Art 4 the HEart- THE EDGE

Turn Signal

2008-11-15T03:31:00.002-05:00

I was feeling like the Pavlovian test animal. My turn signal went on and activated my automatic pilot feature. You know the one I mean: the ingrained habit that massages your sense of well-being while suctioning off your wallet's contents. Some may call this activity addiction. I am leaning that way and unable to support the less severe theories; and I turned the steering wheel to the right to turn into the gas station.

I could almost smell the aroma of that coffee brewing. Caution be blasted; the flesh was going to win this one and I was led to the brewing delight like a lamb to the slaughter. Coffee! Bliss and stimulant fix combined with a socially acceptable habit. "Everyone is doing it" snuck into my thought patterns and patted my ego on the back. Was I stuck back in high school or something? Peer pressure had snapped it's claws into my will's backside and was hanging on for dear life.

Yes, I knew that the caffeine overload was not going to be good for either my calcium levels or my waistline(I like sugar and light cream when I can get it). I was a junkie and I was okay with that; rationalizing my habit as a necessary rendezvous with an old friend. College hooked us up years ago; and we just got along so well that we stayed together.

A twinge of regret surged into my consciousness; poking a hole in my drug-induced reverie. That first sip was the best; regardless of whether or not my tongue burned itself on the hot brew. Feed the flesh and gain a dress size, I know. I pray that tomorrow will lead me off of the road that goes down the garden path...

All things are possible with God, right? Right. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I will be strong and take courage. God will come to my aid and rescue me from my slavery.

I am full of myself at this point and indulge each successive sip with more joy and joie de vive than is humanly prudent. Tomorrow never comes and I will be doing the same thing tomorrow morning. Maybe then I will buy a smaller cup of my cup of joe and be on the road to recovery.

One day at a time. One day at a time.

Blue Dove

2008-09-28T14:21:00.002-04:00

The shadow comes;
and I'm lonely once more...
gazing at the blue dove
that flies across the sky;
the coasting and soaring bringing me
to my knees in longing
as I taste of that sweet ache once more.
My hands reach up to heaven;
yearning for release from the bondages of earth...
knowing that faith endures
and the joy of the Lord will return.

Shame

2008-08-31T21:57:00.003-04:00

The thought arrives with stealth and venom...
"You should be ashamed of yourself. You're selfish.
You'll be exiled
and spurned if you don't start behaving yourself."
The effort begins
to hold myself together
...with bread ties and old chewing gum.
The bread ties are worn;
weakend where
strength is needed;
unable to stay connected
to keep
the tattered edges
of my self in one cohesive "whole".

Shame surrounds me
as my pieces fall away;
exposed and bleeding until
bled out enough
to congeal into a tepid calm...

This was written on July 1, 2008.

Acrostic Praise

2008-07-07T05:40:00.007-04:00

God grant me the faith to see beyond circumstance;

Raising my hands in anticipation;

Available GRACE welcomes me into its' grasp...

Covering me with the sweet aroma of a thankful heart;

Enabling me to see beyond the present.

Cracked Clay

2008-06-30T07:08:00.002-04:00

I'm dust transformed by
grace and mercy;
created by His hand for
His glory...
The cracks in the clay
make room for the new dirt;
encouraging growth
of new green and gold buds...
and causing new pain
as the clay gets harder.
In realms of Glory,
my clay will be transformed...
completed in joy
though manipulated by trial
as my tears soften the edges
of the cracked clay...
His way of redeeming and making room
for the Potter's hands
to create something new.

Hide Me

2008-06-17T22:45:00.002-04:00

Hide me, Lord;
for I am unsure
that the eyes of perception
will match the statement of reality.
Fear offers its'whispers
and lends me its' cloak;
cold comfort
isolating me
from believing in warmth.
Hide me, Lord;
as the one who paid so willingly
for what I cannot afford to live without.
Protect me, Lord;
as I am unsure
where I went wrong;
help buoy me up
and restore Your courage
to my faltering spirit.
Forgive me for the avoidable
failings and foibles
drawn into with willing hands...
and restore the years
that the locusts have eaten.

Part 4: Stars in the Headlights

2008-06-08T18:58:00.004-04:00

The feast for her eyes was a mixture of egg and milk mixed on the floor manually without the benefit of a mixing bowl. White oak flooring soaked up a measure of the liquid; but the eggs were more tenacious to the surface. "I hungry, mommy!" the beloved tornado wailed as if in agony. "Could you help me clean this up, love? I can make you some eggs if there are any left." She took an inventory of the cold zone and discovered that there were indeed eggs in attendance. Breathing a sigh of relief, Ella continued to clean up the mess with a quiet assistant clinging to her for comfort and reassurance. She looked at her child's face; framed with wispy brown locks in continual motion. In vanity, her eyes looked over her young one to discern where her DNA had left its' mark.

Ella was "sitting on the hill" but had been told that "still looked good". Turning 40 was a jolt to her psyche, and turned her into an armchair philosophy major for a good two months. Passing by a mirror and noticing a gray hair or two, the thought came to her that she needed to get over herself. Her shoulder-length hair was a honey brown with a furtive hint of auburn when the sun hit it just right. She had her father's British Isles complexion that prompted her husband to tell her that she should stay out of the sun because "vampires start smoking in sunlight". She stood about 5'9" at one point in her history; but that might have changed. Ignorance was bliss in this department; and she wasn't going to harbor any intention of double-checking now. Her behind seemed more like a double-wide trailer than a compact car these days. Blast that age-induced metabolism slow-down. A chocolate addiction had absolutely nothing to do with the matter.
Nathan was watching from the edge of the living room and let out a loud "gross!" as if trying to contribute to the morning's activities. His light brown hair was as yet unbrushed and gave him an artistic style to his morning look. The spider man pajamas were still hanging from his thin frame; which elicited a "time to get dressed for the day, Nathan" from a very domesticated female down on all fours. A thought came to her about the days they were both brought forth from her womb; beautiful and perfect. There was joy in the mundane and the inconvenient for Ella; and the day promised to keep her engaged.

Cloud Cover

2008-05-26T05:52:00.002-04:00

It is dark;
yet I hear crickets...
and birds...
moving tires...
and honking horns...
There is life and activity
somewhere ahead.
I breathe in
and I breathe out.
Words and images float
and land vicariously into my mind;
carrying in with them fresh wind,
fragrant fruit and flowers,
...and the scent of print...
joy springs up out of the corner
to suprise and refresh;
arriving and ushering me into
the courts of the pleasant...

Stars in the Headlights Part 3

2008-05-05T08:01:00.003-04:00

"I'm just finishing up the paperwork!" she yelled through the bathroom door. Ella was trying not to imagine what the two were up to on the other side of the world. As long as it didn't involve fire or a trip to the emergency room it was all good. It was Monday morning again. That day of the week that was faithful to come; and stayed past the welcome period. It was a day that the Lord had made for His glory; but down here on earth it often brought a level of stress with it.

Nathan was ready for school. His sister was doing her thing: eating. It was a fresh day with few mistakes in it. One day at a time was all she could handle. The thoughts of the days ahead and the challenges therein swirled around in her head. Mercy enabled her to jump back into the present and hang on to the moment. Just for this day, she could make it from point a to point b.

She took refuge in making plans for the future. The best case scenario was at least a few years away from fruition. Still, the mental meanderings fueled a level of hope that came and went as the passing of the clouds. God would have to make a way for her to make something happen. Were her ideas seeds for future growth? How much of her planning was truly inspiration or padding for her bruised ego? Of course, whatever God wanted was the best plan of all. The question was insistent on resurfacing: "What would Jesus have me do?"

Her reverie was punctured as soon as she saw the state of the kitchen. Fire #2 was on the kitchen counter perusing the cupboards for some more breakfast. She couldn't possibly still be hungry; it would have been physically impossible. A flash prayer rose up to heaven from her lips as she sped towards the corner of the room where the preschool terror was on the loose. "Lord, sustain me!"

Ready

2008-04-27T23:18:00.002-04:00

I am armed and dangerous;
dangerous to the shadows,
a threat to the drain of the discouraging voice...
I'm "getting my praise on" and warming up the rockets;
ready to break through the walls,
stand up on the rooftops,
sing in invitation to the presence of the Lord
as my feet melt off traces of clay
onto the path;
onto the choices that I am compelled to make.
Praying that the fiesty streak
bubbling up within my spirit is indeed from His hand;
I arm myself for battle;
and rest in the confidence I have in Jesus.

Quiet Trust

2008-04-14T22:22:00.002-04:00

In quietness and trust,
my soul shall rely;
knowing past conscious reason
the source of my strength...
That still, small voice
arriving after the storm winds;
providing support beams to the earthen hut
carried around on feet of clay...
In quietness and trust,
I reach past the often cold comfort of reason's grasp;
holding onto each moment...
...wide-eyed in anticipation of the divine circumstance
that will make every valley smooth
...and every mountaintop perch enduring...
His quiet rest sets the trusses upon solid ground;
fortifying my being
and sustaining the flame entrusted to mortal flesh.

Stars in the Headlights (continued)

2008-04-09T08:15:00.003-04:00

The gift and the apparent difficulty of raising children(God had seen fit to bless them with a boy and a girl)revealed more of who she was than she was presently comfortable with. Marriage itself drew out so much of the dross; kids simply magnified the issues already present. At one point, he had questioned whether she had been having an affair. Right...one man at a time was enough for any woman if she was in her right mind. In reality, keeping one required a combination of resignation and sheer insanity. Women never learn, mostly because they know at their core that a ring could bring to them a richness to the fiber of their days; a gift of God with many disguises.
Her habit of squirreling away pens and paper puzzled and sometimes frustrated her husband. The kids took advantage of a clean wall and decided to get creative more than a few times. It probably bordered on an obsessive-compulsive thing, but there had to be a prize behind door #3. She figured that there must be a purpose behind such an obsession. Domestic life pulled her away from the world of words and imagination; propelling her towards a measure of conflict self-inflicted. The dishes in the sink looked appropriate when she was able to rationalize the neglect of the domestic duty.
The road ahead was closing in on the house they all shared. The evidence of "yard apes" as Nathan liked to call the children, was all over the yard. That fulfilling reminder of joy's promise was a comforting sight. The clutter was actually beautiful; even though it would have to be picked up in daylight. In the back seat, all was quiet; they had to be asleep.

Stars in the Headlights

2008-03-25T08:53:00.003-04:00

Note: This is going to be a short story in installments. Alexander inspired me, Phil:).

It was amazing how different the oncoming headlights looked through tears. They elongated themselves into spikes reaching towards the sky and down towards the depths of the earth. It made her forget how her eyes were burning; aflame with that salty water that comes out of the soul when it is injured. Light was not just light; it was a reflection, a mirror, a window, and a beacon. The light led her to think of Jesus; and the prayers arose from her lips for His mercy to wash over her.
The old tape player put out a song that was sung on her wedding day many years ago. She took him for better or for worse. It had been a mixed bag of both over the time that they had been married. The fall in the garden had taken its' toll on everything. Marriage was definitely one of those entities. Ella came back to the baseline truth that kept her with him: she still loved the guy. The song brought back so many images of daily life and the thundering hooves of children's feet. Anyone who referred to them as "pitter-patter" had not been blessed with children of their own.

SATURDAY

2008-03-21T20:09:00.003-04:00

O God , Creator of heaven and earth: Grant that, as the crucified body of our dear Son was laid in the tomb and rested on this holy Sabbath, so we may await with him the coming of the third day, rise with him to newness of life; who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
From The Book of Common Prayer

Young Artists

2008-03-21T08:16:00.003-04:00

This is from Chelsey's Wednesday night high school concert. I was wildly impressed and had to share it with you all. Thanks to Bill for helping me put this post together! This piece is called Alligator Alley, by Michael Daugherty, and features bassoons, which you can hear right at the beginning.

Chelsey's Artform: hair-sculpture

2008-03-05T10:41:00.005-05:00

Matthew 10:29-31"What's the price of a pet canary? Some loose change, right? And God cares what happens to it even more than you do. He pays even greater attention to you, down to the last detail—even numbering the hairs on your head! So don't be intimidated by all this bully talk. You're worth more than a million canaries." (The Message)

Swinging in the Breeze

2008-02-28T17:31:00.003-05:00

Hangin' in there
on the vine;
sitting on the knot I have to
hang on.
Lovin' that breeze that blows past
my face;
infusing His Spirit into
body and soul...
...and sending up my praises
to the throne of heaven.
Hangin' in there
on the vine;
'cuz I know who is
holding onto the other end.

Note: This is an official attempt at being jovial. I hope it works:)...Lynne

Happy Valentine's Day Lisa

2008-02-14T07:10:00.001-05:00

Bagatelle in A minor
(Fur Elise)
Ludwig van Beethoven

arr: bill
performed by:
the music room quintet

For Lisa...

you are the best thing that has ever come into my life...

(except for Jesus)

William

Oh, Train

2008-02-10T08:42:00.000-05:00

Lynne Hasuly

I see the train coming,
but I'm tied to the tracks...
yeah, hoping that the wheels stop
'fore they push down my back...
into the metal and into the earth...
knock me out, Lord...
...or send hungry mice;
to eat through the rope
and then all my vice...
I'm hoping for Kingdom come
'fore critical mass;
'cause the ground is 'rumbling
...an that train's a'comin fast...

Oh, for Glory, Lord.
Ready to just move on
into Your arms
and out of the flames...
burning the dross
...and shining up the gold...
Thank You, Lord
for the promise;
yeah the promise of the Glory Train...

No Strings Attached

2008-02-08T14:41:00.000-05:00

Chelsey Rubin

A sign of you nearby appears
My heart skips a beat...
The sight of you takes away my tears,
Every time we meet,
The others took advantage of me,
Why couldn't they be nice?
I learned that love does not come free,
It requires sacrifice,
You too possess some ugliness,
But things I can ignore.
Frankly, you are quite a mess,
But you still have allure,
I choose you out of all the rest,
Although you hide in back,
To me you are the very best,
My lovely clearance rack.

*note: Chelsey admits that this work is a result of Algebra boredom:) Let's hear it for the arts!

** another note: Chelsey turns 17 on Sunday. Happy Birthday, Chelsey!

Scripture Going into Public Places

2008-01-30T14:12:00.000-05:00

These are the two newest pieces that I just delivered to Susanna Thomas....(my primary physician). She's going to hang these in examining rooms. She chose scriptures that she hopes will help calm people as they sit there. These aren't very clear photos, but they are very striking pieces. I'm pleased with them,and am very happy that scriptures will be hanging in "public", and also that my work will be "out there"....locally.

Judith

#1 Proverbs 3:5-6 KJV "Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths."

#2 Psalm 34:4 NLT "I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me. He freed me from all my fears."

Indecision

2008-01-08T23:40:00.001-05:00

Lynne Hasuly

I can't tell you
what I'm doing...
In truth,
I'm not sure I want to know...
the actions of my flesh as my body's held in tow...
Can't seem to decide whether to stay or to go...
flooded by alternating streams
and dry river beds
left arid and wanting from repeated assaults...
deliver me, Lord.
Deliver me from the pull of dark angels
heading away from Passion's flood...
restore my mind quickly;
placing my feet on unshifting foundations
and uniting my will to seek Your presence.

Oxygen

2007-12-21T12:50:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-20T19:53:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-12-16T16:16:00.000-05:00

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

Beautiful

2007-12-16T14:51:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-08T07:14:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-02T07:32:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-22T15:46:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-22T12:59:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-18T19:39:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-29T09:17:00.001-04:00

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

2007-10-11T20:03:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-05T14:12:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-04T13:40:00.000-04:00

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"

2007-09-11T18:21:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-04T13:25:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-22T09:03:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-17T08:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-12T17:28:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-08T11:09:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-01T08:54:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-30T11:04:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-23T21:38:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-19T15:46:00.001-04:00

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

2007-07-18T22:58:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-17T16:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-13T09:35:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-11T14:43:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-11T07:48:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-11T06:19:00.000-04:00

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?”

Countdown to Oblivion

2007-07-10T10:19:00.000-04:00

Stephen Harper

First, let me comment on the comments to Nothing ……. Seriously, guys, do you realize that by commenting it actually gives nothing …… weight. And I did want to respond to Mama Tried’s first comment. So, the renowned existentialist, Jughead, says to Archie, he says “hey, Veronica’s real cute” and Archie responds “Yeah, sure. My car looks neat, huh?” ………………… my car looks neat, huh? Man, does it get any more profound than that?

Times New Roman. You thought I was joking. I get this newsletter from a law firm in DC that deals with matters FCC. I don’t understand a word of it but sitting there with my magnifiers cradled on the precipice of my nose looking intently at its pages gives me an air of …. knowledge. This, for anyone that walks by. I usually strike the pose when I hear footsteps coming my way. Few realize that I’m holding it upside down and while browsing I’m thinking, “hey, I wonder if the guy what staples this thing together gets free legal advice. And if it’s another lawyer doing this does he suck as a lawyer that much he has to be relegated to stapling pages after law school?” Then I glance over at my own dismantled stapler and I am awash in shame and fear. But, I digress. One of the sections in said newsletter is titled, “Countdown to Oblivion”. Not original I know but then lawyers rarely are. However, it sure reflects the culture of a Times New Roman. We’ve all heard the noise that our culture is looking like the Roman Empire with the violence and the sex and the togas. Yeah, you heard right, togas. Did you know that if a man was caught wearing pants in ancient Rome he was beaten and his property taken away? I’m sure I read that somewhere. My question would be, what if he were caught wearing culottes? Part pant, part dress. Like to see that staple fumbling lawyer get his mind around THAT conundrum in front of Caesar. Depending on the Caesar of course. I mean Caligula might have thought it foreplay. But, I digress. I don’t see the culture reflecting Rome. I see me reflecting Rome. The curse of a blessed country (or a world power) is the stuff. Our priorities are altered exponentially by what we can possess. And our pain is diminished to what toys we can’t have. I need new carpets. Ours are old and worn and our bank account is vapor. I need a bigger bank account. And, geeeeese, it gripes me that I have to get one of my two cars fixed. Now, I’m not American bashing. You take a street urchin from Calcutta and transplant him to the US of A and within a month he’ll be crying that his half-caff double mocha from Starbucks doesn’t have enough ice and he will be upgrading to cable internet so he can download porn faster. No one is pure. No one gets out alive. My challenge isn’t to cram Jesus into my stuff like some errant puzzle piece. Jesus is always the piece that doesn’t fit. Frankly, that was my main attraction to Jesus. How did I get distracted from that? Even to have a little in this culture means having a lot. Having Jesus means having it all. What in the world makes me think that “filled to overflowing” has anything to do with new siding? I am the Times New Roman. It feels every bit as vapid as my bank account. The challenge isn’t the realization, it’s the crawling back. It’s tough to crawl with all that crap attached to you like the chain pulled by the ghost of Jacob Marley. But then He came to set the captives free. My mistake was thinking that this was a one-time deal. The more we have the more locks He has to pick. The b**ch of it is, He does it with a smile.

To Wander

2007-07-09T18:02:00.000-04:00

It has come to my attention that I have not posted for a short while. WOW.
Well as Webster would define the word,,,,,,,
to stray
to move about aimlessly
or the one I like the best
to become delirious.
Trust me as far as I know none of the above apply. I have simply been doing all that is required of me.
I understand that in this day and age that is doing pretty OK.
I have started a blog about summer and my flower garden and worms. But it is not ready to post.
The heat is on and work is calling. And we have a house full.

My God bless you all.
Robert.

Serving Where Nobody Knows Your Name

2007-07-03T19:35:00.000-04:00

I inhaled deeply and stepped into the church foyer. I moved along with the strangers also making their way toward the sanctuary door, comfortable beneath my cloak of anonymity. Men and women I did not know threw me nods, smiles, and “good mornings.” They didn’t know my name, nor could they see the shame I bore, yet I clutched my Bible tight against my chest as if to hide a scarlet letter.

A short and perpetually smiling woman just outside the door handed me a bulletin and since this was my second month attending the church, I was no longer surprised when she tackled me with a bear hug. In fact the embrace was like balm to my wounded spirit. Non-judgmental arms wrapped around a repentant soul. Thank You, Lord, for leading me here.

It was strange being unknown. In my old place of worship I had the notoriety of Norm on Cheers; yes, everybody knew my name. One couldn’t read through the bulletin without seeing it many times: For more information, contact Janet Rubin, See Janet Rubin regarding library donations, Chairperson: Janet Rubin… That was me—religious super-woman, loved an admired by all.

Until I fell.

So here I was, stripped of my choir robe, my titles, and my pride. Only wanting healing, understanding I was no longer good enough to serve. Still bleeding from my self-inflicted wounds as well as the ones left by people I’d called friends. The music, already playing, swept over me as I entered. A young man sang into the microphone—words that seemed written for me: All who are thirsty, all who are weak, come to the fountain, dip your heart in the stream of life…

And I found myself in front of the only person whose name I knew. Steve. Bare feet, long hair, and dangling earring. He looked more like a club bouncer than an associate pastor, but he’d been the first person I met when searching out a new flock to hang with, and his friendly manner had quenched most of the fear that came with venturing into a new flock. It had been Steve who’d answered the phone when I called, Steve who’d sent me pamphlets and a sermon tape in the mail, Steve who greeted with the warmest of smiles and hugs each week.

And today he did more than that. He bent his hulking frame over so his voice could be heard over the music. “Janet, can you do me a favor and help pass out communion today?”

I froze in my tracks. Pass out communion? That was a job for men, not women. Men in suits with titles like deacon or elder. Who was I to pass out the elements? Especially me. I probably shouldn’t even be participating.

I rose up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I would like to. I really would...”

Apparently, thinking I was finished, he slapped me on the shoulder. “Cool. Thanks.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean you guys don’t really know me, Steve. I’ve really screwed up. Sinned big time…”

He looked at me with what seemed amusement. “We all have, sister. That’s what Jesus died for.”

I hesitated. “You’re sure it’s okay? You don’t know what I did.”
He nodded. “It’s all about grace.”

The sincerity in his expression convinced me he really had no qualms about delegating the sacred task to me. Something in my spirit stirred, excited at the idea that I was not truly useless in the kingdom.

Two hours later I made my way down the aisle, passing a plate of broken crackers to men, women and children—strangers yet family. Me serving the Lord. And it felt okay. It felt better than okay. There was no glory for me. I was still unknown. And all at once I understood that serving was a gift.

When I was done with passing out the little cups of grape juice, I took some for myself. And when the pastor gave the go ahead, I ate my cracker, drank my juice, understanding for the first time what the point of it was—He bled, He died because I needed saving. Chiefly because I wasn’t good enough or clean enough.

And by His stripes my healing began.

The Image

2007-07-02T22:50:00.000-04:00

The square blade disappears under the cover of flesh,
hiding its' presence for only a moment
as the metal invades a hand created for service to God...

Liquid of life drips then flows from
the cover of flesh
and stains the ground with powerless sacrifice...

the wind responds
and ushers in fresh vision
to soothe the feet of clay;
the image of the retracted hand tipped to sideways
...dislodging the perverted use of an everyday object...

the blood covers the wound in an instant,
and restores the flesh to created masterpiece...

...and the blood travels to the rest of the sinews and
bone of the one travailing in an earthsuit
and longing for heaven's gate to meet her where she is...

The hand lifts her gaze to meet the eyes from Galilee...

The hand of clay meets the divine palm,
and the sand of the beach feels like a cushion
as the two have a conversation
on a redemptive walk...

Nothing from Stephen Harper

2007-07-01T16:07:00.000-04:00

I just opened up Microsoft Word to write nothing. Seriously, nothing. Janet Rubin threatened to do something to me if I didn’t submit something soon. I can’t remember what that something is but it must have tethered itself to the “fear stupid” portion of my brain. The “fear stupid” portion being directly underneath the “What’s That?” lobe. So, I sat there catching up on all my lapsed blog readings because …. well, I forget to read them on a regular basis. Some people are known for their humility, their character even their wickedness. I’m known for forgetting stuff. “oh, that’s steve. He mostly shakes hands, calls you by the wrong name and always asks what the date is”. But I digress. I forgot, I am also known for digressing. Anyway, read I did to be inspired. Who’s kidding who, read I did to steal. I needed an idea so I was going to piggyback on the wonderful posts from Art for the Heart. Turns out I can’t even crawl up on the back of those pigs. Not that any of those posts could be mistaken for a pig unless of course it was about a pig. Oh. Yeah, I didn’t catch ALL the way up on my readings. So, if you indeed wrote a devotional about us sending our personal demons into the metaphorical pigs of our lives to run screaming to a metaphorical or even a metaphysical sea or had a beautiful photo of the sun setting behind a ….. pig …. then I apologize for missing it. Well, maybe not for missing that particular visual epic because, y’know, it’s a pig. Big fan of bacon but aside from Arnold on Green Acres one can’t really point to a pig at any time in history as a reference of beauty, an inspiration for war or something that Michelangelo would have chipped in marble to be auctioned off for sick millions of dollars at Sotheby’s. And we all join in as I say “but I digress”. What am I getting back to? You guessed it kids, nothing. And that is my point. At 51 (or there abouts. My wife will correct me) I have traveled from knowing exactly where I am going to a grinding painful halt of nothing. I do my job. I even like my job. But it’s sort of like the guy that sets up the equipment for the bands. It’s the bands that give juice to the performance. The band that inspires the crowd. Sometimes you want to be the one that inspires. So, I do the lifting and I go home but I notice that I just sit. Nothing. I read, watch the tube and …. nothing. I could create a sitcom about nothing but Seinfeld already had it’s run. No piggy to back there. So, I opened Microsoft Word and typed in the default font, Times New Roman. And I’m thinking of writing about that. I am a Times New Roman. Pretty tasty subject, no? No. Well even if it is it’s going to have to wait to the next threat because this ain’t nothing. And doing something is exhausting. Peace.

The art of making " things."

2007-06-29T22:43:00.000-04:00

So who is really an artist? Someone who just happens to know how to mix color and put it with all the technical knowledge on paper or canvas?
The photographer who happens to know how to work with a camera and film in the darkroom?
The sculptor who knows pulls and image from a block of stone or wood?
The writer who has a gift of words an d can create images in our heads by placing them on a page
of text?

Why not the welder who can run a perfect bead of steel and flux?
Why not a plummer who can run a system of pipes through out a building with out distubing anything it it's way. ?
Why not the auto mechanic who can create a smooth running engine from nothing but steel parts and rubber hoses. ?

Is one art and not the other? God has gifted us each with a special skill, Each is an art. But is one more art than the other?
What IS art?

Pray for the chidren in your lives.

2007-06-26T08:20:00.000-04:00

The children in our lives. Need our prayers. Use your art as a way to effect change in their lives. Use it as a starting point for real frienship. As artist's we can change the future of their lives. God has called us to use our talents. We can change lives in many ways. Help the young people in our lives to be creators. Making art is a good thing. But making art and creating mentor friendships, is even better. Be a big brother or sister for Christ.
I love you guys. Amen.
Now I have to get to work.

Creation Part Two

2007-06-25T16:54:00.000-04:00

In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning.
Through him all things were made; with out him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. That light shines in the darkness, put the darkness has not understood. John 1: 1-5 NIV

I was at home saturday and sunday watching over my flock of two cats and two dogs. Being home alone without people is very rare for me. It is also very hard for me. So I keep busy by doing small chores. Only this time the needs of the animals
over rides all other needs both recreational and project wise. It's like when God says to you " Be still ! I have everything under control, REALLY" . The weather is so wonderful and I could be DOING so much. But I watch my little flock and enjoy the cool
breeze as it flows through the house.

I tried to publish this piece earlier today (sunday) but I was unable to get it up on the page. God really wanted me to be still and I really needed to listen. So I did.

I saw the scripture that I began with and knew that what I had originally written came from my head ( the darkness) and not from THE WORD. so even though it was a good piece, I'm sure that God wanted me to sit with him a little longer.

But the point I really want to make is that God made EVERYTHING in the beginning. As artist's, tradesmen,writers,mothers , and fathers, even people of the sciences, I know you are out there, the list is as big as God himself. Everything we feel, smell, touch, and experience has been created by God.
A lot of what we have today has been rearranged by man to do something. But the bottom line is that God made all the basic material, the physics, the math, the colors, the chemistry, all that we know about, and things yet to be revealed, in the beginning. And we have all been gifted by God to use this stuff.
The problem is that we are flawed. All this stuff can be used for good or evil. That is where the REAL problem comes into existance. AND that is when I have to let God be God and pray to let him run the show. He is far better at it than I will ever be. And I am thankful that Jesus is REAL. Amen.

Pornography

2007-06-25T09:02:00.000-04:00

When this group first started meeting a while back, Joe was in the habit of bringing issues to the table that we often sweep under the rug. Because they can get pretty ugly. But no matter where you go you are still confronted by them.
Then a few years back, Bill and I were talking about the issue of " The church, the arts, pornography, and what is and what is
not pornographic. " In other words, is there a line in the sand or is it really a personal thing. I know what I think, but this is a question for discussion.
As one example I bring forward the sculpture of David. A masters work, carved by masters hands. Truly the best example of marble sculpture for its time and for me in all of history. A sculpture of this richness and design had never been produced in all of history. This scupture is on display in all it's beauty in a major public museum, for all to see. But just the other day I saw a piece on TV that happen to be near this work of fine art, and the TV fuzed over certain areas of the scupture. I understand clearly what had been done for this program, but on the other hand it appears that we live in a world of very mixed messages. And I know that one persons temptation is not anothers. And I also know that we have all fallen short.
I live in a world where art students study the body daily and I'm certain that each has a conflict internally daily to deal with the broad range of emotions and feelings that arise in one self. Some become numb to the study, some are driven mad. I have witnessed both sides.
After talking to my daughter on Saturday , we decided that this would be a cool place to bring up the issue. And let our own feelings known.
This is a real tough subject, but as I understand it " The Edge " is the place to lay it all out for the community of faith.
I personally used an example from the world of sculpture, but I know that this is an issue that crosses thru all the arts.
Open dialogue is very much requested.

Lies from the enemy to a writer

2007-06-24T13:08:00.000-04:00

Who do you think you are? You’re pathetic. You don’t have anything to say that’s worth hearing.

You aren’t actually going to let people read that, are you? You know they’ll laugh, right? You’ll look like an idiot. People will think you are arrogant and foolish for even thinking they’d want to read your drivel.

Well, you went and did it—put your amateur ramblings out for all to see. Can you imagine what they are thinking about you? You should be embarrassed.

She told you your writing blessed her? She didn’t mean it. She just felt bad for you.

Those people liked it too? Well, just look at them! They probably consider the Left Behind series classic literature. Wouldn’t know Shakespeare from Danielle Steele. Don’t feel too good about compliments from them.

Okay, you have a point. That fellow is pretty smart, and I don’t think he’d give an insincere compliment. In fact, I was wrong. You know…. You’re really something. Quite talented. Very, very special. Your readers are lucky to have you. The compliments are nice, aren’t they? Feels good to be noticed, admired. Why don’t you write something else so you can get more praise?

You are so wicked! Full of pride. I thought you were doing this for your precious savior. Seems to me you think it’s all about you. I bet God is disgusted with you. You’re a hypocrite—don’t even practice what you preach. You should turn in your pencil.

Excuse me, I hate to interrupt your writing, but I wanted to remind you of the laundry, the dust, your other responsibilities. You’re becoming quite a sloth. All this time spent being creative is pretty self-indulgent. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Hey, hello! Listen to me. Quit that infernal singing. I’m trying to talk to you. [Curses under his vile breath]. Oh forget it, they never hear me when they’re praying. But, I’ll come back later. I’m getting tired though. She just keeps writing and writing, and even when her heart isn’t right; HE uses it for His kingdom. Ah, what’s that? Not another one thinking about putting his soul’s ponderings on the blog? Better get busy discouraging him…

Watching my sheeep

2007-06-22T17:24:00.000-04:00

Sorry I will not see you guys this week end. I will be watching over my flock. With any luck they will be kind to me and I will get part two of creation. I hope you know that is only chapter one. Page one.

Fish Bites and Frogs

2007-06-21T11:19:00.000-04:00

My brain is a host to a school of those fish
that take the form of thoughts nipping at my soul.
They can be nasty when hungry to feed
on my insecurities and self-doubt.
The bites come out of the questioned perception
I have of my knee-jerk response to these things...
those free-floating thoughts caught harassing and hissing...

The frogs just swim by unaware of my quandry
to just let the fish feed and then move on their way...
They question the reasons I fixate on fish
and shrug off the navel that I seem to worship.

I now wonder if I should tire of swimming
with soul-nipping fish and decide to go fishing instead...
For the meat on their bones all comes from the ashes
of burnt offerings; and I'm weary from feeding the fish
when they would mercifully die out from lack of food.

I think I have a taste for a fish fry,
and take back the ground that I've given away;
I have tired of letting those fish have their feeding
and determine to send them to belly-up bay.

Fences are good for the sheep of his pasture,more

2007-06-20T08:23:00.000-04:00

After I wrote about fences and how they are good for us, it was brought up to me that some times fences can cause us pain.
Well let me explain the kind of fence I was thinking of. First of all, I was thinking of the soft, and mobile fence that a good
shepard would use to help contain his flock while resting or sleeping. The last thing I was trying to do was bringup the image that I guess we have today of iron fences with barbs that sting.
But also if for some reason we should get out and find our selves lost, we have the promise that our good shepard Jesus will
come looking for us and bring us back from that tough spot we were in and continue to love us unconditionally, always. Remember that even when we think we are at the end of our strength, Jesus is there waiting to carry us back to the resting place we belong. He will fight the fight for us even when we can not.

I love you all.

Creation, Part One, the beginning.

2007-06-18T14:37:00.000-04:00

Let me begin with a quick paraphrase of the first chapter of the book of Genesis from the Bible.
In the begining God created "Everything". And when I say everything that means everything then, now and into a future that we no nothing of, yet that is.
Now let me explain where I am going with this. After "Creation" we are left with everything needed " forever". Now let's begin with Adam. God gave him a field to grow a crop in. God did not make a plow to work the field with. God did supply Adam with a forest of trees and a brain to use. Adam made his own plow with the materials he knew best. Adam used God's creation to solve his own problem. Adam worked his field and he ate food from it. We as God's sheep have lived in God's creation since the beginning with everything that we have ever needed. It really is not all about what we want. It's about what we need.
Now as a person who works in two worlds, both as an artist that finds joy in creating objects of art and as a supplier of materials used in the creation of art, it is interesting to me to see how we as artists have always had the tools and the materials to create art. We have used the materials that we best understood for what ever period of history we were a part of.
We as artist's stand at the feet of God as children, understanding and using the tools that we have created from the vast creation that God gave to us in the beginning. It is our job to use these materials to God's glory.
Amen.

Fences are good for the sheep of his pasture

2007-06-18T08:01:00.000-04:00

My daughter called me today. Fathers day, you know. And while we were talking, a wonderful subject came up. Fences. And how we need to remember that we are the sheep of HIS pasture and that fences help us to keep control over our lives, They keep us from going places we should not go. And keep us from doing more than we are able. But a fence is a wonderful tool becuses it does not keep us from seeing into the world the way that a wall does. And a fence allows us to look up to our heavenly father. Amen. And as the good father that he is, He is always Watching over us. Thank-you lord.

2007-06-14T11:45:00.000-04:00

Ella in the Hot Seat

Ella was going to get kicked out of school. Even a fly on the wall at her house would have yearned for escape. Ella heard the words of the principal ring in her ears over and over again. It made sense, especially since her behavior was so disruptive to her classmates. She was writing a lot these days. It wasn't full of hearts and flowers. The cloak of melancholy had turned heavy once more and threatened her sanity. Reputation? It was trashed. Survival reigned over keeping up appearances that all was well. All was not well. She felt as if she were leaking life through every orifice of her spirit, soul, and body.

The days were surreal. She was aware of everything going on around her, yet wasn't often quick to respond. Noone came into her inner enclave except God himself. It seemed that God didn't know what to do with her, either. The question stood as to whether her perception was as accurate as it seemed like to her. Cracks in her armor let in just enough light to allow the questions to sneak in. The thought of her perception of reality being off-kilter was evoking an almost ambivalent shade of blue within her. If she spoke of her doubts, then the fact that her mind was in flux would be confirmed.

The psychiatrist's office had double doors that closed in opposite sides of the door jam. Liquid fear ran through her veins and chilled her. This confirmed her status among the truly whacked. How did she get here? She was in the 7th grade. There was no blame to assign her parents or to anyone else. They were attentive and loving. The mystery floated around her personna about why she cried. Panic froze her where she sat at her desk and chained her to the chair. The flood of water seemed to erupt with the intensity of a stick of dynamite.

The whispers of hope came to her even when being choked by the tears. There was going to be an end to these times of virulent intensity. It didn't seem close by; she wasn't going to be anticipating that change anytime soon. Still, she could remember the conversations of older relatives that centered around a loving Jesus and the impact that He had on their lives. She had invited Him in, but was disappointed when the guilt over her behavior continued to chew away at her hope for change. Some witness she was going to be for a loving God that gave everything to pull her fat out of the fires of hell. There were those moments that she could not see the faces of aunts and uncles talking about the Lord. Those patches of time were desolate; she felt bereft of comfort from any source offered. That spot in her spirit seemed unreachable by anyone except God. The problem was that she still felt like the same pummeled girl as before the invitation. Was there some reason why salvation just didn't "take?" Where else was there to go?

Creation and creativity

2007-06-13T17:11:00.000-04:00

Hi,
I'm Robert,
I have always wondered what makes one person have a strong desire to be creative and another could care less.
I have always wondered how people can look around them and see the complexity of the world around them and say there is no God.
I have often had the desire to create and wondered where did that idea come from?
These and many more thoughts and ramblings are what I will try to post and hope that the postings will either open discussion or at least give rise to new ways of looking at the world that God has placed before us.

Having never done this before be gentle with me. I'm an artist you know.

Walking on the Wire

2007-05-31T18:33:00.001-04:00

Taking on the day
that the Lord has made,
I try to rejoice and be glad.
My brain is full of messages and replaying images
vying for my focus and cluttering my thoughts.
turning to the Lord in entreaty and faith,
it seems I am walking on the wire between faith and and anguish.
Double-minded walking...the thought pierces me and brings me low.
He is worthy to receive honor,
worthy to receive praise,
and yet I am walking on the wire between faith, trust, and white-knuckle tension.
I look beneath the wire I see in my mind
and see the grass below looming as a ravenous lion in a den-like cave...
A hand pulls my head up to focus on Jesus,
and His eyes bring me back to the knowing of grace...
to trust in His mercy
I will just have to trust Him,
and moment by moment relinquish my all.

Alexander isolated 5-27-07

2007-05-27T16:26:00.000-04:00

MOM! DAD! I’m home, and we got company! Bitsy called as they entered a cramped front room, full of old furniture hiding its age under throws and doilies. The sound of running water and soft clear singing came from the kitchen, which you saw just by looking through the dining room, which you saw just by looking through the living room. Bitsy put her bookbag on the stairs and motioned Alexander to do the same. Glancing up, Alexander was startled to see a large, bearded man standing at the top of the stairs. He was silently regarding Alexander, his expression puzzled and anxious. “Bits,” he said finally, not taking his eyes off Alexander, “you come to take me in? I been good ever since—“
“Rob, “Bitsy broke in, stepping in front of Alexander and holding out her hand, “This is my friend Alexander from school. Come on down and meet him.” The big man hesitantly descended, taking Alexander’s hand in a massive paw with a strangely gently grip. Then it came to Alexander. This was the shirtless giant who had broken up the parade and gotten Wilf all worked up enough to….. Lose control, sort of. But all Alexander said was, “pleased to meet you, Rob,” returning that steady gaze until Rob relaxed a little and said shyly, “Friends of my sister are souls well met,” and he turned to go back upstairs. Bitsy grabbed his hand and kissed it, getting a slow smile for her pains, and then he was gone. Bitsy showed Alexander the telephone, and he was sure his mother was smiling as she approved his evening “studying” with Bitsy.
“Bretaine, Bretaine, is that you, dearie?” The singing had stopped, but not the water and the voice from the kitchen appeared as a small woman with short cloud-gray hair and pink cheeks, drying her hands on a cloth and smiling as she caught sight of her daughter. She kissed the crown of Bitsy’s head, extended a small, rough hand to Alexander with a wink, and drew them both back into her realm. The sink was running water over a large pot turned bottom up. It was mostly covered with runny black stuff. It looked like Mrs. Bruce had been scrubbing away at it. Her face was flushed and moist, and her hands were warm from the water, and almost as red as her cheeks. She exchanged knowing looks with her daughter, and for Alexander’s benefit she added, with obvious good cheer, “ Himself will have been preparin’ his famous barley pottage, and who’s to pay the piper but me, now. And where have you two reeves been this day? Is all peaceful at school and on the street?” Her shrewd eyes took them in at a glance, and she sat the two youngsters down at her tiny table in the corner and produced crockery mugs of cold milk and a plate of shortbread squares. She went back to her scrubbing and listened while they told the story of Noyes’ folly and his arrest at the meeting. When they had finished she tut-tutted and shook her head, bending over her pot and muttering clearly enough to be heard, “and another clan is without its dearest, thanks to them devils, and for what?” Then she remembered that Alexander was also an agent of “them devils,” and she excused herself, turning to brush a strand of hair from her face, using the one holding the brush, then gesticulating with her soapy scepter until suds were everywhere, “ I’m never the one to stand in anyone’s road, mind you, now, if the journey is worthwhile………” she paused as she returned the brush to the sink and dried her hands again, “ but I can’t be having with sending young’uns away, not for any reason, and I’ll tell that to anybody. Sending the likes of you out to remind those who’ve forgotten their manners, once the schoolin’s over, that’s one thing. But when day is done, families are meant to gather, is all I’ll be sayin’. ” Alexander smiled at Bitsy to let her know he wasn’t taking offense, and Mrs. Bruce went back to drying the big pot and hanging it on the wall with the others, all similarly scoured and scrubbed, not a matching pair among them.
The front door opened, and the sound of singing came to them, a man’s deep, rough voice: “an’ would I give ye o’er, would I sell my heart for aye….” And Mrs. Bruce, smiling at the two children, gave the refrain in her own clear soprano, “ nae linen, lamb nae lands wou’ do,” and they finished together, facing each other across the kitchen, “ to live nae more wi’ you….” Bitsy may have been a bit embarrassed, but she was smiling, and Mr. and Mrs. Bruce were unabashed. After a moment Mr. Bruce noticed Alexander and offered his hand. It was almost as big as his son’s, and every bit as gentle. Bitsy spoke up, “Dad, this is my friend Alexander Wozniak.” Mr. Bruce held Alexander’s eyes, finally saying, with a twinkle, “If our Bretaine brought you, you can stay.”
Supper at the Bruce home reminded Alexander of his own family dinners. Bitsy kept shooting glances at him, wondering if her family was strange or “unsound” to Alexander’s trained eye. He could only give her small smiles, hoping she could see that he was not inclined to find fault at all. Rob came downstairs without being called, and his dad touched his shoulder, and Rob answered, “keeping well, dad?” and he helped his mother set out the table: heavy plates with a rough brown finish ,the same plain mugs that had been used for snack , and real silver utensils, soft and bent from use, polished to a soft shine. Mr. Bruce’s special pottage was placed in honor at the center of the table, and brown bread appeared from the big old oven where it had been keeping warm. They joined hands before they ate, and Alexander was confused and fascinated to be holding Bitsy’s tiny hand in his left, and Rob’s huge hand in his right. Both Bruces, both kind and gentle, each stirring different feelings in him as they bowed for Dad’s grace. “Our Maker, all we have is Yours, and ourselves we freely give, amen.
They tucked into the steaming stew, rich and lumpy with some kind of meat, and Alexander noted that Rob and his dad dragged their bread through the hot mixture, while Bitsy and her mother alternated bites, but no one gave anyone a lecture. Alexander found himself digging into his bowl of barley, even though he couldn’t taste it very well through his DOOK. There were crunchy bits and the meat was tender; the whole thing just felt good in his mouth. And the bread was crusty and coarse and gave up a sweetness that made you want to chew it. Certainly it was a big change from his mother’s daily fare, and from Mr. Wozniak’s spicy weekend dishes.
“So Bretaine’s been telling us that you’re a smart one,” Mr. Bruce said. “Says you been skippin’ grades and all, and now you two are the youngest ones in your classes.” He smiled through his trim black beard, “and likely the smallest, too, I’ll guess. Takes a bit of sand in your gut to make a way in this Great Society, that’s certain enough.”
Alexander didn’t know how to reply, but he nodded and said, “yes sir. But Bitsy’s the smartest one in school. No one else’s skipped two grades.” Bitsy’s head was tucked into her bowl, so Alexander couldn’t tell if she was blushing.
“Is she, now?” Mr. Bruce acted surprised, but his eyes were twinkling and Alexander started to understand that he enjoyed teasing his children, especially in company. “And here was me thinkin’ those were just bricks in that bag, for drivin’ boys away!” Rob laughed in appreciation, a deep rumble, pleasant to Alexander’s ear. “Dad!” Bitsy complained, “Stop. Please.” Her face had turned the prettiest shade of pink, and she resembled her mother even more. Mrs. Bruce was giggling into her napkin, but she spoke up, “Now, Robert, we have a guest, and our Bretaine knows she’s smart, and pretty besides, don’t you, dearie?” This only made Bitsy blush more deeply, and she held her napkin over her face, but her ears shone bright red under her blonde curls. Suddenly Mr. Bruce, Rob and Bitsy’s mother were laughing out loud, and Mr. Bruce almost choked on his bread, and Rob went to slap him on the back but Mr. Bruce held up a hand, still laughing, and said, “There she goes again, hidin’ from her adorin’ public, and all of us just hopin’ for a smile.” Bitsy waited for quiet, then dropped her napkin back in her lap and fiercely attacked her barley. But her ears stayed pink for quite a while, and she was grinning, too.
When they had all eaten enough pottage and bread, Bitsy and her mother cleared the plates, leaving Alexander at the table with Rob and Mr. Bruce. “Alexander Wozniak, is it?” Mr. Bruce asked, taking a toothpick from a bowl on the table. “yes sir.” ‘is your dad the same Wozniak who runs my department at Progressive Programs?”
“yes sir, he’s an engineer for them.”
“Smart man, that,” said Mr. Bruce, nodding. “And fair. Don’t know him, actually, he’s over the lot of us in Security Interfaces. I’m just a writer, actually. But he’s got a good name. Not an easy thing to keep in these times.”
Alexander was a little embarrassed, not least because his dad had never told him anything about his work, more than a shrug and a “well, never mind.” He said, “ yes, sir. And what do all of you do in that department? “ and , in response to Mr. Bruce’s unspoken question he added, “ Dad doesn’t talk much about work, really.”
Never taking his eyes off Alexander, Mr. Bruce used his napkin, tossed it on the table, and said, “ Doesn’t he, now? Can’t say as I blame him. And, it’s not for me to tell tales, if that’s his way, but…. It’s no secret, really, We’re tasked with keeping folks out of places in the software that are restricted to all but a few. I write the manuals; edit them, mostly, to make sure no one finds a way in where they aren’t supposed to go. So the special sections of the Net browsers, where only officials and those with clearance can get in and access things, stay safe. Your dad’s got quite a reputation for plugging up holes in the programs, they say. They say nothing gets by him, not if it concerns keeping young ones out of the Wildnet and the Frontier sites.” Mr. Bruce’s face was neutral, and Alexander couldn’t tell how he felt about “keeping young ones out of the Wildnet,” but just then Bitsy and her mother returned with the same mugs, washed and refilled with coffee for the grownups and cocoa for Alexander and Bitsy. They sipped the hot drinks quietly for a while, and Alexander thought about how much this family seemed to enjoy the simple act of eating together, just being together. It reminded him a little of his own family, but the Wozniaks were a bit more careful to do things normally. The Bruces seemed to care only for each other’s opinions, at least here in their home.
When supper was truly done, and everything put away, Alexander and Bitsy went upstairs to get their studying done before going out on their strange errand with Kerry. Bitsy’s computer was a bit old, a G6 Jobs with a small screen, but the broadband signal was lively and strong, and even taking turns they had found and downloaded everything in less than an hour. Alexander looked at the clock- 7:15. By half past they would need to be at the bus stop for the ride downtown, and Alexander did not want to have this risky, volatile talk within the range of any sensors. With a gulp he blurted, “Bitsy, turn off your PEW---- please.” He removed his wrist remote, pulled his workstation out of his bag, and put it in shutdown sequence. Bitsy said, “What’s up?” Her face showed she was alarmed; their friendship was still fairly new, but Alexander’s expression was earnest, and his station was already blank, so she pushed her “Off” button and a moment later they were alone: no personal alarm, no “security monitoring” from downtown, no contact with POOP at all. It was unnerving, especially for two agents who had counted on their stations to get them out of jams in the field. They stared at each other, Alexander struggling to find a starting place.
“I’m not,” he began, “ going to try anything silly,” and her snort of laughter helped him get a grip. He was kneading his fingers nervously, one after the other, looking at his hands. “I really like your family, and I can see that they think the world of you……” Bitsy was still half wondering if this wasn’t a schoolboy pass, and she gave him no help, meeting his glances with a very level stare.
“Is your father, was he, ever…… a writer?” Bitsy’s guard was up, and she shrugged. “He’s a writer at work, as you know,” she said flatly.
“No, I mean… I mean is he a real writer, or was he, years ago? You know, grownup writing, fiction and poetry, that kind of stuff?”
Bitsy was getting stirred up. She answered, “ Why do you want to know? If you’re looking for trouble, we’ve had more than our share, Wozniak, so why don’t you just pack---“
“Bitsy, please, that’s not it,” Alexander pleaded, really miserable now, his hands really chafed and red from the nervous wringing and squeezing, which he couldn’t stop. “I would never cause trouble for you and your family, and I’m not up to anything stupid like Noyes and those Insec pukes…. I just got some information about a writer who was popular back before the Great Society, someone who was thought to be really good, who got shut down and sent to the frontier, and when he came back he got a straight job and settled down. It might not be your dad, but if it is, he may be in trouble. Again. People have been hoarding secret caches of his writing and circulating it on the Wildnet, and some of the Frontier sites are openly listing his work. Now some new material is showing up, and the Ministry of Decency thinks it resembles this man’s old work. They’re considering a full-out investigation,” Alexander’s voice reached the breaking point, and his hands hurt pretty bad but he couldn’t stop worrying them. “And if what I just told you gets out, I’m finished as an agent and as a Wozniak,’ he smiled in spite of himself.
He stopped, staring at Bitsy, knowing that she was trained not to trust him. Especially not him. And he was trained not to trust her. Especially not her. No one worked more closely with potential enemies than a POOP agent, by design. You picked your friends elsewhere, if you dared. She stared back, picking him apart with her eyes. Bitsy’s inner struggle was making her shiver like it was winter. She looked out the window at the settling dusk, then at the clock by the bed. “Time to go,” she said shortly, hitting the boot button on her workstation. “We’ll come back to this, maybe.” Alexander was in torment, but she was right--- they had to go catch the bus. And go meet Kerry and whoever was with him. And they had to watch each other’s back. Neither one could trust anyone else, and the question was, could they trust each other?
Virtuvid was the brain child of some genius in the Ministry of Health and Happiness. In a society where behavior was so strictly controlled, fantasy became the last refuge of free thought. And in a society where morality and decency were so narrowly defined, even fantasy had to be controlled, lest it produce “unacceptable” behaviors. The technology of computer simulation was nothing revolutionary; the manipulation of simulated content to reinforce Innovative Ideas without boring the consumers was the real challenge. Sex was off limits, of course, as well as violence and aggression. What remained to the software engineers at Health and Happiness and their outsource contractors was a bit pale, but it was safe, clean and not likely to stir anyone up to rebellion. Entering the simulated world, the consumer chose from a menu of virtual experiences ranging from being named head of a Ministry department to informing on rebellious neighbors. What with startlingly good visuals and sound, even the bland content made people feel….. sort of excited, in an obedient way.
The Teraflop Café was a respectable virtuvid salon, with rows of sim chairs bristling with sensors, and attendants bustling about helping consumers fit the gear over their orifices for the “experience.” Most of the noise was cancelled by special microphones, but there was still a murmuring din of suppressed voices and shifting in the chairs as consumers told off their bosses, thanked the applauding crowd for their adulation, and congratulated the board on their astute choice of chairpersons. Young people accepted various “best student,” “best athlete” and “most popular” awards. The experiences were affordable, and as entertainment it ranked about even with Society-sponsored movies featuring, for the most part, working stiffs who made good by following the rules.
Alexander and Bitsy entered on the dot of eight, backpacks slung high over their red windbreakers, a pair of POOP agents looking for some relaxation. Or maybe looking for someone to harass. The crowd glanced, then hastily looked away to avoid making eye contact. POOP agents were not relaxing company. Through a clear wall bisecting the room was the actual café, where consumers went to calm down after a sim experience, or wait for an available chair. Kerry was seated near the back. His sour expression got sourer as Alexander and Bitsy approached. He was shaking his head.
“Did I tell you to bring your girlfriend, Wozniak?” He sighed, for the dramatic effect. “And did I tell you to come in wearing your colors, so everyone can see me talking to an agent ? Huh?”
Bitsy was having none of it. “Kerry, we’re on our way back from studying, which I doubt you did any of tonight, and I’m not anyone’s girlfriend. And you know we have to identify ourselves if we’re carrying our equipment.”
Kerry shrugged, miming skeptical disapproval. “Ok, ok, just get lost for a few minutes while I talk to my man Alexander here, how ‘bout it? “
Bitsy shrugged and turned toward the bar, claiming a stool for her bag and one for herself, affecting to ignore the boys while she ordered a shake.
Kerry was sipping a drink, but he didn’t offer to order Alexander anything. He seemed a bit rushed to get this done. “Now I know,” he began, holding up his hands and pursing his lips for the innocent effect, “we ain’t exactly been friends at school, Wozniak. In fact there’s been times you really got under my skin, sticking by the rules and issuing warnings in the hall and all.” Kerry tilted his head one way, then the other. “But that’s just the small stuff, and I’m willing, for one, to forget all about it. I been thinking, just lately, of becoming a ministry intern myself, due to some nice offers bein’ made by associates of my father. He, if you didn’t happen to know, runs a piece of the Ministry of Scenic Beauty, and me and my buddies help out sometimes in the parks and sanctuaries, picking up litter and stuff like that. It’s great to be out in the pretty country, away from all the hustle and blow, no monitors, no sensors, just good times with good friends. You interested in that at all, Woz--- Alexander?” Kerry paused for effect. Alexander was spellbound by the pitch. Alone with Kerry and his goonish friends in a Ministry park; it sounded like a great place to get ganged up on. But Alexander did his own head tilt and answered, “ Who wouldn’t like a little peace and quiet, I suppose? And you can never have too many friends.” It was about as chummy as Alexander knew how to be, especially facing someone who had more than once promised him a facelift in one go. Kerry flashed a very sincere phony grin and slapped the table. “Good! Good. That settles it. This Saturday we’re going up to Exemplary Acres, and you’re invited. My house is near the last bus stop on the Invidio line at 10 and we’ll have you back tor dinner. You can meet my folks and Dad will drive us up to the park. And Wozniak,” Kerry put on a wary face and hammed it up, “ Remember you’re off duty, ok? No need for your big bag and all that official snoop gear. Let’s just have a good time. And maybe we can keep a lid on this friction thing we always seem to get into at school. I know you got to do your job, W—Alexander, but the rest of us got to live, too. Maybe a little less nitpicking on me and my friends would be a nice gesture, if that ain’t too much to ask, especially since you are sort of in my circle anyways, after our little chat here. Whattya say?” and Kerry held out that paw that had to often appeared in Alexander’s dreams as a fist, and Alexander couldn’t think of anything to do but shake it, and that was it. Kerry stood up, ready to leave, and noticed Bitsy again, sitting at the bar, guarding her bag and sipping a tofrappe special and pretending not to notice the boys at all. “So, Bruce…. What’s yer name… Betty?”
“Bitsy,” Alexander prompted, seeing Bitsy’s shoulders tense, fearing another outburst.
“Betsy, right, “ Kerry grinned, moving past her on his way out. “You’re pretty smart at school, they tell me,” he turned to her, still moving toward the door, and said, “But I think you should loosen up a little, like Alexander here,” and he was through the door and gone, leaving Bitsy fuming and Alexander dumfounded. “Let’s get to the bus stop,” she said, and hefted her bag. Out on the street, Bitsy sputtered, “What was that all about, and what did you shake his hand for? He’s up to something, and as dumb as he is, I can’t work it out.” She glared at Alexander, waiting for his response. He couldn’t think of what to say. Kerry was surely up to something, but this meeting had not revealed the scheme as Alexander had hoped. Instead he had found himself agreeing to hang with Kerry and his mob at Exemplary Acres on a weekend, away from sensors, Geek teams and the protection all agents relied on in the field. And he had tacitly agreed to consider tolerating Kerry’s in-school antics, and shaken on it. But where all this was coming from, Alexander hadn’t a clue.
Alexander looked at Bitsy, by now straddling her bag at the bus stop and eyeing him curiously, and said, “ Maybe I just got flimm-flammed, Bitsy, but Kerry didn’t want anything much, and he didn’t say anything suspicious. He just wants me to go to Exemplary Acres with him and his friends sometime, and he asked if I would go easy on him at school, and that was all.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “That was all?” bitsy asked, skeptical. “Yes, that was it,” Alexander shrugged again. “I have no idea what Kerry’s up to.”
“You’re planning to play along, aren’t you?” Bitsy asked, sounding too much like Mrs. Wozniak at that moment. “You know the big bully doesn’t like you, because he doesn’t like anyone who doesn’t idolize him and laugh at his dumb jokes, but you’re going to pretend to be his friend, and try to spot the trap before it closes.” Her bright blue eyes bored holes in Alexander as she waited for his response. He felt a little cornered, not for the first time today, so he just stared back, finally admitting, just to stop the staring, “ Yeah, I guess that’s my plan.”
Bitsy snorted and picked up her bag as the bus arrived. “Just don’t pretend you know what you’re doing, ok? And when it gets all smelly, just remember you got me into this, and friends,” she concluded with mock seriousness, “ stick together, even when one of them is crazy.” Alexander grinned and boarded the bus behind her, savoring that word--- “friends.”
Next day at school was uneventful. Kerry actually winked at Alexander passing in the hall, but otherwise made no sign that he had changed his stance on “rat agents,” as they were sometimes called. Bitsy smiled when he passed the door of her home room, but there was no time to talk. And Noyes was missing ; painfully so, since Alexander knew where he was , or at least what he was doing. He was getting his hair cut short, which would make him look even smaller and skinnier, and he was being issued a blanket and a plate and mug, and made to walk naked through a disinfecting chamber. Citizens of the Progressive Society, even disgraced ones, had to be free from germs.

Mental Explosion

2007-05-22T22:05:00.000-04:00

Tossing my skeleton out of the closet,
the air rushing out is a brisk and cold wind,
removing the stench of dead flesh and old boxes, and revealing a part of
the picture previously hidden from me.
The closet looks as if something is missing,
I am jolted by the sight of my skeleton gone.
Hooks and buttons I had used to secure it fell off.
They clutter the floor at my feet.
The skeleton leaves a good portion of floor space, and the room puzzles me at first;
for moss had begun to grow on my skeleton, and had begun to
grow on all of its' parts. The bones had been hanging out loudly;testy to come out and roam;
light has entered the space and given the green light to clean and remove
the rotted garments that skeleton had worn.
New garments hang in my old closet, and beckon me with, "Come and try us on now. We have waited for you to clean out the old garments, and the bones that have darkened the room for so long. Burst the old wineskins and put on the new duds; for the Father had given His blessing to you; to restore all of what has been eaten by locusts
and give a new image for the closet to view."

Dig

2007-05-17T20:38:00.000-04:00

Here's some lyrics I wrote...

Dig

I dug below the frostline but I couldn't find the clues
and I dug for buried treasure just so I could pay my dues
now I'm digging through this catalogue for something I can use

but I still

can't bury the pain

I've been digging in the garbage, I've been digging in the dust
I brushed away the broken glass and dusted off the rust
I've been digging like I cared and I'm digging 'cause I must

but I still

can't bury the pain

Artifacts
Tombs
Fossils
Bones
Links
in the chain

and the pain

I once dug a foundation where I thought I'd like to stay
then I had to dig a tunnel just so I could get away
now I'm living in this trench so I can fight another day

and I still

can't bury the pain

Artifacts
Tombs
Fossils
Bones
Links
in the chain...

Ella's Rising

2007-05-11T07:56:00.000-04:00

She could not remember ever being any different than she was right now. Maybe that was the way it was, but maybe not. All she knew ws that she wasn't in great shape right now. She hesitated to speak or write, fearful that something she wanted to conceal would come spilling forth and betray her. The sun shone, and every corner of the environment seemed to be illuminated with bright light. In a way, the sunshine was an affront to her psyche; like salt in an open wound.

The gentle melancholy covered her now like a soft cloak, but threatened to grow heavy and make even breathing difficult. It was familiar, though not comforting. The present melancholy was bearable, and she was, to a point, comfortable with it in the sense that she could function with its presence. The heavier cloak seemed to tear into her spirit like claws; tearing her into fragments of her former self.

Memories of the years gone past flooded her mind again. The scenes of classroom tears where she would melt and be gripped by fear that kept her frozen in the chair. The desk and the chair would be wet, and yet she could not bear to move on her own. Inevitably, the bewildered teacher would either call the guidance counselor or bring her down to the counselor's office themselves. Whispers of ridicule swarmed around and inside her head to terrorize her. Classmates were often dismissive and figured that she was trying to get out of doing any work. A shield went up around her and she tried to hide within herself from the criticisms. There was nowhere else to go. Where could she be alone and just purge the sadness from her spirit? If she knew, she would certainly try to avoid making such a spectacle of herself.

Writing provided an outlet for her discomfort, but it came at a price. She had not been in a good frame of mind when she wrote the notes, and the impact they had was not good, either. She wrote a few that were red-flags for self-injury, and was called up on the carpet for them. In a way, she could understand what the problem was. However, there were those moments that she didn't know what else to do to send up the necessary smoke signals to yell out to someone that she was not going to be able to weather the tempests much longer. Her parents didn't seem to really understand that she was really lost. Their shouts of concern and the anger she felt from that concern were discouraging.

Writing was the only way she let out some of the pressure she felt inside. It also caused some problems when she wrote the contents of her soul.

These scenes had been happening in some form or another for years. When she was single, she was able to get away by herself more often and just let the inner poison drain out of her. She could hardly stand when she had been weeping for an extended time, but then there was an eerie peace that surrounded her afterwards. In a way, she had become addicted to that surreal calmness of spirit.

Married now, the days formed themselves around her husband and two children. They had needs, too. Dinners needed to be cooked, laundry needed to be done, and bills needed to be paid. The household had to be organized to promote some semblance of sanity for the family as a whole, and that in itself was enough to keep her busy. She liked her life on one level. The level that was normal and that encircled her in a realm of family and love was a work of art in progress.

The level she tried to keep hidden was the zone that was giving her grief now. She had managed to bring the kids to her mom's house for the afternoon. It was summertime, and the kids were out of school. Both grandparents and children were happy to spend some time together anyway. It worked out for her to be able to try and heal up from the latest assault.
She loved the beach when she could find some shade. It was even better if she could find a park that had a beach connected to it so that both green grass and ocean were offered. Today she had found that alcove of respite that would enable her to drain the familiar poison off so that she could try to get rid of it.

Ella had purposed in her heart to not take her own life. She wanted to live and she was going to live, and that was that. She would not give her enemy the satisfaction of taking her down for good. The tenacity that had brought her to the edge of 40 was going to have to keep working for her. It was a gift she needed intimately.

There were those times that she didn't think that she was going to make it out of another abyss. These were the times that she wrote those notes to her classmate.
These were the times that she just melted into a shell and displaced her humanity in the name of relief. It was one of these times that she found the straight pin and made a start of what could have been the beginning of the end. It never went any further in the natural, though it continued in the mental realm.

She pulled herself back to the present day and saw the trees swaying their leaves back and forth in the light wind around them both. Ella felt kissed by heaven when she felt the wind on her face, and sent up a prayer of thanksgiving to her God. He had promised never to leave her or forsake her. She took that on faith, as she could not feel that presence as she sat in her inner darkness. Right now, she just wanted to fade into oblivion. She was guilt-ridden for even thinking such foolishness, and felt also that her weakness was embarassing. She wanted to hide this from people, to keep them from knowing that she was not in her right mind. They had nothing to fear from her, as she did not hold anyone else responsible for the present or past unpleasantness. Still, there was nowhere else to go, and she felt penned in like a caged animal by the demands of her life.

Ella would be able to shift gears soon so that she could go back to her car and head toward her parents' house to pick up the kids. The real world was waiting for her, and it was a welcome change. She told herself that this inner world was not real, and that was a part of what kept her going. The real world was what was happening around her; with her family, her church, and the rest of the world as she understood it. It didn't actually make a lot of sense sometimes because it was real when the inside hurts and hauntings spilled out into becoming real. She wanted to hide. Where could she hide? There seemed to be people everywhere, and there was nowhere else to go.

She heard a car horn in the distance. She looked at her watch and saw it was already 4:30 in the afternoon. She would live another day, and continue to heal up from the cloak and its' claws. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" she thought. The verses would come to her now and whisper words of peace and hope. They were real; as real as anything that ever existed. Ella arose and headed towards the parking lot. She missed her kids, her husband, and those little chocolate truffles in the drug store that came in a black wrapper. God would be faithful, and she would rise again.

Prayer Request

2007-05-01T17:12:00.000-04:00

Becka hung up the phone, her mouth still spread in an oval of shock. This was big. Really big. Leslie Barker’s son was gay. According to Stephanie, Leslie had tearfully shared the earth-shattering news with the ladies prayer group at her new church just yesterday morning. Stephanie knew about it because her cousin Val attended that particular prayer meeting. Steph said that Val said that Leslie just broke down sobbing, then poured out all the sordid details while her Christian sisters fed her tissues.

Leslie discovered the horrific truth when she became concerned about some odd behavior and read her son’s emails while he was at school. Turns out he’d been frequenting gay chat rooms, emailing a school counselor about his feelings, and corresponding with some other teenaged boy with whom he was having a relationship.

Becka thought about Donny Barker, his high-pitched, somewhat feminine voice, his delicate hands and girlish gait, not to mention his talent for drama and art. She might’ve guessed.

She topped off her mug, warming the coffee that had grown cold, forgotten during the phone call. She smirked, remembering how Leslie used to brag about her Donny when she still attended Laurel Bible Church. Donny was on honor roll. Donny was almost an Eagle Scout. Donny was thinking about going into missions. Becka’s Trevor and Carter were only average students, but at least they weren’t gay.

Once, when the boys were going through a rough time, Leslie had the nerve to suggest Becka read some book on parenting. Becka had smiled, then ignored the advice. Who was Leslie to judge Becka’s mothering skills? It occurred to Becka now that she could have taught Leslie a thing or two. Maybe if Leslie had been a little more laid back, like Becka, Donny wouldn’t be involved in such immoral behavior.

Becka set her coffee down. Leslie mustn’t feel so high and mighty now. She and her deacon husband with their perfect family that did nightly family devotions, took mission trips to Haiti, and home schooled rather than be sullied by public education. Ha, Leslie Barker! Looks like your son got sullied anyhow.

She pulled her address book from a shelf and took it, along with the cordless phone and a fresh pack of double-stuff Oreos to the kitchen island. She parked on one of the stools, then pointed the remote at the small countertop television, changing channels until she found what she was looking for—General Hospital. She thumbed through the address book.

Top layer of the cookie neatly munched off, Becka licked the white middle and watched TV. On screen, an actress wearing a red negligee rolled around in a king-sized bed with the muscular husband of another character. The scene aroused her and she licked the frosting harder, riveted.

“Hey mom,” The door slammed as Carter trooped in from school. He leaned his skateboard in the entry and dropped his book bag beside it. “We got any ice cream?”

Becka wiped black cookie crumbs from her lip. “Fudge swirl. Just a little left.”

On his way to the freezer, he paused to retrieve a clean spoon from the dishwasher. Becka watched his eyes linger on the TV screen. The actress’s skimpy attire had shifted during her wild mattress dance, so nearly her entire breast was exposed. Carter swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. No, she didn’t have to worry about him being gay.

Suddenly Ronald McDonald’s face filled the screen and Carter lost interest. Once he grabbed the gallon ice cream container, he headed for his bedroom.

Taking advantage of the commercial break, Becka started dialing. Leslie wasn’t her favorite person; that was for sure. But she was a sister in Christ. The least Becka could do was call all the ladies at church so they could pray for her during this difficult time.

Mary Herman picked up on the other end of the line, and Becka muted the TV before speaking. “Hello Mary, this is Becka. I haven’t caught you at a bad time? Good. I’ve got a prayer request. It’s just awful…”

Her Other Half

2007-04-24T19:12:00.000-04:00

Sandy pulled her long, black hair into a sloppy ponytail, then rinsed her hands and began kneading. The mixture felt cold and nasty as it squished between her fingers, the scent of raw meat, egg, breadcrumbs, and spices repugnant to her nose and empty stomach. As soon as the boys left for the bus stop, she’d jumped headlong into the task of feeding the crock-pot before so much as pouring her morning cup of coffee. This afternoon—crammed full with little league practice for the boys, a dentist appointment for her, and a stop by the church to set up for the missionary conference—held no time for dinner prep. It had to be done now or they’d end up in the McDonald’s drive-thru, spending money they really didn’t have and eating junk food they certainly didn’t need.

On TV, the crowd of Times Square Morning Show viewers cheered from behind the velvet rope that separated them from the show’s host. Jimmy left for work before Sandy and the boys woke up, and had left the set on. When Sandy came down, the weatherman was there to greet her with a sunny forecast. She glanced at the TV screen. Two chubby blond women in the group jumped up and down like cheerleaders holding a cardboard sign with the words, “Happy Birthday Grandma Eleanor!” written in red marker.

Sandy’s birthday was this Saturday. Her thirty-sixth. What would Jimmy and the boys get her? Would they remember? Thank goodness for girlfriends or she’d never have a cake baked for her. That was all right. She’d long been accustomed to her male-majority household with its lack of frills or sentimentality and its abundance of muddy footprints and bathroom humor. God gave her sons and one goofy but lovable man.

She expertly scooped handfuls of the greasy slop and formed them into reddish golf balls, then plopped them on a growing pyramid on the countertop. She’d quickly brown them, then set them to cooking in sauce—jar sauce today, no time for home made—in the crock-pot. Once that was accomplished, she could relax a bit with her Bible and coffee, maybe read a page of the Daily Bread devotional magazine, before zipping through the shower and starting the laundry.

The Early Show’s host announced a special performance by Montgomery Gentry, eliciting screams of delight from the Times Square crowd. Sandy wasn’t a country fan, listening usually to strictly Christian music, but she smiled at the song’s lyrics, and since there was no one but Lazarus the goldfish there to see, swayed her hips a little to the slow, bluesy beat.

I ain't tradin' in my family's safety
Just to save a little gas
And I'll pray to God any place, any time
And you can bet I'll pick up the phone if Uncle Sam calls me up
You do your thing, I'll do mine
Hey, I'll worry about me
You just worry about you
And I'll believe what I believe
And you can believe what you believe too

Jimmy was a military transplant she never would have met had he not been stationed in her New England town around the time she graduated high school, and a proud member of the NRA. He’d certainly appreciate the song’s sentiments.

She’d cleared all but about two meatball’s worth of gook out of the green and brown pottery bowl she’d inherited from her mother when the phone rang. Why did it always wait until her hands were messy? For a moment she considered ignoring the ring, but then thought better of it. Could be something about the boys—a playground injury, forgotten homework. Could be Jimmy calling from work or the pastor relaying details about the conference.

Sighing, she elbowed the tap on and plunged her meaty hands under the flow. Resisting the grease, the water beaded and rolled off her fingertips. The country singer droned on.

I ain't gonna spare the rod
Cuz that ain't what my daddy did
And I sure know the difference between wrong and right
You know, to me it's all just common sense
A broken rule, a consequence
You do your thing, I'll do mine

The phone persisted.

“Coming!” she called apologetically into the empty house and squirted a blob of yellow dish soap into her palm. She scrubbed frantically, trying to beat the answering machine, and then dried her hands on the way, using her nightgown, which was headed to the wash soon anyway.

She was there in the foyer, reaching for the phone when it happened. With her fingertips brushing the handset, she hesitated, distracted by a note on the foyer table. And something else. She leaned over, inspecting the items, vaguely aware that the machine had answered the phone.

You have reaching the home of Jimmy and Sandy…

That’s when her world exploded. The deafening sound of it drowned out everything else—the screeching brakes of the garbage truck and the barking of the neighborhood dogs, the distant voice on the answering machine, and both Montgomery and Gentry. The shock of the blast sent her hurtling to the floor. She felt pressure on her back, forcing her down. For a moment there was nothing, then a wave of nausea. Panicking, she realized that half of her body, or very nearly half had been blown away. Pain such as she’d never known radiated from her core to every extremity, and she wished she were dead. She felt herself bleeding, it seemed from everywhere at once, her life spilling on the freshly shampooed carpet. God, help me.

She’d always wondered if it was true, what they said about one’s life flashing before one’s eyes, and now she knew it was. The images scrolled before her like a lifetime's worth of home video playing in fast forward. Only the flashes began not at childhood, but with meeting Jimmy. The two of them sitting on opposite sides of a folding chair circle, a bible study for singles at a local church. She remembered the heat in her cheeks every time she peered up from her Bible and caught him looking at her. Right away she’d wondered, “Is he the one, Lord?” And he was. The movie trailer of her life continued, Jimmy, handsome and smiling his lop-sided smile, his eyes glistening as she walked toward him, her face hidden behind a wedding veil she’d embroidered herself. Jimmy squeezing her hand and whispering encouragement as birth pains threatened to tear her in two. In her present agony, the pains of labor seemed a joke. She saw Jimmy and the boys dragging a far-too-large Christmas tree through the woods. The boys learning to walk—toddling from Sandy to Jimmy and back again. Picnics, Halloweens, yard sales, baptisms… everything. Mostly, she saw she and Jimmy entangled in the darkness, making love in the antique bed they found at the flea market in Madison-- the bed their children were conceived in. She hadn’t been his one and only- he'd had other girls before her-, but he’d been hers. For a moment little things flashed through her mind—his pet names for her, the jokes just between them, the mole on his lower back. Then the slide show stopped and confusion swelled. Why, why, why...

She moaned, a deep, choking guttural moan that grew in volume until it filled the room and her head. The pain was too much. Too much. She could hardly think clearly to begin the process of reasoning how or why this terrorist act had occurred in her quiet home on Wren Street.

She didn’t know how long she laid there, tides of pain and shock overwhelming her. Then the phone rang again. She lay listening to it ring—once, twice, four times and then the machine. A moment later it started up again. From the kitchen, the traffic woman informed the TV audience about a traffic jam on I-95. Sandy marveled that life continued while she lay here bleeding. People continued on to work, the garbage truck—now a block away—kept moving from house to house, and the Times Square multitudes still pulsed through the street. While she bled and bled and bled.

Again the phone rang, the caller obviously frantic to get through. Shaking, she dragged herself to the foyer table, struggled to reach up and retrieve the handset from its cradle. When she did, the note came fluttering with it. The gold ring—a simple wide band—came falling too, the morning sun glinting off it briefly in mid-air before it plopped silently on the rug.

Numbly, she hit the “talk” button and croaked a greeting into the phone. Her voice sounded hollow, robotic.

“Sandy?” It was Don Hester. One of Jimmy’s pals. He sounded surprised that she finally answered. “You are there. I was about to give up. Where’s your other half?”

She stared at the ring, lying abandoned like her on the rug.

“Hellooo? Sandy? I said where’s your other half?”

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh. Words from their wedding ceremony seventeen years ago. Sorrow welled up and spilled from her eyes as the reality of it hit her. “Gone.”

Her other half was gone.

Lunch Lady

2007-04-15T15:56:00.000-04:00

Matilda pulled a tube of ointment from her apron pocket and squeezed some into her palm. She eyed her raw, cracked knuckles. Drier than Egypt after the seven-year famine. Wincing at the sting, she rubbed the greasy substance in, then pulled on a fresh pair of plastic gloves. The lunch bell rang and the sound of teenagers—wild and hungry after a morning of classroom-captivity—thundered down the halls.

She jogged on orthopedic shoes, arriving at her post just as the first kids, a herd of ox-like football players, stampeded in. They rushed for the trays all at once, nearly sending the whole stack crashing. Bobby Wheeler won the race and slammed his tray down in front of her.

She paused a moment to watch him stare at the massive pan of macaroni and cheese. His expression reminded her so much of her Great Dane at dinner time, she almost expected him to drool. She dug her long-handled serving spoon in, scooping out a portion and plopping it onto his tray. “Salad?”

“Can’t I have more mac and cheese?” His thick brows arched, and his eyes pleaded with her, making him appear all the more dog-like.

“One scoop a person.”

Tom Pierson gave Bobby a shove. “C’mon, man! We’re starving back her. Move it!”

Already the line stretched the entire length of the cafeteria. The kids filed past Matilda, most taking mac and cheese (second only to pizza in favorites), half wanting salad as well, and a few—mostly the anorexic-looking girls—taking only salad. Further down, Gwen offered bread and butter, and lastly, Rachel offered cups of “chocolate surprise,” a layered mixture of cake, pudding, and cool whip.

The kids waiting in line wrestled, joked, and inevitably made fun of her. When the gymnastics girls approached, Matilda could hear their whispers. You think she like wears that hairnet to bed? Sexy shoes, lunch lady. Matilda inhaled deeply, silently asking for grace. She didn’t want to hate these foolish, young girls. They didn’t know how, years ago, she’d been an Olympic hopeful, probably better than any of them on the balance beam. They didn’t know that she had a man at home who did indeed consider her sexy, hair net and all. One day I’ll trade this hair net in for a crown, won’t I Lord?

She smiled inwardly as she dropped salad-only on the skinny girls’ trays. They waited, chins raised haughtily, glitter accenting their eyelids and cheeks. Time would catch up with them one day, marring their perfect complexions, dimpling their toned thighs. Hopefully wisdom would catch up with them too as they hurtled trials instead of pommel horses, balanced on the tightrope of family and work rather than a balance beam, and learned that not all falls result in soft landings on cushy mats.

Matilda’s heart warmed at the sight of her next customer. Delia Dunbar (an unfortunate name the children twisted to Delia Dumbell.) Gangly and quiet, cursed with the worst acne, and dubbed a nerd, Delia kept her eyes downcast continually, from the time she entered the cafeteria until the moment she slunk into her lonely seat in the corner.

The cafeteria wasn’t the only place Matilda saw her rejected friend. She also saw her at church—still quiet and mostly alone, but singing. And smiling. Matilda could tell Delia loved the Lord. She longed to give the girl a reassuring smile, let her know she had a friend in this brutal place. Unfortunately, Delia never lifted her eyes long enough to see Matilda’s face. Even if she did, Matilda wasn’t certain she’d recognize the hairnet-wearing lunch lady as the woman from the back row at church. Matilda certainly didn’t want to make a show of introducing herself and embarrass the girl. Delia had enough problems without being known as the lunch lady’s friend.

As she dug her spoon into the bread crumb topping, Matilda had an idea. She scooped deeper, extracting a scoop nearly double-serving size. When the mound plopped on Delia’s plate, she started with surprise. Matilda cleared her throat, achieving the desired affect: Delia looked up. Matilda winked. The confusion clouding Delia’s eyes dispersed as the sunrise of recognition brightened her face and the slightest smile dawned on her thin lips.

Sensing their silent communication would soon be noticed, Matilda gave a nearly imperceptible nod, and Delia hurried on to Gwen and her bread, her head a little higher. Matilda heart swelled. Right on, little sister. You’re a princess.

"To Do Today"

2007-04-07T07:43:00.000-04:00

Proverbs 13:12 - Hope deferred makes the heart sick…

Tick... The lawn needs mowing
Tock... The car needs an oil change

Tick... There are ants on the carpet
Tock... There is rot in the deck

Tick... The porch is sagging
Tock... The roof is 20 years old

Tick... The windows are open and it might rain
Tock... The bills are due

Tick... There won’t be enough
Tock... I weigh too much

Tick... I’m tired
Tock... death

Talk? The lawn needed mowing

Listen? The car needed attention

Care? There were ants in the carpet

Accept? There was rot in the deck

Share? The porch was sagging

Grow? The roof needed attention

Respect? There was a chance of rain

Live? The bills were due

Love? I was afraid there wouldn’t be enough

Trust? I was unhappy with myself

Give? I was tired

Hope? died

Lifting Clarence

2007-04-01T20:19:00.000-04:00

Hannah lay crumpled in the grass, a clothes pin clutched in her hand and tears wetting her cheeks. She straightened her already-swelling ankle and rubbed it through her knee-high stockings. Pulling her housedress down to cover her knees, she searched the neighbors’ yards and sighed. No one had seen.

The wet clothes- Clarence’s white t-shirts, boxers and socks—lay in the dirt, still attached to the clothes line that’d broken and sent her tumbling. They’d need to be washed again. Hannah winced, imagining a trip down the basement stairs on this ankle.

The stairs she’d raced up and down thoughtlessly for thirty years had become a source of anxiety since what happened last Thursday.

Clyde, the furnace man had come up from the basement that day, his heavy boots thudding on the wooden steps. Hannah pulled the metal spoon from the beef stew she stirred, replaced the lid and grabbed her checkbook.

He appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You’re all set, Mrs. Glover. Furnice’ll run like a greyhound now.”

Hannah smiled. “Good. Need a healthy furnace in New England.”

After she’d paid him, he’d gotten into his red truck and slammed the door.

Her hand was back on the stew pot’s lid, when she heard the sound—a guttural cry she identified all at once as her husband’s. She raced to the basement door and descended, in slow motion it seemed. At the bottom, she stood on tip toes, reaching for the pull sting that would illuminate the dirt-floored basement.

“Hannah?”

Her eyes searched the dimness and caught sight of Clarence, huddled in the corner.

His face was white like the laundry soap, his teeth clenched. “My leg…”

“I’ll call the ambulance…”

“No! Help me… upstairs.”

It was the request of a proud man, an old Yankee carpenter who’d gone down to shoot the breeze with the furnace man, but stumbled on the stairs and fallen, hurting his leg. A man who’d dragged himself into a darkened corner rather than let that furnace man see him hurt. He’d waited a half hour to hear Clyde’s truck start up, before calling for help.

Looking into his eyes, Hannah knew he meant what he said. He wouldn’t forgive her if she called the ambulance. Lord, you’ve gotta help me. How long had the agonizing trip upstairs taken—a six-foot injured man, supported by a five-foot sliver of a woman? She’d prayed all the way and somehow, finally released her hulk of a man into the safety of his recliner, where he’d nodded his assent towards the telephone.

The x-rays revealed a degenerative disease. Clarence’s legs were weakening, the doctor said. Only a matter of time till he’d need a wheelchair.

“We’ll be all right,” she’d said, squeezing his wrinkled hand. “For better or worse, remember?”

Now, in the grass, she cried bitterly. Lord, I’m so afraid that I won’t be able to care for Clarence. I can’t. Unless You help me.

Already, her children whispered about nursing homes. Hannah overheard Neva’s hushed voice drifting from the living room last Sunday. She’d been basting the chicken, the oven’s hot breath on her face. Momma’s so frail. She can’t help Daddy get around…

How did they suddenly know so much, her girls who she’d taught to cook and sew and love God? Now they knew more than her?

The morning dew soaked through Hannah’s dress and she shivered, then struggled to her feet. She’d ice her foot and return for the clothes in a bit. As for tomorrow, she’d leave it to the Lord.

The Lord helped her through tomorrow, then the day after that, then through ten years. Together, Hannah and Clarence defied the odds, the combined effort of Clarence’s strong arms and Hannah’s strong love getting him in and out of bed, on and off the commode and into the old recliner where he spent his days. Hannah cooked and cleaned, sometimes mowing the lawn or taking the car in for work. Each night she helped him over the bedroom threshold, the one he’d carried her over on their wedding night.

On Sundays the children came always asking, “How are you two making out?”

Clarence would glance at Hannah and wink. “We’re doin’ fine.”

Still they whispered when she left the room to baste the bird—How on earth does she lift him?

She’d lean over the roasting chicken and smile to herself. She shouldn’t be able to do what she did for Clarence, any more than this chicken should be able to fly. But she did.

By God’s strength, she did.

*Author note: Hannah and Clarence were my grandparents, a New London girl and a Long Island boy who lived out their happy years in Waterford, CT. I wrote this story after reading a page from a diary of hers. She had fallen and twisted her ankle while hanging the clothes and wrote of her fears that she would not be strong enough to take care of Clarence, and her prayers that God would give her the needed strength. Which He did.

Jesus on the Street

2007-03-27T23:52:00.000-04:00

Janet Rubin

Nick shifted his truck into low gear, every muscle tensed, as he attempted to ease down the icy hill. He squinted against the sharp morning sunlight that glinted off a zigzag crack in the windshield. His vision was already blurred after thirty-two hours battling Blizzard Max. Halfway down the slope, the truck lost traction and slid, first one way, then the other, as Nick swiveled the steering wheel in a fight to regain control. He drifted dangerously close to a telephone pole and spun halfway around, before coming to rest in the middle of an intersection. His heart pounded and his hands shook.

He scanned the desolate street, relieved that no other vehicles occupied it. The storm had been so severe that even the diehard grocery shoppers had given up the previous afternoon and gone home. With the exception of a few gas stations, all of the businesses had closed up. Only plow trucks, police cars, and the occasional taxicab, roamed about like ghosts in a deserted town.

Nick struggled to stay awake as the truck crawled along the slick roads. His head throbbed, while every joint in his body cried out for ibuprofen. Shoveling heavy, wet snow from steps, hoisting the snow blower in and out of the truck and driving for so long had taken their toll.

An icy chill seeped through the floorboards, numbing his toes through his worn work boots. The temperature must have dipped below zero. The only place colder than this was his bedroom at home. He grimaced at the thought. As cold and lonely as this night had been, it beat lying in bed beside a wife who no longer loved him—longing for her, but knowing his touch would revile her. No painkiller would help the ache in his heart.

Nick checked the clock on his dash. Quarter to seven. He’d better hustle if he wanted to get his two church jobs done before Sunday services began. He’d hit Oceanside Bible Chapel, and then circle around to clear out Saint Mary’s. Coffee would be nice, but with no donut shops open, it would have to wait.

He maneuvered onto Maple Avenue, entering a residential area, unmarred by the town trucks. The snow was deep, but at least there were no more hills between here and the church. Ribbons of white clung to the power lines and tree branches, looking like party decorations someone forgot to take down. Snowmen lined the street, leaning precariously and horribly disfigured after the night’s sleet storm. Monster-like, most were missing one or both of their stick arms, some decapitated by the storm. The ones that weren’t headless watched his passing through sagging faces.

It took fifteen minutes to make the mile long drive, but finally, the steeple came into view. He wondered for the millionth time why he had taken this job. It paid less than any of his others, barely enough to cover the cost of fuel. He’d done it for his sister, Tammy of course. “It’s for my church,” she had said. “The Lord will bless you.”

He wasn’t sure why the church couldn’t pay the going rate. He saw the kind of people who attended here—people with good jobs and nice homes. The men of Oceanside Bible Church drove sports cars, not dump trucks. And they wore suits and ties, not jeans and t-shirts. Not a place where he’d fit in, though his sister insisted that attending church was the answer to his marital problems.

A few cars already dotted the parking lot. Why on earth did these people have to show up so early in a blizzard? Now he’d have to go in and ask them to move. Great. Just great. Nick slammed the gearshift into “park,” and shoved against the ice-locked driver’s door, until it opened. He dragged his ice block feet up the walk that led to the offices and knocked. He stood shivering until a lady in a pink, wool suit opened the door.

He managed a weary smile. “Good morning.”

Her eyes fell immediately to his ice-encrusted boots. “Wait here. We just got new carpet.” She left him standing out in the frigid air, while she scurried around the corner. “Pastor! The plow guy is here.”

In a moment she returned, and without glancing Nick’s way, got back to straightening a display of pamphlets. He strained and read some bold red letters that asked, “Are you going to HELL?” He shifted from one foot to the other, searching the room’s interior until he found a wall clock. Seven-thirty. Come on buddy.

Finally, the pastor breezed in and extended a manicured hand. “Dan, how are you?”

Nick didn’t bother to correct him. “I need you to move the cars out front so I can plow.”

The pastor frowned. “How about if we give you our keys and you can park them out back?”

God forbid he gets his fancy shoes wet. “Fine.”

“Hey Dan, since you’re here, can you shovel the steps and put down some ice melt?”

He already plowed the lot for pennies and this guy wanted more for free?
“No, I really can’t. I’ve got to get over to St. Mary’s after this.”

The pastor picked up a Bible from an entry table and cradled it like a baby. “You know, we have a lot of elderly members. I don’t want them slipping.”

Heat crept up Nick’s neck but he reigned in his temper. His sister would never forgive him if he cussed out her pastor. He clenched his teeth, forcing a grin. “Pastor, I have extra shovels and ice melt if you’d like to use them.”

“No, we have our own,” came the curt reply. “I’ll get you those keys.” He tromped off.

Nick turned and gazed across the sparkling, white churchyard. Icicles hung from the eaves that topped the ancient white columns, looking like daggers ready to drop on anyone too sinful that dared try to enter the sanctuary. A roadside sign proclaimed, “Jesus Loves You and We Do Too.” Oh yeah, I can feel the love.

He climbed into his idling truck and slammed the door, sending a mini-avalanche of snow cascading down the windshield. Then, he shifted into drive, dropped the plow and started criss-crossing the parking lot like a tennis ball on a court. As he worked, more early church-goers arrived, most opting to park precisely where he was plowing and many giving him dirty looks as if he were in their way. He’d have to tell Tammy he couldn’t do this anymore. The aggravation simply wasn’t worth it for the money he was paid.

Two hours later, the lot and walkways were clear. Nick’s legs trembled and dizziness washed over him as he heaved the snow blower into the truck’s bed. He needed to rest before hitting St. Mary’s. He made his way to the police station, a popular stopping point where plow truck drivers caught naps between jobs, then parked beneath a streetlight, slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. Karen Carpenter’s voice sang from the radio, soothing his nerves and lulling him to sleep.

Just as his breathing started to slow, a tap on his window startled him. “What the…”

On the other side of the glass, a man’s face grinned at him from beneath a blue, knitted hat. The stranger held up a steaming cup and motioned towards Nick, who rolled down the window. Couldn’t he get fifteen minutes of undisturbed sleep?

“Want some coffee?”

Who was this guy? Nick eyed the large Styrofoam cup, could smell the tempting aroma. His stomach growled. “How much?”

“No, no, it’s free.” The man pointed at a group of people gathered around a table by the station. “We’re giving out coffee to police and plow truck drivers. We want to show our appreciation. You guys must be beat. This is one heck of a storm.”

Nick narrowed his eyes to examine the stranger, whose open coat revealed a sweatshirt that read, “Jesus Freak.” He should have known.

“Are you looking for someone to plow your church?”

The stranger laughed. “No sir. Our church is just a Bible study that meets in my apartment. We just decided we’d come out and serve you guys this morning instead of having our usual meeting. Actually, I wouldn’t have thought of it, but Benny, one of our guys who used to plow, suggested it. We all thought it was a great idea. Jesus said to love your neighbor. I’m Tim, by the way.”

Nick relaxed. This guy was harmless. He reached out to take the cup. “I’m Nick and I’ve been craving coffee for hours. Thank you.”

The warmth from the cup thawed Nick’s stiff fingers and he sucked the hot liquid down fast, ignoring the burn in his throat. Soon, the ex-plow guy, Benny, showed up with a refill.

“Benny, this is Nick,” Tim gestured towards the window, “Nick, Benny.”

Benny held up a thermos and nodded in greeting.

Nick put out his Styrofoam cup. “So, I hear you used to do this job?”

“Yeah, I did, for years. Can’t handle it anymore. My son does it now.”

“You remember the blizzard of Eighty-three?”

“Oh boy, do I!”

The three men got so caught up in exchanging snow stories, that Nick lost track of time.
When he checked the clock again, it was nine forty-five. Refreshed, Nick tossed the empty cup, adding it to his collection of fast food bags and wrappers on the floor. “I’ve got to get going guys. Don’t want the Catholics upset with me.”

Both men shook Nick’s hand and Benny offered him a card. “This has my address. If you ever want to come check out the Bible study, we’d love to have you. It’s every Sunday morning. ” He paused. “Just call first in case we’re out doing the coffee thing again.”

Nick tucked the card into the pocket of his flannel shirt and said thanks. Driving towards St. Mary’s, he thought about the strange coffee guys. He’d liked them. They said they were following Jesus’ advice to love their neighbors. They were certainly more loving than the folks at Oceanside. He chuckled. Maybe Jesus had taken to hanging out on the streets. Perhaps He didn’t feel like He fit in at the churches either.

Welcome

2007-03-27T11:26:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the edgier side of Art 4 the HEart. Here, the Art 4 the HEart gang let's it all hang out, exposing our uncensored art, and debating the role of Christians in the art world.