The Viking’s Hat
By Fervent Writer
"As I sat in front of my hut fixing a falcon’s feather onto the band of a soft green hat, an oared boat slid noisily onto the beach, its serpent-shaped prow crunching on the gravel. Looking up, I watched as a giant of a man jumped from the beached boat, his long blond braids bouncing off his leather armor. He did not look like the usual customer. After marching purposefully towards me, he stopped, folded his muscled arms and said, 'I need a hat.'
I stood up and wiped my hands on my apron, craning my neck back to see his face, 'Well you’ve come to the right place, sir. I’ve got small hats, big hats, hats with wide brims, hats with big feathers.' I held up the falcon’s feather to prove my point.
The man shook his head, causing his sandy mustache to sway back and forth on either side of his mouth. 'Not just any hat,' he growled. 'I want a hat that people will take notice of. I want a hat that will instill fear into the hearts of men. I want a hat that will preserve the memory of the prowess of the Vikings!' His face was flushed with enthusiasm. This guy had vision.
'It will be a pleasure to serve you, sir,' I told him. And it would be too. This new hat sounded like a challenging project. I enjoyed challenging projects. The Viking stared me down, his eyes popping slightly as he contemplated if I was up to the test. 'I’ll make you a hat that will cause knees to tremble and hearts to quail. A hat that will be the symbol of the blight of nations,' I assured him.
He held my gaze for a moment longer before barking, 'I’ll hold you to it.'
After the Viking left, I quickly decided that this fearsome hat needed some sort of formidable adornment, something attention-getting, something exotic. So, I left my hut and wandered into the forest in search of redoubtable embellishment. I was having very little luck finding anything.
Bunny ears? Insects? Mushrooms?
I needed something new, something bold, something striking.
That is when I got hit by the sheep.
Actually, it was a ram. I noticed this just before I was nearly impaled by one of its curved horns as it came flying, head down, out of the trees. I lay back on the dirt, squashed under the animal. Groaning, I rolled it off of me. Like a dying beetle, its hooves waggled in the air for a moment before it righted itself. Then it stood shakily, its funny-shaped eyes darting back and forth. I have never been attacked by a sheep before. Goats yes, sheep no. Maybe his unusual attitude sprung from those giant horns he wore so pompously.
“Who do you think you are?” I asked him angrily, brushing the leaves off my shirt. “You could have killed me.” He snorted unapologetically. “Look,” I jabbed a finger at him, “I’m not liking your attitude. Why don’t you go away and come back when you’ve had time to think about your actions.” Bleating mockingly, he turned and trotted off in the direction from which he came.
I was lifting my pack off the ground when he came charging back. This time I was ready. When those wicked-looking horns were a foot away, I jumped to the side and out of the fanatical sheep’s reach. He skidded to a stop and looked at me reproachfully. I put my hands on my hips and ordered, “Leave. March. Shoo.” I stomped my foot. “You’ll regret it if you play that trick again.” He smacked his lips and wiggled his stub of a tail before prancing off once more. I listened carefully until his footsteps faded away. There was a moment of silence before I could hear him crashing back through the bracket. This sheep had some sort of a problem. I stood on my toes, ready for anything.
There he was, barreling towards me, his funny-shaped eyes filled with a malicious joy. He was running at me…He was running at me…He was running past me…Blam! He was slamming into a tree. I heard an ominous crack and watched as the ram’s neck slumped to the side and his body crumpled to the ground. The sheep had it coming.
I observed the ram for a moment, but there was no sign of life. I poked his stomach and grimaced as his tongue flopped out of his mouth. Cheeky even in death. My eyes moved from his tongue to his horns; they were menacing looking things. I felt their tips and then moved my fingers down the glassy surface. They were also very stylish.
Suddenly my designer’s eyes were opened. What would the Viking think about a hat made with horns? Horns were a symbol of power, a symbol of goring and fighting. He would love it. He had to love it. Besides, they would go great with his hair. I imagined the hat in my mind: a leather skull cap, with a bridge over the nose, studded iron around the brim, and these two magnificent horns protruding from the sides. My eyes flashed open. These things would be all the rage. There would be more orders. I would be in business for years. What was I doing still standing here? There were things to do, hats to make, Vikings to please. The only unfortunate thing was, the Viking would go down in history for his headpiece, but who would remember me?"
"As I sat in front of my hut fixing a falcon’s feather onto the band of a soft green hat, an oared boat slid noisily onto the beach, its serpent-shaped prow crunching on the gravel. Looking up, I watched as a giant of a man jumped from the beached boat, his long blond braids bouncing off his leather armor. He did not look like the usual customer. After marching purposefully towards me, he stopped, folded his muscled arms and said, 'I need a hat.'
I stood up and wiped my hands on my apron, craning my neck back to see his face, 'Well you’ve come to the right place, sir. I’ve got small hats, big hats, hats with wide brims, hats with big feathers.' I held up the falcon’s feather to prove my point.
The man shook his head, causing his sandy mustache to sway back and forth on either side of his mouth. 'Not just any hat,' he growled. 'I want a hat that people will take notice of. I want a hat that will instill fear into the hearts of men. I want a hat that will preserve the memory of the prowess of the Vikings!' His face was flushed with enthusiasm. This guy had vision.
'It will be a pleasure to serve you, sir,' I told him. And it would be too. This new hat sounded like a challenging project. I enjoyed challenging projects. The Viking stared me down, his eyes popping slightly as he contemplated if I was up to the test. 'I’ll make you a hat that will cause knees to tremble and hearts to quail. A hat that will be the symbol of the blight of nations,' I assured him.
He held my gaze for a moment longer before barking, 'I’ll hold you to it.'
After the Viking left, I quickly decided that this fearsome hat needed some sort of formidable adornment, something attention-getting, something exotic. So, I left my hut and wandered into the forest in search of redoubtable embellishment. I was having very little luck finding anything.
Bunny ears? Insects? Mushrooms?
I needed something new, something bold, something striking.
That is when I got hit by the sheep.
Actually, it was a ram. I noticed this just before I was nearly impaled by one of its curved horns as it came flying, head down, out of the trees. I lay back on the dirt, squashed under the animal. Groaning, I rolled it off of me. Like a dying beetle, its hooves waggled in the air for a moment before it righted itself. Then it stood shakily, its funny-shaped eyes darting back and forth. I have never been attacked by a sheep before. Goats yes, sheep no. Maybe his unusual attitude sprung from those giant horns he wore so pompously.
“Who do you think you are?” I asked him angrily, brushing the leaves off my shirt. “You could have killed me.” He snorted unapologetically. “Look,” I jabbed a finger at him, “I’m not liking your attitude. Why don’t you go away and come back when you’ve had time to think about your actions.” Bleating mockingly, he turned and trotted off in the direction from which he came.
I was lifting my pack off the ground when he came charging back. This time I was ready. When those wicked-looking horns were a foot away, I jumped to the side and out of the fanatical sheep’s reach. He skidded to a stop and looked at me reproachfully. I put my hands on my hips and ordered, “Leave. March. Shoo.” I stomped my foot. “You’ll regret it if you play that trick again.” He smacked his lips and wiggled his stub of a tail before prancing off once more. I listened carefully until his footsteps faded away. There was a moment of silence before I could hear him crashing back through the bracket. This sheep had some sort of a problem. I stood on my toes, ready for anything.
There he was, barreling towards me, his funny-shaped eyes filled with a malicious joy. He was running at me…He was running at me…He was running past me…Blam! He was slamming into a tree. I heard an ominous crack and watched as the ram’s neck slumped to the side and his body crumpled to the ground. The sheep had it coming.
I observed the ram for a moment, but there was no sign of life. I poked his stomach and grimaced as his tongue flopped out of his mouth. Cheeky even in death. My eyes moved from his tongue to his horns; they were menacing looking things. I felt their tips and then moved my fingers down the glassy surface. They were also very stylish.
Suddenly my designer’s eyes were opened. What would the Viking think about a hat made with horns? Horns were a symbol of power, a symbol of goring and fighting. He would love it. He had to love it. Besides, they would go great with his hair. I imagined the hat in my mind: a leather skull cap, with a bridge over the nose, studded iron around the brim, and these two magnificent horns protruding from the sides. My eyes flashed open. These things would be all the rage. There would be more orders. I would be in business for years. What was I doing still standing here? There were things to do, hats to make, Vikings to please. The only unfortunate thing was, the Viking would go down in history for his headpiece, but who would remember me?"
Ha, I think it's cute.
Well, on the argument front, I'm not doing super good, but I'm not doing totally bad, either. The hard part is remembering not to get in a fight. It just comes so easily. What if doing nice things came just as easily? Isn't it odd (sickeningly odd) how easily it is to forget the things of God when God is really all that matters? We can forget Him, but we can't escape Him. Anyone who isn't trying (with all their pathetic human might) to convince themselves otherwise, can plainly see that God is part of everything.
Take a look at your foot. Go ahead.
Do you need any more proof to believe in God?
(If you do there's plenty to be found. Let your eyes travel up your foot to your leg. Read ancient writings. Study archeology. Listen to the story of anyone who has ever lived.)
God is real. God is here. Live like God is here. Every moment of every day. I don't want to have regrets about my life when I stand before the Lord. That's my prayer today.
Alright, I'm done now. Wow, this is my longest blog ever!
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