Oxygen

For a season I kept an audio journal - one composition per day...

Janet's post and a recent email from Lynne reminded me of these soundfiles from that season, a time when I was very familiar with mixing respirator medicine, the effects of chemotherapy, morphine pumps, thrush, and oxygen tanks.

Donna's oxygen tanks rang so clearly, and were a constant presence during this season. You can hear them in each of these.

The images were from around the same time as the audio journal entries.

December 24, 2003
Breath Prayer




January 24, 2004
Oxygen





January 25, 2004
Admission

The Artist Next Door

A couple of years ago, we had an addition put on our house. Keith Murphy and co. tore off our old roof with it's cracked and weather-worn shingles, and put on a second story. A pile of nasty shingles, siding, wood and such began to gather in the backyard.

That's when our next door neighbor, a retired fellow named Bob, began to show an interest. "Whatcha gonna do with all that wood?"

My husband Dave shrugged. "Why? You want it?"

Bob nodded, and Dave said, "it's yours."

I remember Dave chuckling later on at how excited Bob was to have our discarded, useless wood. Oh well, we figured it was the old our-trash-his-treasure principle at work.

A couple of weeks ago, Bob wanted to take down a very tall, and very dead tree, which was on his side of the fence, but over-hanging our yard. Dave helped him take it down. To me, it looked like little boys at play. I mean what's more fun than cutting into a big ole' tree, then pulling it down with your Ford F250? I guess Bob thought Dave was doing him some big favor, though really it was just an opportunity for Dave to play with power tools and be super-macho. I stayed far away just in case the tree didn't land where they wanted it to!

Anyhow, today we came home from church and found the item pictured above on our front porch along with a card from Bob, thanking Dave for the help and wishing us a Merry Christmas. What do you suppose this gorgeous stool is made of? Yup, pieces of our old roof! You should see it in real life. The rounded edges, the color, the grain... amazing. A true work of art. How blessed we are with such wonderful neighbors.

I couldn't help thinking what a perfect picture the stool is of what Christmas is all about. Jesus, the savior, coming to seek and save that which was lost. There was mankind, beyond hope, desperately wicked, and headed for death. We were marred, flawed, useless. But Jesus came, picked us up, and just like Bob looking over the fence and seeing potential is some dirty old wood, Jesus look at us and said, "I can make something beautiful out of them."

I look at this stool standing by my tree and am amazed. What I'm amazed at is the artist. The wood didn't form itself into this gorgeous piece. Left to itself, it would only decay. It was the artist who saved it, transformed it, and made it into something new.

So it is with Jesus and us. So many people feel too old, too bad, too weak, too beyond redemption. But there is no person his touch cannot heal, no soul too vile to be made clean. He is the God of second chances and new life.

Thank you Jesus. And thank you Bob. I'm glad to know you!

2 Corinthians 2:17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!

Merry Christmas to one and all.

I have posted again in Roberts Ramblings.
Merry Christmas to each of you.
Robert.

Beautiful

Today we braved the ice storm and drove grandma-speed to the late service at church. The usually packed building held a scattered crowd of maybe fifteen. Ah, but what a service. Roy's band took us through an amazing worship set (Bill, playing his pedal steel [am I getting that right, Bill?] seemed to be having way too much fun.) Roy shared a powerful testimony about what God has brought him through in the past couple of years-- heartbreak, trials...and miracles. Praise God.

Next, Eric Kielhorn spoke to us, sharing his story. As he shared about his late wife Jeanette's cancer...her life and death, and her powerful witness, I couldn't help but think of my friend Bette who died of Luekemia four years ago. I never met Jeanette, but it sounds as if she and Bette were women cut from the same royal cloth. So I decided to post this story I wrote some time back.

Beautiful Like Him

Crunching leaves announced my arrival as I made my way up Bette’s walk. Ladies’ prayer wouldn’t start for another hour, but it had become my habit to come early to set up and help get Bette ready. I tapped on the glass and entered without waiting for a response. I stopped in the kitchen and started the coffee brewing. A radio perched atop the microwave, crooning oldies.

“Good morning Bette!” I called, getting out the cream and sugar.

“Hey there,” came the faint reply, then a coughing fit.I peered around the corner. Bette sat in the recliner, eyes closed. A polka-dotted cloth wrap covered her bare scalp. She opened her eyes and looked at me through dull, tired eyes. Cracked, swollen lips hindered her attempted smile.

I winked at her. “What can I get for you sister?”

“I need that mouthwash stuff and the strawberry yogurt.” She paused to catch her breath which came is raspy wheezes. “Can you fill up my water bottle too?”

“Sure.”

The mouthwash stood on the counter, the tallest bottle in a group of many. One medicine after another had joined the crowd, most prescribed to combat the side effects of the others. The pills meant to keep Bette’s white blood cells under control brutalized the rest of her body. Deep wounds had developed on her feet. Her raw hands, peeled continually. Worse though, were the horrible sores in Bette’s mouth. These made eating and tooth-brushing agonizing chores. The doctor had prescribed a mouth-numbing wash, which dulled the pain, just long enough for her to eat a yogurt—the only food her stomach wouldn’t reject.

I returned and arranged the items on the end table. When Bette was ready, I fed her with a soft-edged baby spoon, doing my best not to let my feelings of anxiety show. Trying not to think what I would do if she started choking. She swallowed each bite, tears pooling in her eyes, then leaned her head back. Frank Sinatra sang in the kitchen and a dehumidifier hummed along in the corner.

I started putting out extra folding chairs.

Bette readjusted her feet and winced. “Did you pick up the jelly beans?”

I pointed to a grocery bag by the door. “Sure did. Buy one, get one free.”

Up until two weeks ago, Bette had insisted that her husband, Glenn, bring her to church to help teach the third and fourth graders. Now, she was too weak, but still wanted to make the Easter goody bags she had planned for the kids. She also insisted that we keep holding ladies’ prayer here in her living room.

I lit an apple-scented candle and plopped on the couch. “How are you doing?”

On most days, Bette avoided the question, asking instead about my problems (as if they could compare). Today, she decided to answer.“Janet, you know I’ve never cared much about my looks.”

I nodded. Bette was the least vain woman I knew. While the rest of us in the prayer group obsessed over fashion, Bette was contented just being herself. Her favorite sweatshirt displayed Tweetie bird, and she delighted in thrift store bargains. She kept her face make-up free, her black hair, simple and straight.

Bette shook her head. “But when I look in the mirror now, I just can’t believe how ugly I am. How can Glenn stand to look at me?”

My chest constricted with sorrow. Bette—though her soul was trapped in a dying body—was the most beautiful woman I knew. I’d never met anyone so passionate about Jesus, so unashamed to witness. Even now, she took every opportunity to share Jesus with family, neighbors, doctors and nurses.

I went and sank to my knees by her chair. “Bette, you are beautiful.”

She averted her gaze and picked at the pieces of skin that hung from her raw fingertips.

I placed my hand on Bette’s arm as she wept. Lord, how can I minister to her? Unable to find sufficient words, I grabbed my Bible and devotional book. “Why don’t I read to you?”

Bette didn’t respond.

I found the day’s scripture reading, flipped to Isaiah and read, “He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to Him, nothing in His appearance that we should desire Him. He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.”

The words hung in the air. God had lead us to just the right passage.

“Bette, this is about Jesus. It says He had no beauty.”

She raised her head and met my gaze.

I grinned at her and asked a question she could only answer one way. “Bette, is Jesus beautiful?”

Her eyes brightened the faintest bit as she breathed out her answer. “Oh, yes. Yes.”

“So are you sister. So are you.”

Battle Cry

The hand
drew back the covering veil;
exposing the warrior swords
clashing with the talons of dark shadows;
The Spirit's whisper floated in the air;
bringing prayers
brought by the sons and daughters of the promise;
jew and gentile
joining together to lift up the battle cry
for the deliverance of the promise.

Lynne Hasuly

Thanksgiving

Christine Benvenuti

And so...
Why on only but one, single, day?
Is there not a mere moment you could call a gift?

Perhaps two days from eight weeks ago - or-
maybe the next time the sky is up.

Or by chance, if the soles of our feet
allow our souls to meet at the corner of two boulevards.

And so...
Why on only but one, single, day?
One time only?
The fourty-seventh Thursday of this very year?

My eyes are weak from gazing...
In the direction of the "blue,"
And my soul is stirred with excitement,
As it embraces a new friend
At the intersection of "endless" avenues.

Women giving thanks here...and there

A prayer of thanksgiving in middle class America: Lord, thank you for my family and this lovely home. Thank you for good friends, a cool church, and the fun ministries I get to do there. And thanks for this delicious looking meal.

A prayer of thanksgiving in Iraq: Lord, they have put my husband in prison for preaching your word. Thank you that you are there with him. Thank you that he can share Your word with the other prisoners there. The neighbors laugh at me and my children. The police threaten me. No one will give me work. Thank You for being our provider and thank you for the privelege of suffering for Christ's sake. It is an honor to bear the cross like the Lord Jesus did.

A prayer of thanksgiving in Afghanistan: Father God, thank you for opening my eyes to the truth this past year, for Jesus coming in a vision to show me He is real. My father beat me and my family disowned me for following Christ. I have no friends. But I know that You are with me. Thank you for putting love and forgiveness in my heart towards those who persecute me.

A whispered prayer of thanksgiving in China: God, thank you for this church, these brothers and sisters who huddle in this basement to worship and learn from your word. Thank You for another night together. Thank you for blinding the eyes of the authorities to our existence. Thank You that one day we will be able to worship you loudly with all believers in heaven.

A tearful prayer in Sudan: Lord, I thank you that my husband and children all had faith in you. They were all slaughtered before my eyes by evil men-- terrorized and then shot while I screamed. But thank you, Lord, that my family is safe at your side now, and that I will be able to join them one day. Those men raped me, Lord, and hurt me. My eyes are blackened and swollen. I can hardly walk and I think my arm is broken. But I thank you that my life is hidden in Christ. I thank You that men cannot touch my soul. You will keep me until the day of Christ. You fill me with deep peace, Lord, in the midst of my pain and sorrow. You know what it is to suffer and you comfort me. Thank you.

The prayer of a homeless woman: God, thank you that there was room in the shelter for me last night. Thank you for this good, warm food these church people made for us and for the kindness. Thank you for the coat I found in that pile of clothes they're giving away-- just the right size and my favorite color too! Thank you for the man who gave me a Bible last week. I read in it that you were homeless too-- had nowhere to lay your head. Thank you that you can understand.

A prayer uttered through cracked lips from a sick bed: Lord, thank you for allowing me to spend one more Thanksgiving with my family. The doctors gave me six months, but you are more powerful than cancer. Thank You for finally giving me peace about the fact that my life is in your hands, and for helping me to trust You to take care of my family after I am gone. Thank you for the hospice nurse and for allowing me to share the gospel with her. Thank you for the morphine. Please help those around the world who suffer without the benefit of pain-killers. Thank You for never leaving me and for always hearing my prayers.

Artistic Funny

A thief in Paris planned to steal some paintings from the Louvre. After carefully planning, he got past security, stole the paintings and made it safely to his van.

However, he was captured only two blocks away when his van ran out of gas. When asked how he could mastermind such a crime and then make such an obvious error, he replied,

"Monsieur, that is the reason I stole the painting...I had no Monet to buy Degas to make the Van Gogh."

(And you thought I didn't have De Gaulle to tell this joke to anyone else.)

Well, I figured I had nothing Toulouse.

Happy thanksgiving ....Peeps.

Happy Thanksgiving

Hey! Happy Thanksgiving.
I finally wrote something again, On my other page http://www.robert-robertsramblings.blogspot.com/.
Eat hearty:)
Love one another, and share Gods Love all over the earth.

Robert

The Empty Chair

Lynne Hasuly

The chair is empty
among the rows of seats filled with people;
that chair is empty...
He was supposed to have sat there;
offering up his sacrifices of praise
in the midst
of the body of Christ...
talons snatched him
while in the grip of fear;
propelling him towards
the portal of eternity;
and now the chair is empty;
depriving the brethren
of gifts and the joy of fellowship with him;
sorrow's shadow now resides
over the space where he might have sat;
reminding the great cloud of witnesses
that death has come...
and also of the glorious promise that death has lost its' sting.

New

Lynne Hasuly

He will create a heart that's new
among the brambled mass
of past attemtps
at being "strong" apart from
embracing arms.

The stretch of His arms
loosened the grace;
given through the blood;
the river of life...
pouring over flesh to
cover the sins of the world.

This day retains the joy that came
when death turned into life...
a ressurection in our hearts
of His eternal life...

The bride of Christ we'll be that day;
shimmering in the realm of glory;
without spot or human wrinkle;
no foible to shortchange the stores of heaven.

Joy of heaven,
stuff of earth;
divine touching mortal;
glory's flame opened up the path to
heaven's portal...

On Being American, On Being Displaced

Stephen Harper

To start, I’m feeling a bit melancholy as of late. I can’t quite put my hand to it …. Truth of it is I can put my hand right on it but I don’t care to talk about that. Where am I going? I finished the book Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini recently and I had a passage that affected me and I remembered the page so as to expound. Turns out I didn’t remember the page correctly and the passage is lost as is the intent behind said passage. You see I was going to use the passage to remind me of what struck me. “The mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

It’s o.k. though because there was something else that struck me. The book details the main characters life with his father in pre (Russian) war Afghanistan. First off the book is beautiful. This is the talent that elevates mere words to literature. As I traveled through the book I embraced his center. His knowing where he came from and how distinct that is from other lands, even other villages. Traditions, be they cultural or religious, really give one something to stand on. It gives one a place.

I look at the carnage that is distinctly American. We are the stuff washed up on the far shore. Assembled and stuck together with sweat, even passion. Maybe just survival. It is a land of drive thrus so we don’t have to connect. Connection is messy. When I was a child I remember McDonalds posted the number of burgers sold. Not eaten, just sold. At the point of absurdity they now just trumpet “billions and billions served”. An update of Biblical scriptures would have us numbering our offspring “as the burgers of McDonalds. Verily.

But I realized I don’t have those cultural traditions that are more than quaint. It is a thing that can hold neighbors together and it marks ones territory. Our territory is for sale. My mother’s parents were from Italy. A large Italian family that gathered continually at their home where food was piled high and bocce ball was won not so much from talent but from how susceptible an uncle was from Nonie’s dandelion wine. I was young and there were tons of us always running around the property. Poppi-Joe died. Noni passed within a couple months. I was about 7 or 8. From that point I don’t remember ever getting together as a family again save funerals and weddings. We became Americanized. Separate but equal. My father was neither Italian nor catholic and his family traditions were destitution and alcoholism neither of which he participated in. Thankfully. But what he wasn’t shown, family, was passed on. This wandering distraction of a life. Something just off center. Shallow focus.

Now, we got the money. I live in the wealthiest state in the union which means I live in the wealthiest place on the planet. Anyone that has seen my profile knows I never miss a meal. But there are curses to our blessings. And I’m not so sure we fully understand what a blessing is. Is it small wonder that our children need to bring arms to school to ….. what, even a score? Feel better about themselves? The experts are still swishing that bitter taste in their mouths before they spit out a conclusion. And just like wine it always comes down to individual taste. There is an estimated 30+ serial murderers roaming our country at present. We have the wealth.

All that distilled into this; I am American to the bone. My family gets together on Thanksgiving. Well, one of my two brothers lives in Florida and the other family are all vegetarians. Turkey be damned. Gravy too. I wish I had made up a whole slew of traditions as my kids grew up. I didn’t think to. I didn’t know I was supposed to. They should have just been there. There is nothing that kids do in my neighborhood that I did or my parents did. We are as changing as shopping malls. Even the analogies use current vernacular because nothing old sticks. Or is it metaphor? I used to know the difference.

As I ramble I do realize the spiritual aspect in all of this. Traditions can give one a sense of place. Even in a culture removed from any semblance of God their traditions solidify them. They won’t stalk each other to fulfill a fantasy and they won’t secret their dad's revolver in their knapsack for an ego boost. But then they are left with a gnawing that tradition doesn’t fulfill. There are books of these stories. Truckloads. They even make their traditions God and their burning candles give off a pleasant odor. Even if it covers something that lies decaying just under the sound structure.

The remarkable advantage of being American is that we have no tradition to edify. Our hunger, to, goes to the marrow. Why else do Americans worship all that they do? We are starving. Other cultures abate this hunger with tradition we cover ours with stuff. They set the table exactly the same every generation. But their plates are empty. We pile our paper plates high with salacious abundance all set on TV trays. And when the bite is taken we find it is a semblance of food craftily constructed of Styrofoam

I wasn’t complaining. I really wasn’t. I was just chewing on something and I had to spit it out. Some wines are bitter. Especially wine that comes in a large cardboard box with a pull out plastic spout. Our traditions are every bit as transient as our technology. Every bit as transient as Americans. Yet there are no new uncharted lands to the west. The temperate ideal of southern California is smothered in emissions and an array of highways that don’t drive us together but separate us with vast cement plains. Plains where no buffalo dare roam. America is settling. And unsettling. But in whatever grand political experiment that history has sprinkled over us like some loving compost we find someone gets plowed under. And this always creates fertile conditions for the church to grow. Totalitarianism, fascism, communism, capitalism, harperism ….. yeah, I’ve got a world domination scheme going on. That a problem? Take it up with my security officer after you sign over all your wine boxes, pal.

So, all this comes to what? I always tell my friends that there is no truth in politics. There is no truth in any of it. Save Jesus. Jesus saves. “What’s so remarkable about that steve?”. What’s remarkable is that I am sounding very much like Billy Graham. Without the clout. George Beverly Shea on my iPod. No matter how complicated no matter how fractured it all is Jesus seems to be the constant. Then and now. I’m wondering why, oh why I get so distracted? It’s nothing more than lint exposed in the sun and I’m always the cat dashing after it. Problem is; I’m no cat. How tough can it be to remember that.

REDEMPTION UNFOLDED by Judy Biltcliffe

Majesty bows in obedient genuflection to the will of the Most High
"here am I, send me"
Humility in literal motion
Beauty the interloper takes a stance
Amidst all that refuses to yield
Love reposes itself against a backdrop of flesh and grace and willingness
Compassion grows
And strolls the darkness
A lily among thorns
Joys' countenance betrayed by the carnage of the human heart
Recompense counted out with so many blows to the flesh
God's bargain for ransomed humanity in the temple of war's theater
Death's toll pays the price
As glory's reprieve voices itself among the unheard moans of angels
It is finished!
Grief and love embrace over a poured out drink offering
fragrance and linen caress the emptied vessel as
Darkness closes in on light
God's indescribable gift left unopened
Resurrection descends
Forced to retrieve what it did not take
Return to earth
Faithfulness springs forth with a scattering of gifts abroad
God ascends amid shouts of joy
The Lord to thunderous trumpet applause
Victory fashions a crown of love and compassion
For all who would bow down to receive
For those who believe
The light shines in the darkness
For He has done it!

"Recycling Art"

Essex Art Association"Recycling - The Art of Our Community" Show, July-August 2007Judith's collage - upper left;Robert's sculpture - right

"SWIRLING VORTEX OF TERROR"Judith Hamilton JeromeAugust 2007


detail - "SWIRLING VORTEX OF TERROR"Judith Hamilton JeromeAugust 2007



"RISING FROM THE SCOURGE" - corrugated cardboard sculptureRobert JeromeAugust 2007

Related story/inspiration for Bob's sculpture: http://art-4-the-heart.blogspot.com/2007/07/faith-released.html

HAND ON THE PLOW

by Judy

Left home thirty years ago
But I might as well have stayed
For all the voices that accuse
Came with me anyway
For here inside
The locusts thrive
This dog's waitin' for a day

My hand's on the plow
But this thing's not movin'
You give me life
But I keep on choosin'
Fear and emotion
I can't resist
To keep lookin' back
Though it makes me unfit

Lord You are a fortress
But then again so am I
All attempts to fortify
Futility exercised
Make a nosedive
Under blankets of night
While my enemies hide in plain sight

My hand's on the plow
But this thing's not movin'
You give me life
But I keep on choosin'
Fear and emotion
I can't resist
To keep lookin' back
Though it makes me unfit

A prophet has no honor
No place to lay his head
Better go and find a foxhole
Before you wind up dead
Yeah, this is war
Lord, come restore
And I'll make you my bed

My hand's on the plow
But this thing's not movin'
You give me life
But I keep on choosin'
Fear and emotion
I can't resist
To keep lookin' back
Though it makes me unfit

The Eyes of God

We have had a 7-year-old visiting us for awhile. It is hard to believe that our own children were so small not that long ago.
The questions and wonder are endless. He has large eyes for this world. And big questions. Just like us.
In a letter from a family member who was just experiencing the joy of being grandparents, another member of the family told them, "NOW you know how God feels for us".

Enjoy this day.

Therefore Choose Life

Lynne Hasuly


Guilt repelled off
the armor provided,
designed to protect the creature of clay;
soul soil entrusted into the hands of the Lord...
choosing life...
choosing joy...
over stubborn refusal
to chew through the restraints of the enemy...
enticed by distorted desires within...
for the chewing produces
strength of spirit...
galvanizing resolve to seek clarity of perception...
choosing life...
choosing joy over the piercing familiarity of the abyss.

Alexander 8-22

So many questions were unanswered, but no one was in a hurry to go first. Even Bitsy felt safe with these people so newly met, standing around their son, concerned mostly that he was ok. Sarge ruffled Alexander’s hair and smiled, and Alexander smiled back, and Sarge’s shoulders relaxed. Kitty gave her son a hug and looked into his eyes, satisfying herself that he was not hurt or frightened. Lexi took Bitsy by the shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. Bitsy stiffened for a moment; then she relaxed, too. Lexi said, “Let’s just get Bitsy into the picture, and then I guess we all have stories to tell.” Sarge and Kitty looked alarmed, but Lexi reassured them with an ‘oldest child’ look, and steered Bitsy into the little room. The equipment was impressive enough, and Bitsy’s eyes were wide as she walked around the white appliance, testing the handle and hearing the whoosh, looking up when the damper opened over her head. But when Lexi explained about the underground cave through which a strong vacuum pulled air to the Progressive Power facility, Bitsy looked at Sarge with undisguised wonder. “How long,” she asked Alexander, “have you known about this?” With a sheepish look at his parents, Alexander murmured, “Since last night.“Well,” Sarge shrugged, taking his wife’s hand, “ it had to happen sometime, and Lexi, you were about this age, I remember. But I wish you had come to us first,” he looked sternly at Alexander, but it wouldn’t wash. “Dad,” Lexi reminded him, you would have had to discuss it with the whole family, and by the time they all approved, Alexander would have been shaving.” Sarge gave her a Look, but it wasn’t That Look, and she giggled, and he gave in. They sat down and talked, telling stories in reverse order, Alexander and Bitsy recounting how the INSEC agents had used Kerry to set Alexander up, and how Bitsy had followed him to make sure he wasn’t all alone out there, and Kitty squeezed Bitsy’s hand and said thanks, meaning it very much, The grownups listened raptly while the two youngsters told about fighting with the agents, and helping each other get back to town, and Bitsy covering for Alexander on the bus. And Lexi explained about their late-night trip to the basement, and Sarge and Kitty gave them both a “wait ‘til we get you home” look, but they were home. And Alexander had to go back into the Room of Relief and commune with the fartdock again, and after all that, it was time for the two young Agents to go on duty. “Bitsy,” Sarge said, as they all trooped back upstairs, “I don’t have to tell you the seriousness of this matter, or how hard it will go for us all if someone finds out about our….. facility.” Bitsy turned the full force of the Bitsy stare on Sarge, but her heart wasn’t in it. Instead she took his hand and squeezed it, and said, “ Mr. Wozniak, all families have things they keep to themselves. I’m sorry I wound up barging in. But I never rat on friends--- never.” And Sarge nodded and smiled, and Kitty, who had already made her mind up about Bitsy, gave the little girl a hug and a look that said, welcome. To Alexander she said, “ Now, dear, the extra DOOK we gave you should be kicking in any minute. Are you sure you’re ready to go downtown for duty? “ “Yes, Mom,” Alexander grinned, “and I’ve got quarters for the rectomat, and I won’t eat anything until I get home. What’s for supper tonight, by the way, Dad? Goulash this time?” And Sarge grabbed Alexander and messed up his hair, and the kids went out on the street, Alexander calling back, “Thanks, Lexi,” and Bitsy waving over her shoulder. And for the next four hours they went through the motions, patrolling the shopping district, waving their scanners, pretending not to mind being avoided by everyone; and when Bitsy picked up a reading going up the escalator at Flump’s Emporium, she turned away and cut her sensitivity. When she turned again, she saw the terrified look on the face of the old gentleman and gave him a huge, sweet Bitsy smile, and he whispered, “Bless you, young lady,” and ran up the moving stairs all the same. They met just at the stroke of six, at the corner of Tannerman Square, but instead of the D bus, a FourWord Tech van pulled up. Stash was at the wheel, cap pulled down low. He nodded to Bitsy, and said, “Ok, Al, you and Miss Bruce get in. Grabbing Bitsy, Alexander dragged her into the open side door of the van, it closed at Stash’s signal, and they drove off up Pollep St. Stash turned and smiled at the two kids, but he was clearly a bit nervous. “You two stay low,” he warned, turning into the Fourword parking garage entrance. He swiped his i.d., smiled to the surveillance camera, and pulled through the opening door and slotted the van into its numbered space. He turned in the seat, whispering, “Stay down for a minute, ok, until I clear the coast.” He was back in a moment, handing them both long-billed caps and coveralls. Then, swaddled and hatted beyond positive recognition, Alexander and Bitsy followed Stash across the parking area and into the elevator. Once inside the lab, Stash put a finger to his lips as he led them into the back. A moment later they were in Stash’s soundproof room. Stash leaned against a table, smiling a smile that included amusement, curiosity, exasperation and a bit of its own secret knowledge of things.
Bitsy looked more scared than Alexander had ever seen her. Just in time he realized her problem: “Bitsy, this is my Uncle Stash. He works for the Ministry,…”
“Yeah, I know,” Bitsy was panting a little, trying to scope Stash, take in the strange little room they were in, and hold her pack tightly in her arms and away from Stash all at once. “I’ve been in a few times to get calibrated, so I’ve seen you. But there was a woman who usually took care of me….” “That’d be Desiree, my assistant,” Stash nodded. He looked meaningfully at Alexander, who tried again. “Bitsy, Uncle Stash is ok. He’s been helping me….. sort of work things out, and he’s always been my friend. He helped my dad build the … thing you saw today.” Alexander glanced around, afraid to trust Stash’s trick room with damning evidence. Bitsy now stared at Stash with undisguised wonder. This handsome young engineer standing in his Fourword windbreaker and cap was in charge of all the sensors, all the equipment, all the things they used to catch people; and also part of the most daring bit of civil disobedience she had heard of since….. since the other thing. She put that out of her mind. This was enough for now. “How,” she began, having to begin somewhere, “ Did you find out about what happened, Mr….. Wozniak, and—“ Stash, Miss Bruce, just Stash, “ the handsome man grinned and mussed Alexander’s hair again, as if touching him was important, “ and I hope you’ll believe me when I say I owe you for saving Al’s little a---- ,, little skinny butt this morning. When Alexander’s dad sent me the code, I figured the worst, either one of us got nabbed or the whole caper was up. I hauled… myself over to the house, and the three of them filled me in for about an hour. Your mom and sister are worried about you, dude,” he frowned at Alexander. “Most people who take on an INSEC team come out second best, Al. It was pretty brave for you to go up there, but was it smart?” A “hmmmph!” from Bitsy encouraged Stash to go on. Did you think you could handle that Oka goon and his henchmen by yourself? Hmmm?” Alexander shrugged. Stash couldn’t bear it, he grabbed Alexander and hugged him, letting his relief show, and his remaining concern. Alexander wasn’t as embarrassed by Stash’s affection as he would have predicted. It was good to have people on your side, he was learning, especially when Innovative Ideas left you high and dry. He hugged Stash back, stepped back and looked up. “Stash, I don’t want to worry you for no reason, or Dad or Mom or Lexi or….. my friends.” He turned to Bitsy, nodding. “And I know now how lucky I am to have people like you looking out for me. But they trapped Noyes; they bagged him and sent him off, just because it made them look good. And they used Kerry, though he’s too dumb to know it, and they’re trying to mess with Bitsy’s family, and if I keep my head down and look the other way, where does it end? For all I know, they’ve got us anyway. They said they’d be downtown in a couple of hours to report us….” “And that’s why we’re here,” Stash broke in, glancing at his own wrist unit for the time. “ I want to hear everything, but it’ll have to wait until the work’s done. If you two will trust me, I think I can steer us through this. Miss Bruce? “ Bitsy took a breath. “Call me Bitsy, Stash,” she said finally. “What do we do?”
The next half hour was as surprising and unsettling as anything that had happened to Alexander and Bitsy in a week. In ten seconds Stash had them back out in the main lab, warning them not to speak at all, and he sent them scurrying for parts by means of hastily scrawled notes: “ Aisle 11, Drawer 2, bin 14, ex334 bezel face,” and so on. Bitsy and Alexander brought the parts to the table where Stash’s hands were almost a blur. He gutted Bitsy’s old remote in 30 seconds, replaced the locator, code transmitter and clear face, scuffed the clear plastic on the sole of his shoe, and turned to Alexander’s sleek new prototype. Stash frowned as he flexed the cracked band mounts, made of “improved” plastic instead of the metal bezel on Bitsy’s. He finally gave up trying to save it, smashed the wreck with a mallet, went into the back and returned with a new, identical unit. Again he scuffed it slightly, grubbed it up with his fingers, and handed it back. “I can’t fake the serial number on the case, Al, “ he made a face and shrugged, “but they probably won’t bother to check, and if they do, they’ll be……” he grinned and winked at Bitsy, “ calling here for the info.” Bitsy was adjusting the band of her resuscitated wrist remote, staring at it, then at Stash, then back at the apparent absence of any evidence usable by Insec in their quest to discredit her or Alexander. She watched, rapt, as Alexander strapped on his own remote, and they looked at each other, The look that passed between them held until Stash cleared his throat and started putting his tools away. “Ok, agents Bruce and Wozniak, “ he wiped his hands officiously on a shop towel and reached for his windbreaker, “your equipment appears to be in serviceable condition, and next time I hope you’ll take…..” Alexander’s PEW went off in his bag, a faux-musical signal that meant a message from the Ministry. Bitsy’s went off a moment later, and they held up the screens, entering their agent codes, and read: “ Code Mauve, Code Mauve, your presence is required in UnderSec. Leer’s office immediately. Suspend all duty functions and make your way to Ministry Headquarters using all due haste. Acknowledge with compliance code. Do Not attempt to calibrate or alter your Pew or wrist unit in any way. Do not make any personal transmissions at this time. Proceed directly to Headquarters; your location will be monitored as soon as you acknowledge this transmission. Out.”
Alexander gulped.He returned his Pew to his bag and met Bitsy’s look. She was plenty scared, but she stuck out her chin and winked at him. That felt much better. They both looked at Stash. “What now, Stash?” Alexander attempted an off hand manner, but his voice shook a little. Stash looked from Alexander to Bitsy and back to Alexander, shaking his head. Amazing. These two kids, both still child-size, were in it up to their necks, but they were both still players, even knowing the stakes. He grinned, putting a strong hand on each one’s shoulder. “Let’s get you back on the street so you can acknowledge their stupid message, “ he said. “I’ll tell you the rest on the way.”
Half an hour later Alexander and Bitsy stepped off the elevator in the Ministry building on Leer’s floor. The receptionist wasn’t at her desk, so they knocked on Leer’s office door. No answer. They exchanged puzzled looks, knocked again, no answer. Not a sound came from behind Undersecretary Leer’s door. They turned at a small sound and saw Naff and LaFlamme standing behind them. Noogle was just pulling the door shut, leaving himself in the hallway, no doubt to stand guard. LaFlamme and Naff stepped forward, smug smiles in place, staring at Alexander and Bitsy like snakes at two mice.
“Just hand ‘em over, remotes and Pews,” Naff said, reaching for Alexander’s bag. Alexander batted his hand away, dropping his bag on the floor behind him and trying to shove Naff away. Bitsy took a vicious swing with her bag, designed to take LaFlamme out, or at least force her to stand back while they dealt with Naff. LaFlamme ducked, turned and stepped between Alexander and Naff. The two Insec agents exchanged a look, and Naff backed off, muttering curses between clenched teeth. LaFlamme turned again to face Alexander and Bitsy, and laughed. Clearly the command of this Insec team had changed hands, whether officially or not. LaFlamme folded her arms and regarded her captives with some amusement. “Ok,” she began, “ I have to hand it to you. You’re feisty, but you don’t know when you’re beaten. Remember what I told you up in the park? Hmmmm?” She waited. Alexander was about to reply when Bitsy grabbed his arm. She mouthed, No talking, and he understood. They waited in silence while LaFlamme and Naff conferred briefly. Naff tried the next tack. “You do,” he said, acknowledge being up in Exemplary Acres this morning between the hours of nine and 11, don’t you? Your instruments may have been out of range, but we have three witnesses who saw you enter the park, and three Insec agents who saw you both deliberately destroy Ministry property. You assaulted Ministry agents, attacked a Ministry Undersecretary’s son…” Alexander snorted. He couldn’t help it. The idea of him attacking Kerry and surviving the experience defied belief. “ So!” Naff seized on this small crack in their composure. “ You deny attacking your classmate Kerry Oka? Do you deny luring him up there to discuss treasonous thoughts and to entrap him? Do you?”
Bitsy planted her tiny sneaker squarely on Alexander’s foot. It wasn’t painful, just a reminder that silence was golden, and sore feet would be the price of folly. Alexander knew she was right. He kept silent, even under Naff’s taunts.
LaFlamme stepped in. “When we download your Pews, “ she said, purring, “We will certainly find the emissions you committed on your way back to town, or we’ll find your downtime and that will be interpreted as guilt. You couldn’t possibly, “ she laughed, “have failed to emit after eating……” she paused for effect, leaning in, lowering her voice, “ tuna fish.” Bitsy grabbed Alexander just before he exploded. It was a clear case of the lady generals marshaling their hot headed troops, and the two young women looked at each other with a hatred that began to reek of respect. Fiercely mouthing Don’t Speak to Alexander, Bitsy spoke for the first time. She said, “ We were summoned Code Mauve by Undersecretary Leer. Where is he? If you sent that Code without authorization, you’re liable to….” The door behind her opened, and Undersecretary Leer was standing there, his hairpiece glistening with hold spray, his hideous tie askew, and with him was a Ministry Tech assistant, a tall, redheaded woman with a rather flushed complexion and smoldering green eyes. She patted Leer’s bony shoulder and smiled sweetly at Naff and LaFlamme. “I’m Tech assistant Desiree Valjean,” she murmured. “I’ll take these two agents’ Pews and wrist units down and read them out. It’ll just be a few minutes. She looked at Alexander and Bitsy, her face rather artfully blank, and they handed over their bags, then their wrist units She sauntered through the door, contriving to radiate more voomph through her lab coat than anyone would have thought possible. Noogle could be heard offering to help her with her burdens out in the hall, and her laugh came back like music. “Undersecretary?” LaFlamme was untouched by Desiree’s spell, but Naff and Leer were both still staring at the door, as if that vision would come back through it any second. “Undersecretary Leer? “ LaFlamme tried again, louder. Leer blinked and seemed to notice her for the first time. He straightened his tie, leaving it a bit off as usual, and collected himself. “Yes, Agent…..” he paused. “LaFlamme.” “Oh, yes, LaFramme.” “LaFlamme, sir” came again through gritted teeth. “ Yes, yes, LaFlamme,” and Leer seemed also to notice the two young agents for the first time. He left his office door closed, motioning them to chairs in the reception area, and began to pace back and forth. His toupee, brilliant under its dressing, looked very much applied in reverse on his head. Tufts were sticking out here and there, and the fringes failed to meet the margins of his own dwindling pelt. He began to count on his dingy, nail-bitten fingers.
“To begin with your misdemeanors,” he bent one forefinger back with the other, for emphasis, “Entering Ministry property under false premises,” he looked at Bitsy, who glared back until he turned to Alexander. ‘Your fellow agent got past the gate attendant by saying that a fellow agent had sent a distress signal from within the park.” He smirked. “Of course you sent no such signal.” Alexander considered this. “Actually, Minister, “ he said thoughtfully, “ I did.” When the tech brings back the results, I bet you’ll see it on B-- Agent Bruce’s log. She was within range—“ “Which brings us to your other… indiscretions, “ Leer interrupted, holding up his fingers again. “ You attempted to entrap Undersecretary Oka’s son by recording his unguarded remarks, remarks provoked by you under supposedly confidential circumstances?” He smiled like a toad wearing a fur coat. “And--- and, “ he went on, waving Alexander to silence as he tried to protest, “ only Agent Naff’s team stopped you from carrying out your plan by turning off your Pew before you could incriminate an innocent young boy from a fine family.” Alexander opened his mouth, only to feel Bitsy’s foot connect with his ankle. He went ahead anyway. “ Undersecretary, I was at Exemplary Acres at Kerry’s invitation. I made no attempt to record his remarks, as you will see when the tech returns my wrist remote.”
“Your wrist remote,” sneered Naff, “is kaput. Remember?” He returned LaFlamme’s warning look. “No, Agent Naff, I don’t think it is, “ Alexander went on. “ When the tech reads my fully functional wrist remote, it will show at least that I sent no record command from it that morning. And it will show the distress signal that I sent just before you….. just before the remote was removed from my wrist by you.”
Leer was getting out of his depth. He cleared his throat and resumed counting. “ And, not least, you assaulted these Insec agents as they performed their duties investigating your behaviors and those of, “ he turned and gloated, “Agent Bruce. Agent Bruce, can you account for your presence in Exemplary Acres this morning, when you had no official business there? If you had been in your own duty sector, you wouldn’t have gotten involved. As it is, you face charges of obstruction and destroying Ministry property, as Agents Naff and LaFlamme are telling me you damaged your own wrist unit to prevent them from retrieving important data pertinent to their investigation.”
Bitsy, very much on the hot seat, accused by three Insec Agents, appeared unfazed. “Undersecretary Leer,” she beamed, taking in Naff and LaFlamme as well, “I can’t imagine what sensitive data these agents could be referring to. My reason for being in Exemplary Acres this morning is no mystery; I was there to meet Agent Wozniak. He had a meeting with Kerry Oka and some friends, and we were to get together afterward to study on the bus back to town. And as for my wrist remote, I assure you it’s not damaged, by me or anybody. It’s old, but recently calibrated, and working just fine.” She continued smiling at Leer and the two sour faces of the Insec agents until Leer broke the silence. “Yes… yes, well, we’ll see about that when the tech returns with the… oh, here she is.”
And with that Desiree breezed through the door and Leer was suddenly standing up straight and tall, holding in his stomach and attempting to appear debonair, or as much as possible with a small dead animal plastered to his scalp. “Miss Valjean!” he boomed, turning away from his two suspects and holding out his hand for her report. She smiled, surrendered the printout, and studiously ignored Alexander and Bitsy while Leer went over the results. He finished reading the page, frowned, adjusted it to a smile, and said, “Miss Valjean, are you certain you examined these devices fully? I assume, ha, ha, that you are qualified to do this level of analysis.” He made a face at Desiree that would have been condescending if he had a willing subject. As it was, Desiree chuckled and replied in her smokiest voice, “ Undersecretary Leer, I supervise the staff who calibrate and repair these devices every day. I might be a little… overqualified, if you ask me.” And she stood staring at Leer as waiting for him to say something quite as stupid as that again.
He looked again at the single page report for each device. “Hmm, seems to be in order, calibration within tolerances, distress signal sent approximately 10:45 am, received by Agent Bruce app. 10:47, no discernable damage to any equipment, short period of…”
“What!” Agent Naff exploded, getting up and trying to take the report from Leer’s hand. Leer held onto the pages, glaring at Naff until he realized things were not going well. Naff let go of the paper and tried again. “Undersecretary Leer, we all saw these agents damage their wrist units with our own eyes! And refusing to cooperate with us is itself a punishable offense! They also turned off their equipment to conceal emissions offenses, and we have civilian witnesses who will…. “ He stopped. He was staring at something Desiree was still holding, carefully, as if it might become important at some future time. It was a rather thicker sheaf of papers, unbound, clipped into two sections. Desiree was smiling at him, smiling at Leer, smiling at LaFlamme, smiling enough to warm up the room. She said, “I took an extra minute to print out the voice records and recent activity of the two Pews. It doesn’t seem to be anything vital, just, you know, routine stuff.” Naff and LaFlamme couldn’t take their eyes off the prize Desiree was holding rather closely to her chest. Leer was also staring, over the papers at Senior Technician Valjean’s top button. He eventually tore his eyes away from her, turned to Naff and LaFlamme, and said, “Would you agents like to see the voice records entered as evidence against Bruce and Wozniak?” Their eyes widened. They looked at each other. Eventually Naff managed to say, “ We don’t think that will be necessary, Undersecretary…. We feel the evidence of our eyewitnesses is enough to indict…”
“Of what?” Leer interrupted. Their wrist units are undamaged, their pews indicate no tampering other than a few minutes’ downtime for Agent Wozniak, and no emission offenses have, apparently, occurred. Other than Agent Bruce’s suspicious presence in that sector…. Is there in fact any evidence of what you allege to have witnessed?”
Naff and LaFlamme squirmed, looked at each other, looked daggers and Bitsy and Alexander, but they both wound up staring at the voice record printouts held so fetchingly by Senior Tech Valjean, and they knew they had nothing. Alexander’s Pew had been powered down while they alleged he was trying to entrap Kerry, the broken wrist units were miraculously repaired (though they had a pretty good idea who might have done that, and would have a score to settle with Stash if they got the chance), and Alexander had somehow gotten back to town, done his duty shift, and appeared here in the Ministry office without emitting, even after enough HOOK to inflate a zeppelin. Nothing. Leer got tired of waiting for them to produce the evidence he needed to discipline his two young POOP agents. He said, “ Agents Naff and LaFlamme, in the absence of any data to support your allegations, I’m letting these two POOP agents off this time, with a warning: if any question arises at any time in the future about your behavior or performance of duty, a written warning in your file will activate a DEAL ( Disciplinary …………………………) and you will be sent to Corrective Training without a hearing. Do you understand? For the next six months you both will be this close “ , he held up a finger and thumb , “ to automatic Time Out. At my discretion.” He watched with satisfaction as Alexander’s and Bitsy’s faces fell. Any trumped up offense would do. If the Insec team could make any little thing stick in the next six months, and clearly they were going to try, they would have won after all. Bitsy looked at the printouts Desiree was still holding. She asked, “Miss Valjean, have you erased the memories of our Pews?” Desiree smiled, but not too brightly. She replied, “ No, actually, I expect you’ll both have to file your weekly reports from that data, so I left the memories intact. Is there a problem?” The two women looked at each other, the younger one sending massive amounts of code through her blue eyes and careful smile, the older one sending all the data her lovely face and green eyes could hold. Alexander got it, too, and he stood up, feeling strangely brave after being poisoned, punched, interrogated, slandered and put on probation. “Undersecretary Leer,” he said, “if you and the Insec team have no further questions, Agent Bruce and I would like to go and file our duty reports. Unless there is any other charge we need to answer?” he looked at Leer, careful not to sound cheeky. After a brief pause, Leer cleared his throat and said, “No, I suppose we’re done here. You and Agent Bruce should go and…. File your reports. I’d like a word with Agents Naff and LaFlamme in my office. Miss Valjean, thank you very much, you may go.” Desiree handed over the Pews, and held the door for Alexander and Bitsy as they scuttled as quickly as dignity would permit out of Leer’s office and into the hall. Holding a finger to her lips, Desiree punched the elevator button, and once inside, she grinned and mussed Alexander’s hair—just a little. Bitsy felt a twinge of jealousy, Alexander blushed beet red. “You agents have had a pretty exciting day, I think. I’ll report to my supervisor immediately about the outcome of your meeting. You two had better get home before something else happens.” She grinned again as the elevator stopped at street level, and they got off, bustling down Pollep St. to the bus stop.

Potholes and Banana Peels

Lynne Hasuly

It happened. I slipped.
That besetting sin snuck into my being and
put the banana peel on my path.
I fell. It hurt.
The pothole I fell into was dark and damp.
I could feel the chill of darkness creep into my bones
and bring with it that familiar ache.
I should have known better than to play with the images;
should have known that the end would be smelling of death.
My old fascination with potholes and b-skins had
conspired with evil to bring me down low...
and actually watch the old pictures of grim windows
show me what evil would have me become.
Now I have to get myself out of my pothole.
My digging in mire has brought me to naught
but regret and a fog-walking
into the realm that I have known for so long.
I finally remember the call of the savior to
seek and to save that what was lost,
and cast my sins into the sea of the forgotten
as an outpouring of love and His grace.
"Jesus! I need you to touch me and heal me; for you
are the One whom my heart longs to reach.
Just the hem of your garment brought healing to one...
but You are near me, and speaking of grace.
My Lord and my savior,
Be near me today.

More Like Trevor

At the sound of the garage door opening, Helen startled and looked up from her book. 5:30 already? The chicken she’d defrosted to cook for supper sat on the counter, still encased in its plastic and Styrofoam packaging. Jim would get all grumpy when he realized dinner was still an hour away. Sighing, she stuck the receipt she was using as a bookmark between pages 213 and 214, then set her book down on top of her Bible—a book she hadn’t gotten around to looking at today. Guilt niggled vaguely at the fringe of her psyche, but she gave it a mental shrug off. At least the novel she was reading was a Christian novel. She’d read the Bible tomorrow. There was always tomorrow.

By the time Jim came shuffling in through the door from the garage, looking as he always did after a day at the shop—greasy, sweaty, and perpetually navy blue in the way of wardrobe—Helen had managed to extract the chicken from its package and scatter enough ingredients and cooking implements on the kitchen island to make it look as if she’d started cooking more than fifteen seconds ago. One by one she dipped the breast pieces into buttermilk, then breadcrumbs.

Jim draped his coat over a chair rather than the coat rack. “Hi honey.”

“Hi.” She braced herself as he approached and remained facing the counter, not taking her eyes off the chicken. “How was your day?”

“Not bad. Pretty slow.” He placed his hands on her hips and jutted his stubbly chin over her shoulder. “Mm. Fried chicken?”

As he craned around her, aiming his lips at hers, she stiffened, then tolerated the kiss, offering a mouth as cold and uninviting as a statue’s and pulling away after the faintest contact. His breath betrayed what he’d had for lunch—something with onions and garlic. Helen’s thoughts turned to Trevor, whose breath carried with it a consistently pleasant hint of cinnamon tic tacs. Maybe if Jim were more like Trevor, she’d want to kiss him when he came home.

Jim moved to the sink and scrubbed his grease-stained hands. Helen watched him from the corner of her eye. Same old T-shirt. Same old workpants and boots. She couldn’t help comparing him again to Trevor, always so neat and stylish. Today Trevor had worn a red button-up shirt with trendy jeans and sandals. The top few buttons of his shirt has been left undone, revealing deliciously sculpted pecs. Instead of a belly like Jim’s—which reminded Helen of her own in the fifth month of pregnancy—Trevor’s jeans belted around a well-defined abs, kept firm by a daily exercise regimen.

Helen turned on the stove’s front burner and poured oil into the skillet. “Honey, have you thought any more about joining that gym?”

Jim wiped his hands on a towel and shook his head. “No. I wish you’d get off that. I don’t have time, I don’t have money, and I’m really not interested in going there.”

The oil sizzled as Helen dropped the first piece of chicken in. She pressed her lips together. No sense in talking anymore. He’d only get defensive. And he obviously didn’t care about being attractive for her. Trevor ran five miles every morning, lifted weights, played baseball with a league, and took karate classes. Jim couldn’t go to the gym a couple times a week?

She waited until she heard the sound of his recliner opening and the evening news clicking on, then relaxed, letting her imagination wander. What would Trevor do if he were here? Not sit slumped in the living room while she did all the work. Probably he’d make one of his fancy salads with cranberries, walnuts, and gorgonzola. Or set the table, lighting candles and pouring wine for the two of them. He’d act silly and make her laugh, telling jokes and entertaining her with stories about his mountain-climbing adventures or his time in the Marines. Or maybe he’d talk about his volunteer work with under-privileged youth. Just thinking about the way he helped that wheelchair-bound boy learn to play basketball made her heart patter.

Why couldn’t Jim help out once in a while? Do something exciting? Say something charming or interesting? Something besides, “Mm. Fried chicken?” or, “Where’s the remote?”

Dinner was quiet for the most part. Jim relayed some stories about the guys at work, but Helen found it hard to keep her attention from wandering. Who cared was Bob Weston’s wife was diagnosed with? Or what Sherman Potter’s son had gotten in trouble for? The monotony of this nightly ritual and the boring conversations depressed her. She longed to look across the table and see Trevor’s sparkling eyes and crooked smile instead of Jim with a chunk of mashed potatoes hanging from his lip. Trevor would talk to her about meaningful things—art, music, spiritual matters. Trevor understood about so many things. He knew when to talk, when to just listen, when to give advice and when to simply offer a tender embrace. She finished her meal quickly and began to clear the table while Jim was still eating.

Getting through the evening was no problem. Helen simply set up camp wherever Jim wasn’t, which wasn’t difficult; his routine rarely varied. He’d do some yard work, take a shower, then watch TV from the comfort of his trusty Lay-z-boy. So Helen busied herself with some of the housework she’d avoided during the day, until she heard Jim turn the TV off. He’d be going to bed.

Now comfortable in her pajamas—the new ones she bought with the money Jim gave her yesterday—she entered the living room. She lowered herself onto the couch just as Jim rose from his chair, as if they were on opposite ends of some invisible seesaw.

He walked over and leaned down to kiss her. “You comin’ up?”

You comin’ up? She knew what the real question was: Can we have sex? Indignance flared up. Why should she give herself to him? What had he done for her? If he were like Trevor, he might have brought home flowers, tried to look good, romanced her…

Jim stood waiting, nothing like Trevor in his boxers and old Rolling Stones t-shirt with the armpit stains.

Forcing a smile, Helen nodded. “Pretty soon. I just want to read for a bit.” Of course she’d drag it out, and by the time she came up, he’d be snoring. Again, a stab of guilt pricked at her. When was the last time they’d been together? Two weeks ago? Three?

Well, there was always tomorrow. Tomorrow night she’d go up with him.

He brushed his hand down the back of her hair. “Okay. Don’t stay up too late.”

The usual sense of relief washed over her when he exited the room. Now she could be alone. She picked up the novel she’d put down earlier, found her place, and began reading:

Trevor sank to his knees. He lifted Sandy’s chin and gazed into her eyes. It seemed as if he could see right into her soul. Her pulse quickened as he leaned toward her, and his cinnamon-scented breath caressed her face…

Bridging the Gap

Ezekiel 22:30"I looked for a man among them who would build up the wall and stand before me in the gap on behalf of the land so I would not have to destroy it, but I found none."


The figure of clay stands next to the edge,
looking over at the abyss and seeing the other side of the gap...
Looking up, the Spirit moved within soul and sinew;
stirring up the faith within and speaking from deep to deep...

Hands uplifted
rising skyward to reach the hem of glory...
inward locks unfastened,
releasing scrolls and spreading balm as a drawing salve...

Prayer escaping from the depths
arises to the throne of heaven...
following the Spirit's leading to bring the needs
to the awaiting altar...

Spirit walkway grows and bridges
the chasm once supporting naught but air and warfare...
strength and beauty growing
with the blessing of obedience to the call...

Angels brought to conquer sin and darkness...
building steps to bring an end to gaping loss as
strength is brought alongside struggling clay;
raising high the banner of surpassing glory...

Rollin' With It

I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck while the computer boots up, a boxer waiting in the corner of the ring for the bell to sound. This is the life-- working at home with scruff on my face, sportin' wrinkled p.j.'s, and not having to share the coffee pot with anyone. I control the radio station, the thermostat and the lunch hour.

While the tiny hourglass hovers in the middle of the monitor’s screen, I plan my strategy for the next chapter. Finally, the hourglass morphs into an arrow, signaling that I can now open my document. I do, then scroll through three hundred forty-seven pages before I find the place where I left my characters hanging.

I’m just beginning to lose myself in my fiction world when a voice breaks my concentration. “Hey.”

My breath escapes in a huff before I can stop it. “What is it, Ashley?”

“Don’t call me that. I told you, I’m going by my middle name now.”

What is it with this crazy name thing of hers? I swivel my computer chair around to face her. “Okay, first of all, if I wanted to call you by your middle name, I would have made it your first name. Secondly, Delta is a family name, your great-grandmother’s maiden name. I am NOT going to call you Delta.”

“Whatever. Ashley sounds like a soap opera chick.”

My eyes catch a glimmer of something sparkling between her shirt and jeans, and my stomach churns. “Is that…a belly earring?”

She laughs. “Not belly earring. Belly ring. Isn't it cute?”

“Why would you do that? You’re not into that kind of thing. Why are you acting so…so…crazy?”

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously, I am into this kind of thing, or I wouldn’t have done it. You really don’t know me very well.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. I have no control over her anymore. “Did you need something?”

She shuffles from one foot to the other. “It’s about California.”

“What about it? You’re not going.”

Her reply is quiet, but firm. “Yes. I am.”

“Oh c’mon, Ashley." I give her my most winning look-- the one that always used to work. "You know you couldn’t stand being that far away from your family.”

She stares at me, immovable.

“Ash…”

“Delta”

“Fine. Delta. Your mother will fall apart. How is she supposed to deal with this?”

She smirks-- actually smirks. “That’s your problem. Not mine. I’m going, and you can’t stop me.” She darts from the room.

Slowly, I turn back to the computer, my mind pondering the probable outcome if Ashley… no, Delta, goes to California. Her mother will sink into depression. Things definitely won’t turn out the way I had planned. But sometimes, you’ve just got to roll with it.

I highlight my last few paragraphs, then hit, “delete.” And then I begin to type:

“Delta’s mother clung to her, refusing to let the embrace come to an end. Finally, Delta pushed away. She avoided looking directly into her mother’s eyes, which shot guilt-rays into her soul like only a mother’s eyes can. She headed for the airport’s security checkpoint. I’ll call you when I get there…”

Three hours later, I’ve added two thousand words to my story. I’m amazed at the new direction things have taken. Delta’s mother really needed to face life without her, and the trip west is leading Delta to make some interesting revelations about herself.

Keys jiggle in the door, and in walks my Chelsea. “Hey, dad. Get much written today?”

“Yeah, I didn’t do too bad. I renamed Ashley Delta.”

Chelsea grabs a glass and heads for the water dispenser. “Cool. Ashley sounds kinds like a chick in a soap opera.”

My jaw drops. “Honey, you still don’t like body piercing, right?”

“Ew, no. Gross.” She grins at me. “Why, dad, you thinkin’ of getting your nipples done or something?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so!” My heart rate slows to normal as she sits beside me at the table and flips through the pile of mail she brought in with her.

“Hmm.” She tears open an envelope. “Check it out. This is from that Bible school in California I told you about. I emailed and asked for information.”

I let the possibility sink in. Strangely, it is peace, not fear, which fills my heart. I am not in control of my baby’s life. Far from it. I’m not able to simply delete her dream of attending college three thousand miles away, because I am not the author of her life.

But I know the Author. And He is in control. I reach over to the computer and exit my document. Then I lean in close, next to Chelsea. “So tell me about this school.”

Me, Myself, and I

Stephen Harper

The title is, as with most things I come up with, not original. Where I got it from was Joan Armatrading. She is a wonderful singer/song writer I have been tracking with for multiple years whom no one has ever heard of. All that to say, let’s be clear here; What I have to write is about me, for me, and mostly to reflect well on me. Even when you say bad stuff about yourself people think it self deprecating and transparent and therefore it reflects well on yourself. What they very often fail to realize is that the bad stuff is true. Truer than most.

I’ve been fretting for days. A young woman called here wanting to bring in a handful of kids to see the radio station. This is horrible on several fronts the first of which is how …… underwhelming the facilities are. There’s like a computer that plays stuff and this cable takes it out to the transmitter. Viola’! The second front is my previous sentence. That’s pretty much how I’ll come off to these kids. Yeah, I’m a regular Mr. Rogers. “This is the neighborhood, these people do stuff, there’s some cookies, here I am punching my time card. Come back again.” Kids scare me. Truthfully, people in general scare me. Y’know, they look at you and, and they say stuff and they want you to respond. My name is Stephen and I am an introvert. I was social for three months but slipped into avoidance last week and double-locked all my doors. And let me tell ya it’s no picnic putting bolt locks on your car doors. Which explains the plywood in my car windows. Anyway, most people don’t know that about me. I stand in the back and greet people. I didn’t say I dislike people I just am retarded in social situations. Especially with people I don’t know. Little people exist to make me sweat. So they are to arrive this afternoon and I’m freaked. I am beseeching the gods …… yeah, in desperation I wouldn’t mind Zeus striking out with some lighting and whatnot. Vishnu getting all impersonal all over their tiny tushies. Part of that prayer is please, please, please have Bill stay here with me. Have him with no other appointments. Have Bill exist to meet my needs.

While I am pacing the phone rings and it’s Linda telling me that Tom Myashiro just called from an ambulance. Amy just went down with a seizure. They thought they were past the complications from her brain tumors. The righteous in me rears and I focus. My heart prays, my countenance slips. Within the hour Bill arrives and I swear to all that is holy you will never believe what was first out of my mouth. “Dude, are you going to be here this afternoon?” after my fears dissipate I remember something …… what was that? Oh yeah ………. Oh …. Yeah. One can never imagine how diminished a person can feel when he FOLLOWS that first sentence with, “….. ahhh, yeah, I just remembered ….. “. A notch below a child molester. Hitler and I sharing drinks.

The truth just plain sucks. All this to benefit what? I have been with God as long as I can remember. When I look back I sometimes see regression. When I behave this badly I wonder. I’ve been telling people the past few years that the word, grace, is looming larger that ever in my life. On days such as this it is a freakin’ exploding zeppelin crashing down as I scatter and stumble in between the burning bits. Me, Myself, I. “Oh, the humanity”. Another stolen line.

*note: Amy is home from the hospital now and okay. Continue praying.

Gone Fishing

The sign said, "gone fishing...be back later..."
He knew what that sign meant.
Scanning the horizon for the figure of His child,
the form became visible on the nearby beach.

A tap on the shoulder startled then puzzled the creature...
His eyes communicated His guidance and tender mercies;
revealing His identity at once and propelling her down to her knees.

"Why do you go fishing in this sea, My child?
You don't need to take back the sins you have discarded into my care.
Look at me...stop cherishing those dead fish and come back to where you belong.
Let My word transform your mind.
Let go of those things that tie you to those cherished sins you imagine hiding from Me.
Confess them and leave the beach...I can handle their disposal."

The chains then fell off of the sin-fishing creature...
allowing the Light and the Way to invade the previously barricaded fortress...
She arose and allowed the savior to lead her back to the sign she had posted.

"Now take down the sign. You have to do it. I cannot, nor will I take it down for you.
I have waited for you to remove it from your door. Remove and permit fresh air to
infuse it; for I stand ready to provide the means for the stale air to leave."

She lifted her frame up on tip-toes to reach it...
The nail she had hung was high for her to reach...
...but after a few tries she found she could lift it; and took down the age-weathered sign from its' post.

"Fresh vision and healing are coming your way, child...the sign is now gone, and the wind rushes in. My heart overflows with rejoicing; for You have chosen obedience over familiar territory...
Crave not the dark, child; for the waters are murky...lined with sharp glass and poisons unseen to you...
...I am with you as always and invite you to lean on Me;
just as you are with no further adornment..."

The form of clay looked up through her tears of rejoicing;
responding in her spirit and knowing He heard...
the cries of her heart and the wounds of her spirit inflicted and stored as a tattered dog's quilt...
"Thank You, sweet Jesus, for coming to rescue me." was all she could say...

The rest of her spirit was writing her letter; completing the housekeeping started that day.
He waited a moment, then held out a hand to offer the invitation to continue with Him...

Lynne Hasuly

Going Through Customs on the Way to Healing

My suitcase was bulging, my arms exhausted.

An official greeted me when my turn came. “Where do you wish to travel today?”

I quickly replied, “Healing, Sir!”

“Reason for your visit?”

“Are you kidding? Look at me. I’m miserable. I need healing!”

Glancing first at my suitcase and then his clipboard, he asked, “You are aware of the layover in Repentance?”

“A layover? How long?”

“I can’t tell you that,” the official answered.

“What do you mean? Surely you can give me some idea. An hour? Two hours?”

“Could be five minutes, could be 5 days or even five months… that’s up to you.”

“Look I really need to get to Healing. Isn’t there a flight straight through?”

He shrugged. “Sorry, the only way to Healing is by way of Repentance. All I can tell you is that the sooner you get to Repentance, the sooner you’ll get to Healing. Look, why don’t you let me finish my questions so you can get moving.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Alright then,” he said, “Is this your suitcase?”

"Yes.”

"You haven’t let anyone borrow it?”

“No.”

He checked off something on his clipboard. “What about the contents?”

“What do you mean?”

“The stuff in the suitcase. Is it yours?”

“Yes,” I began, “well, no… I mean some of it …”

“Why don’t we just take a look,” he said, hauling the bag up onto a counter. In a moment my suitcase laid open, the contents exposed.

Embarrassed, I looked down.

The official reached in and held up the first thing he saw. “You have some bitterness here. Yours?”

“I’m only bitter because of what people have done to me. It isn’t my fault,” I explained.

He looked at me skeptically and pulled something else out of the bag. “What about this self pity?”

"If I feel badly for myself, it’s because I’ve been wronged!”

Sighing, the official glanced over the other items in my bag. “O.K., you have a lot of things in here lady. The deal is that you are not allowed to go through here with anything that doesn’t belong to you. I’ll level with you. I think these things DO belong to you, but if you don’t want to admit it, you won’t be heading to Repentance today.

“Wait!” I said, digging up some things from the bottom, “these are mine!”

The official grimaced. “A promise to teach Sunday school? Some good intentions? You didn’t need to pack these. What’s that in the pocket?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

Extracting something, he said, “You can’t bring this!”

Sheepishly, I mumbled, “It’s only a souvenir.”

“The trip you went on to get that souvenir is the reason you need healing! Maybe you should sit down and decide if you’re ready to come back.”

I trudged away, irritated. Nearby, I noticed a swiftly moving line. Lugging my suitcase, I went to check it out. Closer, I could see that everyone in this line looked sad and wore torn clothing. None of them carried bags. At the front, a man stood talking to the official. His head hung down, words aimed at the floor. I strained to hear. "I don’t deserve to go back,” he was saying. “I really screwed up. Maybe I could just volunteer here, pick up the garbage or something, and sleep on a bench…” “No,” the official interrupted, “He’s waiting for you. Through those doors is the private jet. Go on now. You’ll be heading straight to Healing.”

Suddenly angry, I yelled, “Hey! Why doesn’t he have to do the layover in Repentance? That’s not fair!”

The official came to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Janet, you could be in this line. These people came repentant. They brought nothing but a desire to leave their sins and be servants of the Lord. They know they have nothing to offer. They’ll be flying first class and the Lord Himself will be ministering to them immediately. Is there anything in that suitcase of yours that compares to that?”

My eyes looked to the door, behind it the jet and my Lord- so close. I longed to be with Him. Suddenly it became clear that it was the things in that suitcase that were causing the delay. My excuses, the blame, and the sins I wanted to hold onto- they were mine.“Lord, have mercy on me,” I said softly. At once, my bag was gone and my Lord came running through the door to greet me.

He took my hand in one of His. With His other He lifted my chin, and then He looked in my eyes. "Shall we go on to healing?"

Response to Steve's and Judy's Blog

Yes, Steve, we can all spend a lot of time trying to get more stuff. But some how we always end up with less. There are no winners in this game. And I'm sure you are right, if the son of the father who made my hand tool in the bush of the far east were to come to America, we could find him at starbucks looking for that $5 coffee. But is not that the way that man has gone since the beginning? To always want more? But in the end we are limited by our resourses, our culture, what is happening in the world of our neighborhood, and how the world effects that, and THE REAL BOTTOM LINE. What belief system to you hold on to and alow your self to be guided by. AND with all that said there are the times when we are just clueless as to what God is doing in our lives, and the pain and angish we are feeling.
I am thankful that if we are willing , the holy spirit will guide us and all our needs will be met. Often times not as we would have thought or even desired. But always exactly what was required. Nothing more nothing less.
Pray for the simple life.
When we ask for help HE is there.

Consuming Contented Consumerism by Judy Biltcliffe

I was just going to write in the comment column regarding Steve's post "Countdown to Oblivion" but decided to try my hand at the real deal. Anything I might have to say on the afforementioned subject would be too long and too revealing that I may need to get a life. This way I can actually look like I'm doing something constructive and meaningful that will bring about some sort of solution regarding said post. Just to let you know in advance, I don't have one. A solution, that is. So you may want to turn back now.
After ten minutes of sitting in front of that sentence I am reminded of why I stopped writing in the first place, too much work. Effort and excertion, that which ultimately drove us to New Times Roman. Always looking for the better, easier way. And what's wrong with that? It's better and it's easier. What kind of idiot doesn't want better and easier? Me, that's who. I mean ,I just got my first cell phone. In the end it was getting too difficult to find a pay phone and the last communication I made on one was in a downpour, thus finally driving me into the waiting arms of modern design. And this whole cyber thing, don't get me going on that. It was just time to come down off the telephone pole. And you really can't get a hold of anybody anymore anyway unless they check their E-mail.
Yes Steve, there is a Santa Clause, and he's got way too much stuff in his bag. It's piled high and arranged in a most attractive and enticing way. And those horns he's sporting under that fuzzy hat have a way of making most of us believe that we actually need what's being offered. Somewhere along the way the lines got blurred as to what we want and what we actually need. And if you live with what you want long enough you may start believing you need it. But the things mentioned in Countdown, the siding, the car repairs, those are, unfortunately, due to the way things are, necessities. Ya gotta take care of your stuff. The Bible says so. It's in proverbs somewhere. Great, now I have to make an effort and excert myself to find it in my concordance and I know the word stuff isn't in there....You'll never believe this, the word stuff actually resides in this concordance. Belongings, possessions, goods, supplies, things. It says "see baggage". (I think it should say chains). Here it is folks. Proverbs 12:27 says the diligent man prizes his possessions. Why? I think it's because God has given us these things to somehow advance the Kingdom.
I have no more to offer on that, I'm not God. But I will offer this. Consumerism and consumerist societies are better than the alternative which basically comes down to a choice of communism, fascism, Sharia law or Africa. Slavenka Drakulic writes in How We Survived Communist Rule and Even Laughed, "without a choice of cosmetics and clothes, with bad food and hard work and no spare time, it wasn't hard to create the special kind of uniformity that comes out of equal distribution of poverty and the neglect of people's real needs. There was no chance for individualism".
Very few people who manage to escape these kinds of countries ever opt to go back. At least not if they want to eat. But they see the absurdity of the disparity of it all. Drakula writes, "but even to look at the richness of a consumer society becomes difficult, there's the feeling that it's just absurd to look at so many things and so many kinds of one thing. It has to stop somewhere, this plentitude doesn't make any sense. Coming from a world of shortages, one's idea of plenty is mainly fruit, meat, vegatables, shampoo, soap, toilet paper. First you discover an immense greed, a wish to buy everything-then you discover powerlessness-and the very essence of it, poverty."
The apostle Paul wrote, (can I piggyback or can I piggyback?) "I have learned to be content in any and every situation". And it's not that I am. I mean, who would think you have to learn to be content with no lack of material wealth? I wrestle with the discontent that comes from fighting those chains that keep me from serving Jesus in the way I think I would serve Him if they didn't keep dragging me back. I've learned the hard way that contentedness is begotten of gratefulness. Not that I'm always grateful, either. You know how it is, you don't appreciate what you've got until you don't have it anymore. So I'll just have to live with my stuff, chains and all. Not the worst option in the world, especially when I consider that some of the links in the chain are of my own making. And that basically means that I have some power of of my own to break free. Not to mention the power He gives.
I'll finish with lyrics to a song Sarah Kelly sings:

Contentment is the art
Yes contentment is the answer
So be still my heart
As you learn to love

The Garden in Summer

It's July now.Most of the spring was spent moving into summer, the celebrations of may, and time spent cutting and fighting the yard and what I consider the monster," cutting the lawn".
It's good for the heart and good for the mind and the cloud that always collects inside over the winter. But I'm always glad when the heat hits and the grass slows down. And I can slow down.

But finally it has come time to look more closely at the flower beds and the newly arrived transplants. It has always been a wonder to me that no matter how many flowers I give away there are alway more to grace my landscape.
Mine is not a perfect landscape. My yard is not cut with nail trimmers. The older I get the more the yard seems to change. Some of the change is change I have done with my simple tools. Other change has been brouht about by vines that out grow my ability to cut them down. Or tree limbs and trees that have fallen only to become back drops to ferns and iris. Mine is a yard that depends on natures decay. Brush piles first become homes to birds and bunnies and other creatures that I will never see. As the brush pile falls in on it's self and nature does it's work, these once large piles become food for flowers. A system that is slow but God is patient with me, why should I not take time to listen to him, and watch him do his work. A part of creation.

More on this subject to follow.

Robert

Death of a Tent

I don’t know how many more nights this tent will hold up. Lying here in the dark, I see stars peeking through the rips in the canvas, too tattered now to repair like I have in the past. I’ve gotten my money’s worth out of this old thing; have camped in it more days than I can count. Pleasurable days and starlit nights of pure camping fun, and miserable times I’ve spent caught in storms just praying the lightening wouldn’t choose my tent pole as a target.

I’ve lugged this tent up mountains and down into valleys. Have slogged along muddy paths in the rain and trembled beneath the weight of it on hot, dry days in the desert. No matter how difficult the day, it’s always been a shelter at night, a place to lie down and sleep.

Solitude is nice—the walking and camping alone—but mostly I’ve camped with others. Family and friends. I’ve found camping with strangers to be one of the most interesting experiences. After all, there’s something about gathering around a campfire, everyone staring into the same orange glow and feeling it’s warmth that makes people not strangers anymore. Once you’ve shared a meal roasted over that flame you’re more like family.

The past few nights have been calm, so I’ve done alright. But tonight, I hear a rumble. The air seems pregnant with storm. I scrunch over to the less holey side and hope for the best. No one has tents like this one anymore. This is the real deal—the kind old boy scouts remember fondly. The kind that leaks like crazy if you touch the sides when they’re wet.

The other campers—owners of shiny campers and pop-ups—looked at my tent with pity today. One gentleman came over with a roll of duct tape. A woman offered me her sewing kit. I could see in their eyes though, that they knew as I well as I that this tent is done for. It’s just too old (not I-could-get-a-lot-of-money-for-it-on-ebay old, but time-to-burn-it-in-the-campfire-along-with-the-logs-and-paper-plates old.)

It’s a good tent, though, and the only one I have. The mosquitoes that’ve been darting freely in and out have suddenly disappeared. The campground is eerily quiet. It’s hot, yet I shiver in my sleeping bag.

CRACK! The lightning’s flash and the resounding boom are simultaneous and when I open my eyes, I can’t believe I’m still alive. The rain comes on all at once, not warming up with a drizzle and working its way up, but pouring heavily like the water I pour from a bucket on the smoldering coals before bed. Water streams in through the holes, just like it must have into the Titanic as it sank. The wind shakes the tent, lifting it clear off the ground on one side. Fastened down by only a few tent pegs, the few I haven’t lost or broken, it can’t hold its ground. I spread myself into an X to try and weigh it down, but the wind is too strong. The sound of ripping fabric cuts through the storm as the biggest hole expands, leaving a gaping door through which the storm gladly enters.

I feel as if I’m caught up in a tornado. The poles flail about. My shelter is no longer a refuge. Leaving my sleeping bag, compass and clothes, I struggle through the sagging and shuddering tent, blinded by the darkness. Groping I find the hole on the tent’s side.And then I am out. Naked and utterly exposed to the storm.

Homeless.

I see a glow, hear the crackle of burning wood, and see rising smoke. In the rain. Forgetting my tent and my nudity, I move towards this oddity until I can see clearly. A man sitting by the fire, motions me closer.Tears, as well as rain, streak my face. “My tent is gone.”

He reaches out and pulls me closer. It isn’t raining here. All around, but not here. There is a cloth in His hand and He uses it to wipe my face clean of water and tears. I look down and notice that I am not sweaty or wet or naked. I’m wearing a white robe.

“I made your tent,” He says. “It wasn’t meant to last forever. Just until now.”

I nod, not missing my tent at all, just happy to be here with this man.

“I’ve made you a new place,” He says. “Something... more permanent. Would you like to see?”