left alone, isolated in the shadow infested, blustery forest. Scrambling down, he searched for the familiar flicker of the Star, but nothing, not even the great oak, was visible anymore, except for the crow whose feathers outdarked the murky atmosphere. This was a good thing, too, for the creature swooped down and circled round and round the youth’s head, and nearly pecked or clawed his eyes and nose off twice. He tried to brush the spectral bird away, but it would evade the defense just in time to dive at him from the other side. This lasted far longer than the child would’ve liked, and by the time the taloned terror had retreated he had completely lost his sense of direction, leaving him worse off than before. But somewhere to his right, he heard close by the crow caw a chant. Or was it a dirge? And when he listened closer he heard a hollow echo Tap! Tap! Tap! to the rhythm of the death carol. Something inside the boy screamed at 7
him to run, run as far away from the tapping as he could. But he was afraid that if he did take to his heels he might fall into a ravine or a wolf ’s den or might never find his way back and freeze to death. No. It was best, he decided, to follow the sound; that way he would have some destination to march towards, which perhaps might set him on the right path to the village. And besides, as much as he dreaded the eerie tapping, it still enticed him enough to discover what Tommyknockers hid in the wilderness. So, he trudged on, the spectral bird gliding ahead, chanting. Before long it brought him into the thick heart of the woods, where the crow alighted on It. Its emaciated form stood tall and rigid between two cedar trees. Long, slender, and white, like icicles, streamed out its hair, claws, and fangs. The eyes, colorless as an overcast sky, held him in an unblinking stare. And its claw rapped on one of the cedar trunks with a crooked holly staff Tap! Tap! Tap! It was the Cailleach. The poor boy was never sure afterward how long he stood transfixed beneath her stare. But he recalled the sensation that his soul was freezing inside of him; the very snow that had melted on his shirt and hair froze solid again. And he almost lost himself in the paleness of those 8
dead eyes. But before the paleness could engulf him a faint glow glinted in those eyes. It was the reflection of a very familiar Star glowing some distance behind him. Then beyond the chanting rang out familiar voices singing to him, beckoning him, calling his name to the melody of his favorite carol. And his spirit thawed, and his heart drummed faster and louder than it ever had. Then, before the crow had time to swoop at his head again, he spun on his heels and ran for the Star. Away from the Cailleach, away from the darkness, he fled, and into the light of the Star and the loving arms of his family.
Alien Christmas Lauren Drake Acrylic Painting 9
April, Come She Will by Taylor Rose Elliott This year, I’m starting to remember What I never thought I’d have, last December. A warm bed and a long sleep What had been offered to me, But I was never allowed to take. Pleasure-things not damaging in the end, Opportunities missed but not grappled with, A harder day, but still better on than all of those before. I said that I would never Forgive you, and maybe I never did. But trying is closer, trying— Snow falls on live branches And melts, and falls again, But spring comes No matter if the christmas clouds Try to tell you It never will.
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My brain is still burning, And my wrists are still turning, Eyes braking, hands shaking; Winter sweaters still swallow me whole In the southern heat. But there will be cool springs to drink from And slow flowing honey, fields of lavender And unleavened bread to eat, Before these hands have shaken off their use, Before my eyes are too peeled To see through to you.
Christmas in the Wood by Davis Lisk King Tom, in his usual wild way, was sitting in a tree in the middle of a snowy wood overlooking a white blanketed landscape that, just the day before, was a patchwork quilt of greens, golds, and browns with a little creek running through all of it. The creek was frozen over now, and King Tom knew that Christmas was more than just a far-off point in time but a present reality. He smiled, a broad, wild smile, and hopped down onto the ground and, laughing his bacchanean laugh, went off to the house of Hadarac the Mole. Poor Hadarac, being a mole, was very ill-sighted and did not at first recognize his dear friend the King. ‘What ho, ole Starry Nose? A cheer an’ a lark to ye!’ said Tom. ‘Ah whaaah?’ replied the confused mole, ‘Is it ye, good King Tom?’ King Tom laughed and said yes he was indeed. Hadarac did not think it very fun and told him so, but
when Tom invited him over to the Clearing for Christmas dinner there was no refusing. One does not simply refuse a King nor a Christmas dinner neither. Next was Tungvarlee the Squirrel, who lived in a tree and had a rather more cheerful disposition than the old mole. He was quite excited to see the King once more and would not stop jibbing and jabbering away. King Tom had a devil of a time trying to invite him over for Christmas dinner and, after he did, left before the squirrel could finish thanking him, which was a long and very involved endeavour. Finfthuiltikki, the hare, was the third of the King’s friends and not an easy creature to find. He blent in with his surroundings and was exceeding swift, which gave him the moniker John Fleetfoot. The King, however, was quite a masterful man, and a wizard, too, and set up a magic net with which to catch even the quick and agile John Fleetfoot. The poor hare did not know what had happened and sat, or hung upside down rather, in the middle of an invisible net. After he had regained his bearings, however, he laughed and called out: ‘Dash you, Tom Nibblefinger! Dash and brash and bran you down!’ He, too, was invited to the Christmas dinner and accepted the invitation cordially. 11
Last of all, as the sun hung a dull red on the rim of the earth, King Tom sought out Mara-ad-Chûd, the Owl. Tom wandered around for a moment in the burning snow as darkness fell around him, but then, upon gaining some long-lost wisdom, sat down in the middle of a circle of trees and, holding up his magic staff, waited. A few still and gentle minutes passed, then the soft fluttering of wings. ‘Ah, Mara-ad-Chûn, my old friend and wisest of viceroys, you have come!’ And so the King invited him also to the Christmas dinner, to which the Owl nodded solemnly. On Christmas Day, all four, Hadarac the Mole, Tungvarlee the Squirrel, Finfthuiltikki the Hare, and Mara-ad-Chûn the Owl, met with the King in the Clearing amidst a vast feast of ham roast, mash potatoes and gravy, corn, a vast variety of soups and stews, plum pudding, black pudding, kidney pudding, and any other manner of pudding one could think of, and, in the very centre, the suckling pig. And, as the snow fell softly down and the sun burned white overhead and the white-throated raven cawed in the distance, the five friends sang this song.
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Both bough and branch are silver shod With icicle and snow, And rivers rage in silent waves While grazing cattle low. The patchwork fields are now arrayed In gently woven floss, And all along the frozen brook The holly branches toss. Look underneath the mistletoe And see a startling sight: The whistling wind and song of birds Are kissing in the night. But lo! am I struck dumb by this, A thing still far more wild: A thing far bigger than all this Resides within a child!
Golden Glow Jessica Lee Rascio Digital Photography
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Savior by Tayler Brooks Sweet baby Jesus, sent from above. Laid in a manger, Where the animals feed. No room in the inns. No room for the king.
The stone rolled away from the door. The grave could not confine him. There is no greater love than this, for a man to lay down his life for his friends. There’s room with the king.
Crowned with thorns, bleeding, and bruised. Led to Calvary and nailed upon a cross. Bearing our sins so we can live. It is finished. No room for the king.
Trumpets will sound for his return. His glory will shine And every knee will bow. Come follow him. There’s room with the king.
Shadow Casting Leslie Meyers Digital Photography 14
Picture: Clement Clarke Moore, waiting for Christmas to turn to fall, except not jolly at all by Taylor Rose Elliott The night before Christmas, I just want a home in my house But I’m humbled and bitten, a cat’s mercy on her mouse. My hair’s clean, curled, and tangled, without your hand wandering there Your smell, it preys, like snakes slithering around in my car, Though it’s been three months since you’ve been here. The rain smells sour today, Like communion wine spilled on a Christmas sweater left unwashed. But June is far from Christmas, coming upon us now And I’m even farther from you, and our last June That airplane ride, the pin I bought for my jacket. The tiny little Houston skyline, tiny little loosened clouds 15
Of which the shiny little silver linings have long worn away. You dropped me off at the airport, dropped my hand, And I went to the gift shop, wandering past the promised land. Since that 4am in your car, as my cat purred in your lap; When I almost fell asleep on the highway after While tears dried and my skin became a barren land. In this famine, there’s a fog that rusts all the silver bells; In this city that I wish wasn’t all mine, A smog that lingers in the places you took with you otherwise. The places where your hands wrapped around mine, near the purity ring Blue and green and foggy and temporary, like your eyes There’s a fog that holds me instead, and I have to wave my hands I wave my hands, like that night we mixed up goodnight and goodbye I wave my hands to clear the fog settling from my brain to my thighs. These days, writing, smiling, psychoanalyzing, it all feels 16
like a race To pretend that without you I can still self-actualize And my arms get tired easily now, though you called me strong Maybe that was the only lie you ever told me Something else I should have known. Christmas in the year where it’s hard To find anyone that doesn’t have at least one of these: A loneliness, a sickness, cynical thoughts and what’s important is forgotten It’s dead deer season, another sad poem no one asked for, I was gonna escape my family in your mom’s car For the do-nothing states where I was safe from everything. But now Christmas will be foggy like it was when I was still gone When I was homeless in three houses in my hometown that was not home. Foggy, smoggy memories, like the first time we said I love you. I remember, the big and little things, all that was important to you
Like how you made me watch 11 hours of Lord of the Rings How we were gonna be Arwen and Aragorn for Halloween. Or maybe that was just my dream, you know how I love to plan And maybe we were just my dream, but you made a wedding playlist too. You planned a tattoo before me but now it was to be written in my hand. And you got a job this summer and I thought maybe, your plan was to turn all the stones they’d thrown into a diamond, I remember How, for once, my dreams glittered and cast rainbows in the sunlight But maybe we were just one of my dreams too. You spoke not a word and went straight to work All summer but I wasn’t ready for the afterwards. For once, you did the talking, and then filled my collarbones with tears While I called you a jerk, and my sunshine, and we held each other
But still you held your own I am childish and selfish in all my woes, and I knew that Even before you made your goodbyes known. But as your father so named I will always be your Yellow Rose of Texas A country song we sang only of its name, til you ran on like this poem gone wrong I still wear that silver necklace, the one that’s secretly a safety whistle That your dad gave me for christmas, but the pens you gave me, then, are empty, now And I remain a shrike, the thorn to your thistle, the girl who felt too much and never listened. I would give it all to be the Texan’s yellow rose To take away the need for and give purpose to the whistle To change the shrike’s flight to flew and take all the thorns from the thistle. The night before Christmas is months away, but it feels like tonight; So Happy Christmas, my sunshine, taking up my days and my moonlight.
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The Bell and the Candle by Davis Lisk A bell over yonder sounds, And I am very old and young. A yellow flicker sways and bounds As carillonic song resounds The frosty chimes of silver tongue. A bell over yonder sounds. A snow alights the rolling mounds Where once the daffodilies sprung; A yellow flicker sways and bounds
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Across the path that frost astounds Where once a thousand oak leaves hung. A bell over yonder sounds Where winter’s sigh the evening hounds, And all about and all among A yellow flicker sways and bounds. Thus bonded each to each the rounds Of two immortal signs are sung: A bell over yonder sounds; A yellow flicker sways and bounds.
The Gift of Hope (Inspired by the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting) by Leslie Meyers
Focus on the promise of then Imagine the love and safety Do not dwell on the terror outside these walls
Quiet my children Listen close As I tell my tale of Christmas
Speak softly my children He mustn’t hear us As we huddle together here
Quiet my children We’ll soon go home Now listen to my tale of Christmas
Don’t cry my children Lean in close Everything will be fine tomorrow
A girl with a special gift A doll incarnate battling vermin Together they dance through the night
Be still my children So he won’t find us Crowded together in this bathroom
She awakens in the morn Safe and warm at home Now my children dream of better times
Heed my words If they be my last They matter more than I could say
Whisper to me your plans for Christmas What will it look like? Where will you be?
You are loved and you matter You are seen and cherished No matter what happens here today 19
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Close your eyes Tell me what do you see? What is Christmas to you?
I should feel safe but I don’t I can’t let my children see The strewn bodies of classmates
Are sugarplum fairies dancing? Are drummer boys drumming? Is there an old man in a red suit?
The rivers and splatters of blood Everywhere meet my gaze I mustn’t allow my children to perceive
Do you see elves in green? Little whos in Whoville singing? Maybe an angel getting his long awaited wings?
Heads bowed Quickly walking As we move through streams of blood
A precious babe wrapped in swaddling clothes? A lighted menorah twinkling in the dark? What appears behind your lids?
Eyes closed Hands on shoulders As we trudge through streams of blood
Quiet I must listen Is it all over now? Is the law on the other side of the door?
Where children had stood Now carnage is sprawled As I guide them through streams of blood
The badges say yes but my heart disagrees In faith I’ll crack open the portal The eerie quiet confirms it
Outside the tie dyed walls Their eyes open to the sun Parents sobbing and clustered
Grabbing their children Seeming unwilling to ever let go One parent looks desperately at me
But maybe that’s the point Maybe we needed jostling and breaking So we would see our need of a Savior’s love
Her eyes thank me more than words Today ended innocence for many Children grew up before their time
A babe who came to heal and forgive Could change our pride and illuminate our need Leading us to His nail pierced feet
But Christmas was coming It wouldn’t wait for anyone It seemed unbelievable
Where life is found and pain is left These children have not died in vain Today homes were emptied
A time of joy and gratefulness How could that be? When children lay strewn inside this school?
But tomorrow hearts could be filled If they let hope and love in If they only would regard the call
Families were broken today In a way that nothing medical could fix Hearts never would recover from this The irony of Christmas struck me Peace on earth was stolen today As a school we would never be the same 21
A Beautiful Thing by Michael P. Greene
A beautiful thing – a Christmas tree Decorated with purpose for all to see; The best in the forest – could be – Or in the eye of the afforder, a specialty. Anyway, chosen to be set apart To celebrate a birthday, to quicken hearts; A solid foundation, for sure a stand To hold it proudly erect, stately ’n’ grand. In its own special place it’ll prove a pine, Fresh as a Fraser; No better than balsam, Even cedar does fine; Arranged in no order – but commanded to shine Dozens of lights from Taiwan plugged in on the line Placed deep in the boughs they each find a bunk Clipped to a branch to twinkle near the trunk. Smaller ones honor tufted boughs overlooking the room, Peeping around baubles of glass with a plume. 22
Next garnished with garland of popcorn and berry Placed almost with care, but usually not very; The icicles lofted to land “hary-scary,” Parental corrections make each parliamentary. Why traditions of family each December go on Is no mystery to me; each face is shone To reflect all the joy the true season brings When Christ’s birth is remembered With a beautiful thing. And that’s just what happens as gifts soon appear Under the branches reflecting love of the Savior dear For as He loves us, we pass the love on To those in our family in our own special home; And though our love stops short of Calvary’s death, We do show Christ’s love as declare we our best To each neighbor and co-worker, student and friend Hoping they’ll see past our giving To Christ’s state end. “I came to seek that which was lost…no man cometh to the Father, but by me…The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Luke 19:10 John 14:6 Romans 6:23
Passing By Karson Harsey Presents unwrapped, morn Family visits, noon Holiday joy gone, dusk
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To Each Her Own by Michael P. Greene Two women came on the lot at the very same time Seeking Christmas trees they thought were sublime. Funny though, as they plowed through the branches, Both spotted a Fir, same time, same height, right up to the inches. Lunging like greyhounds, quick as a bunny, Tell you the truth, they were almost funny. Each possessing their very own tree, Beaming acceptance for all to see. But, at the same precise moment, Both registered discontent As they saw each other’s prize, And doubt began to shade their eyes. Just which one began the charade It’s now hard to tell for now they both made Out like they each had a world-winner, Deceitfully hoping the other’s thinner Wallet would soon prevail To cause her to drop out of the impending sale. Would it be color, shape, or size That would be the reason for this clash’s demise? 24
A Mexican stand-off is a great description For how they both parried the lot faking loyal conscription. Minutes went by as they mentally sparred, Each hoping the other was getting tired Toting her tree and would soon lay it down in defeat, you see. Well, it happened, in just a blink of an eye, One of their husbands said, “hurry and buy,” And laying down her first selection one chose another, Proclaiming it better than all others— The second, likewise, upon seeing her competitors vacated prize, Seized the first lady’s rejection and with victorious eyes Raised the tree to the sky, claiming seasonal perfection. Then it happened, whad’ya know, Heaven’s selection. The first lady now free to claim her competitions first choice Possessed it and with louder voice she screamed, of course: “I’ve found it, the perfect tree!!” And both went home, happily!! 12/10/93
Faerie Christmas by Davis Lisk Blue-sung faërie’s song Sings softly lulling me. From bough and branch, holly bells Ring out and ringing come along, Hotly humming out through thee. High, high beat the knells, Those tower-bells, long alarums, Herald thy gracing earth here below As wind hails thy praises hallowedly, As the winter white and icyclic forums, Magic runes of ice and snow. Sacred run the rivers rapidly Up from the joy of winter’s morning, Down, down to the bitter-cold evening.
Baby in a Manger Flower Tayler Brooks Digital Photography 25
Tomorrow Will Be Christmas Day by Dillon Lisk
The gifts are fine, the friends do try to lift my spirits from these depths, and also, it would seem, the group of Carolers upon my steps.
The sun has set upon the day, the wind grows chill, and as I stepped across the threshold of my door this Christmas Eve, I almost wept.
But in this moment all is grey, despite the joy that could be had. I care not for your gifts this year— just please allow me to be sad.
The tree was there, the fire, too, the apple cider piping hot, the cookies freshly baked, still warm, this all was here—but she was not. A better evening I would have if on the barren moor I’d stood, the frigid wind flaying my soul— I’d give this all up if I could but one more moment have her back, who from my arms was ripped away by fate so cruel—but here I sit. Tomorrow will be Christmas Day. 26
It May Not Look Like Christmas by Abby Nix It may not look like Christmas For there is no snow. There may not even be A frosty breeze-a-blow. Yet, that lonesome night On desert sand below Shone starlight on a manger. That is the Christmas we should know.
The Story by Leslie Meyers A Winter Slumber Land Faith Yeargin Ceramic
It’s the story of a baby shivering in the cold Full humanity and divinity combined It’s the story of a love that’s endured from old Come to a world stubborn and blind It’s the story of a girl willing and strong Accepting ridicule would ensue Faith overcoming fear present all along Part of a plan bigger than she knew It’s the story of a star illuminating the way Men seeking the beautiful unknown Finding the child lying in the hay Gifts being given homage being shown The story God wrote from His heart With us in mind created a work of art
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Tangled Luminaries Leslie Meyers Digital Photography
Christmas ended in March this year// On “River” by Joni Mitchell by Taylor Rose Elliott 03/10/2019 I’m ashamed, and it feels childish to say, That I used to tell my therapist every week, And sometimes I still do, I don’t know how I can be emptiness and weight At the same time. And I have spent six years trying to rid myself Of that but maybe my stomach holds on to it Not to feel hollow. So how can emptiness fill the hollow? The age-old question of if this is just a brain How can it rain and thunder and sunburn inside? I walk around laughing under a raincloud, Mostly at myself. 28
It’s snowing under here now. Somehow my brain lets me watch myself, against all odds As I lace up my ice skates, my mind ignoring my brain That ice is too thin for the weight of all of you. Don’t risk all of you. I butter the bottom of my shoes, in hopes of sliding or dying or flying I am distracted but balancing the weight that I can ignore all sounds I can ignore my hands losing feeling, the silver bells empty and ringing Intentional in the lost numbing of feeling, in balancing the weight of the hollow. I will stop if the ice cracks I will stop when I hear the water sloshing underneath But I know I’ve pulled my hat too low Over my mind my ears my brain too Blocking from the words and the hands and the drum beat Of the world and pain and most of all you. I wish there was a river I could skate away on But it’s Christmas and I’m warming by his fire He’s taped a picture print of mistletoe over his door.
I don’t look towards the ceiling, or into his eyes, or touch his hair Because if I ignore him he is just the drummer of the band and There is no reason for me to go over there. Slip my hip out of his hands and stomp my scuffed boots to my car, Oh the leaves, now I can hear, Won’t you listen and come back here? Afternoons of thin ice to afternoons of thin quilts And I explain movies to you and you get song lyrics wrong So full and unbalanced and alive and hurting now It feels so cold; But I am warmer now that I’m alone. He made his baby cry I skated away and hoped to fall and die But in the goodbyes sometimes you really come alive Cradling sunshine in my arms like cutlery now, a mild weapon And his new band is the ugliest sound I’ve ever heard I am warmer now that I’m alone. 29
Index Brooks, Tayler Drake, Lauren Elliott, Taylor Rose Greene, Michael P. Harsey, Karson Lisk, Davis Lisk, Dillon Meyers, Leslie Nix, Abby Rascio, Jessica Lee Steelwell, Josiah Yeargin, Faith
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14, 25 9 10, 15-17, 28-29 22, 24 23 11-12, 18, 25 26 15, 19-21, 27, 28 27 13 6-8 27