Novels in Three Lines or, The News in Three Lines
In 1906, Felix Feneon wrote 1,220 news items for a French newspaper. A sampling of his journalistic genius appears below.
"To die like Joan of Arc!" cried Terborgh, from the top of a pyre made of his furniture. The firemen of Saint-Ouen stifled his ambition.
Frogs, sucked up from the Belgian ponds by the storm, rained down upon the streets of the red-light district of Dunkirk.
There was a gas explosion at the home of Larrieux, in Bordeaux. He was injured. His mother-in-law's hair caught on fire. The ceiling caved in.
Responding to a call at night, M. Sirvent, café owner of Caissargues, Gard, opened his window; a rifle shot destroyed his face.
Mme Fournier, M. Vouin, M. Septeuil, of Sucy, Tripleval, Septeuil,hanged themselves: neurasthenia, cancer, unemployment.
At five o'clock in the morning, M.P. Bouget was accosted by two men on Rue Fondary. One put out his right eye, the other his left. In Necker.
The schoolchildren of Niort were being crowned. The chandelier fell,and the laurels of three among them were spotted with a little blood.
A dishwasher from Nancy, Vital Frérotte, who had just come back from Lourdes cured forever of tuberculosis, died Sunday by mistake.
Finding his daughter, 19, insufficiently austere, Jallat, watchmaker of Saint-Étienne, killed her. It is true that he has eleven children left.
On the bowling lawn a stroke leveled M. André, 75, of Levallois. While his ball was still rolling he was no more.
***
I wish someone would be so bold with the 6 o'clock news! I never watch it any more; the sensationalism and melodrama wears me thin. Just imagine how any of these stories would have been treated by our popular news broadcasts. No, I thank you. I'll take Feneon's brief, well-crafted stories of action and desire.
With inspiration from Feneon's Novels in Three Lines, I've begun devising my own little "novels." In truth, my stories do tend to run longer than Feneon's--I'm only limited by what I can fit on half of a 3x5 card. I fold the note card to make a little book, and slip the volume into one of Benjamin's shirt pockets.
Shirt Pocket Stories, Volume 1
Pirouette
Cranberry Maine laughed when the branches creaked high above her head. She danced when the elm swayed in a mighty wind. But she fell, limp and pale, her face pressed to the dirt, when the muttering Puppenmeister slashed her tree-tangled strings with a knife.
At least The Times was honest. Here's the last paragraph of The New York Times Review entitled: "Confronting the Fabled Monster, Not to Mention His Naked Mom"
"Stripped of much of the original poem's language, its cadences, deep history and context, this film version of "Beowulf" doesn't offer much beyond 3-D oohs and ahs, sword clanging and a nicely conceived dragon, which probably explains why Mr. Zemeckis and his collaborators have tried to sex it up with Ms. Jolie, among other comic-book flourishes. The same no doubt accounts for why Mr. Winstone, an actor of substantial stomach girth . . . has been transformed into a generic-looking gym rat complete with six-pack. Somewhere in B-movie heaven Steve Reeves is smiling.
""Beowulf" is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Gory violence and a naked Angelina Jolie avatar."
Turns out, good hero Beowulf doesn't kill Grendel's mom after all. He does what any red-blooded Zemeckis and Gaiman would do: He lies with her and then lies about it. And the dragon at the end of the book? That's Beowulf's kid-by-Jolie. Don't know why I didn't see that in the original poem before. Somehow, I grew up thinking this was a story about moral courage. So glad Zemeckis and co. enlightened me.
Regular readers of my blog know I'm normally more tempered in my reviews and opinions. But quite frankly, I'm finding it difficult to meet this lewd tripe with anything but disdain. Scholarly, thoughtful opinion and adaptation I can and will refute in kind, even when I disagree. Voyeuristic perversions that hijack ancient literature to promote a renegade modern "philosophy"? Even the Times took its jabs, so I don't feel too bad about it.
NPR reviewers took time to answer the movie philosophically, but even they couldn't stick to the movie itself. Enter the lament on Hollywood:
"What's most troubling about Beowulf, though, is what it says about the Zemeckis' career. He's gone from being a director of stories to an orchestrator of eye candy — and a willing slave to technological advances. But rarely has so much expensive technique been put at the service of such feeble and pathetic screenwriting. The man who brought you Forrest Gump now worries about spurting blood. Thus does Hollywood devour its young."
Wanting some literary (and moral) purity? Check out Portland Studios' recent edition: The text is true to the original, both in courageous content and in poetic style. The illustrations are gorgeous, and there's even a three page appendix with literary and historical details. And in case you're curious about the philosophy behind the Portland Studios Edition, Check out Zachary Franzen's justification.
Full Disclosure:
I'm Senior Editor on the project. That's why I quoted The New York Times--so you know I'm not just tooting our own horn here. Watch for our review coming out in Booklist December 15. Interested in ordering? Just type in my initials ( SY ) on the order page to receive a 5% discount.
She came to me in cut off sweat pants, deflated tennis shoes,
and in the flickering greenish light, she held my silver-ringed hand.
Last night, when Mary came to me flat broke and and still smiling, I thought she was a hoax--a 250 pound jolly negress hoax.
And I, the 100-something pound gen-u-ine white Christian female trying to eat right and pay my bills and always vote Republican and not get into too much debt and clean my house and not dress too shabily, I did the right thing: buy her gas, buy her a drink, then, dutifully, offer to pray.
Gentle Mary held my hand. She let me pray. I said amen. I stepped away. Mary's hand clamped down on mine, before it slipped beyond her reach.
Mary prayed. She did not pray for food. She did not pray for her last remaining relative who recently attempted suicide. She did not pray for money. Or peace of mind. Or to know the will of God for her life.
Mary prayed, and the smooth alto of her prayer swung me up to heaven.
Beseeching God for His Kingdom. Asking Christ to spread His Glory. Thanking the Spirit for his Power. And, oh-yes-Lord Jesus, my sister here, my good sister here, bless her, too. We do not know where we walk, but we have confidence, we have strength. We do not know where we walk, but we stand in You. In Your love. Yes, Lord-Jesus. Help us stand. We stand in You.
Mary prayed in the tricky light of the gas station, and I, sitting at my desk the next morning, cannot forget the pressure of her hand on mine, the slick of her tears as we hugged.
Rioting broke out today as Mr. and Mrs. Young of Poplar Drive celebrated Mrs. Young's recent graduation.
Uninvited revelers stormed the house at 9am, eating everything in sight and stealing the cat's litter right out of his box.
"It was quite embarrasing," Mr. Emile-The-Cat commented.
Mr. and Mrs. Young acted quickly to round up the invading ants, and even Mr. Emile-The-Cat exercised his usual quick wit and bravery--he promptly and heroically sat upon the pile of offending insects, refusing to budge from his self-appointed post.
"It was itchy," he said.
The food eaten, the house a shambles, Mrs. Young holds her diploma and shakes her head. "I never expected it to end this way."
But not everyone in the Young household is so discouraged. Despite the tragedy and failed celebration, Mr. Young has a gleam in his eye. Chemicals in hand, he heads out to clean up the neighborhood and make the world a safer place for us all.
The family fish declined to comment.
Stephanie Young
Bachelor of Arts, Creative Writing
summa cum laude
I used to be used to loud knocks in the middle of the night.
I used to be used to being scared by strange men standing on our porch.
I used to be used to big men asking my husband to step outside and "talk" in the middle of the night. To falling on my knees and begging God to protect my husband as he drove a mentally off-kilter man to his trailer at two in the morning.
But not anymore, not two am this Monday morning.
I am not used to this. Not any more.
Can it please stop?
At least this big man on this Monday morning was a big police man.
And officer friendly had banged on our door to ask if we were doing okay.
And if by chance we had recovered our stolen license plate.
Our license plate. Oh, that.
We had forgotten about it, almost.
It had been stolen two months ago, and we reported it, but didn't think too much about it. We didn't think too much about it, because we thought we knew "who done it."
Right before the stealing, Ben and I had been helping a young professing-to-be-Christian man, sometimes providing work, sometimes providing money and food.
And then, increasingly, we were providing rides to unusual places in the middle of the night. We grew suspicious. How ended he up on our side of town most nights when he didn't own a working car and lived on the other end of town? And what was that smell, that smell always on him in the middle of the night?
Then we picked up another person in the middle of the night. A person weaving, and singing, and crying, and walking in the middle of our street. We picked her up so she wouldn't get hurt and drove her all the way across town to her home. And she had this smell, this smell on her body like our other middle-of-the-night friend.
We finally understood. And we had funded several hundred dollars of our middle-night-man's habit. The last time he asked for help, we offered counselling, offered GED testing, offered things to get him back on his feet and back off the drugs. He got angry. He and his smell never came back. For a month, I didn't sleep well. I kept thinking about him coming back one night with too much smell--too much smell to control. Thinking about my husband being not nearly so big as that man and his powerful smell.
Then our license plate went missing.
I struggled with whether or not to report it. If they take from you your coat, give them your cloak also. But we were afraid of someone using that license plate to hurt people, to make more people take the smell. So we reported.
Two months later, after I learn to stop expecting the smell,
Big-Man-Officer bangs on our door to say,
"I found your plate.
I found it last night.
Do you have any idea who stole it?"
I start to open my mouth,
but he swings his flashlight around,
points it across the street,
across the street at our neighbor's house.
And there it is, our tags on their car.
"I'm going to get it back for y'all."
He says and leaves,
and we see that there are three police cars,
and more officers.
This is the last thing that I see,
because I run to the bathroom,
sick.
We never never never even met those neighbors.
14 months in our house.
We have Christ. We have life.
And we never never never even TRIED to meet them.
It's a grandma. I know that.
A grandma raising her very ill grandson.
With loud and irresponsible grown children
coming and going and coming.
And I am in shock.
And Ben says, she's outside now.
And very angry.
Flailing at the Big Police Man
until another of the many Big Police men
pulls out his gun.
And then she is very quiet.
And they take the license plate
to test for finger prints.
And the three cars, and the non-smelly highly efficient middle-night-police-men disappear to wherever it is they go after they disrupt sleep and life.
And we, we neighbors on opposite sides of the street pretend to go back to sleep.
But we don't.
And I wonder all night
what-is-she-thinking?
How can I know her now?
Now she has a record, a sick grandson,
AND a distrust of the Christians across the way.
Please, Lord, help her sleep,
keep my stomach inside my body,
and protect us both from the middle of the night.
or
What I Saw in Church this Sunday
Little brown-haired girl,
leaning on her daddy,
singing the Sunday-songs.
"Lift up your hands."
She sings. He sings.
She does. Lift up her hands.
Daddy, behind her,
supporting her small frame,
rests his hands on her arms,
andshovesthemdown. Quick.
Little brown-haired girl,
still leaning, still singing
her Father's empty praise-words.
Not understanding the rebuke.
Again the little hands reach up to
a big God.
heshovesthemdown. Hard.
Daddy picks up his little girl,
holding her arms tightly to her body.
Sets her on the pew.
Here are crayons.
Here is paper, Little Girl,
Draw Daddy a picture, Little Girl,
and stop embarrassing him.
But I try--a lot.
I have this weird condition.
My head knows my fingers don't make pictures.
But my fingers don't know that.
So I get these irresistable urges to draw something.
And I ususally try.
Don't laugh.
Ben. Attempt the first.
Ok. So maybe you can laugh.
-------
Ben. Attempt the second.
Embarrassing Truth: I danced a little dance. And I cried. Yes. Cried. It's...a big thing for me. "Drawing" was a euphoric term for the little girl me. "If only I could draw..." I know it sounds silly, but it felt like tonight, in a silly little way, on a scrap of manilla paper, I did that. I *drew* I looked, and I thought I saw Benjamin there on that piece of paper. And I put him there. So I danced.
I know many of you are artists. But I couldn't help posting my one itty bitty little doodle. Yeah, I'm a perfectionist, and I can very clearly see that the sketch is pretty bad. But that's the grown-up me, and she doesn't care right now. The little girl inside is very happy with her picture and wants to hang it on the refrigerator....with those jumbo plastic alphabet magnets. And if you give me the whole alphabet, I promise not to spell derogatory names for my little sister this time :)
I like ceiling bumps.
To date, I've discovered Richard Nixon, a Seahorse, and an Asian Elephant among the dots that hang above our heads. And it's a mighty handy pastime since all the time I pass is passed flat on my back.
Yes, the idol-goddess-me-who-can't-stop-cleaning-because-me-my-house-and-
everything-around-me-must-be-perfect-so-don't-you-dare-ask-me-not-to-overdo-it has been felled from her lofty pedestal and now resides in a reclining position within the house.
I think it began with the bathtub. Or maybe the boxes. But I'll say it was the bathtub. The former residents of our residence chewed all the enamel off the bathtub (perhaps the residents were rodents) and then proceeded not to clean it for the next decade. The ever helpful bathroom molds and scums (of the black and pink varieties) decided to replace the enamel with something much more resilient--themselves. Idol-goddess-me could not bear to allow such scum to perpetrate acts of reproduction right beneath my feet, and she declared all-out war.
Five days later, I have learned two things:
1. My worth as a housewife is not determined by how well a person can see his reflection in the bathtub. (And who'd want to do that anyway?) This is a big step for idol-goddess-me.
2. Unless you should like to have reinforced steel rods inserted into your spine, don't mess with bathroom scum. No, it's not altogether that awful, but it's close.
3. Ok, so I learned three things. Perfectionism=pride (usually). I have been cleaning, unpacking, attacking the bathroom for three weeks straight. No breaks. No time-outs. No sipping of tea and reading of books. No writing. Just the idol-goddess-me screaming "You can't stop until this house is clean!" and stomping on my brain as though it were a trampoline and driving me with a cat of nine tails to clean clean clean clean "till this floor shines like the top of the Chrysler building!" (The idol-goddess-me sounds suspiciously like Miss Hannigan, even though I pretend really hard that she looks like Meg Ryan and acts like Mother Theresa.)
All that to say, I have been proud. But more than that: the grace of God has caught me, stopped me, placed me on my back, and given me ample time to rest. Yes, my kitchen is a disaster, and I refuse to think about what sort of party the mold is throwing in my bathroom. But the important things are: I have remembered the goodness of God. I have read two whole books. I did find Richard Nixon. And I wrote a blog.
Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love, for his wondrous works to the children of men!
I have a scene,
a scene from a play not written,
that has been haunting me.
It accosted me yesterday,
when I didn't expect...
already written,
directed, acted,
there in my head,
all of this scene.
All of it.
I watched it.
For some reason, I was afraid of it.
But it kept coming back to me,
this scene,
no matter how much I ran away.
After two days of running,
I know now
it is something I must write.
I don't know more of the story
than what I post here.
But I know I have to put it up.
Like I said,
it is unwritten still.
And just this one time,
though I welcome comments,
please,
make sure that you don't comment
on what could, might, or should happen next.
--untitled--
A small kitchen and dining room.
No decorations, no paintings. A
fish bowl (the old round variety)
in the middle of the table. A
basket of food on the counter by
the sink. A mother. Her twelve
year old son.
All is silent, but for the low
buz of the kitchen timer (the
noisy, wind-up dial type).
DARLA listlessly rummages through
the basket, more running her
hands over items than actually
looking at them.
CHASE sits on the counter. The
silence prevails for a full
45 seconds.
DARLA You like mandarin oranges?
CHASE Yeah.
The silence resumes. DARLA opens
the can, dumps it into two small
bowls, taps the can on the side
of a bowl to drain the juice, then
sets the bowl next to Chase.
CHASE Thanks.
CHASE stares at the bowl. DARLA
watches him, then places one of
the orange-sections in her mouth,
delicately.
CHASE They look like little fishes.
DARLA pauses for a moment, then
spits the orange (yet un-chewed)
into the sink. She rinses her
mouth out with water from her
cupped hand under the faucet.
CHASE Sorry.
DARLA S'ok.
DARLA dries her mouth with the
hand towel, and dumps the mandarin
oranges into the sink.
DARLA You're right. They do look like fish.
CHASE jumps down from the counter.
He wraps his arms around the fish
bowl, his chin on the table, his
forehead pressed against the glass.
He watches the goldfish.
CHASE Did they bring us any of those cheese thingys?
DARLA looks through the basket,
almost desperate. The kitchen timer
goes off. SHE jumps. CHASE does not.
Another moment of looking.
DARLA No.
CHASE They did last time.
DARLA opens the oven and removes
a pan of french fries. SHE grabs
the ketchup from the refridgerator,
puts both on the table, plops in
a chair, squirts ketchup in the
corner of the pan, and is just
about to eat her first french fry.
CHASE (Who hasn't moved) You forgot the mustard.
DARLA lowers her french fry, and
stares at the goldfish herself.
CHASE waits a moment, unwraps
himself from the fish bowl then
gets the mustard out of the fridge
himself. HE squirts some in another
corner.
CHASE For Dad.
HE pops three french fries in his
mouth at once, and resumes his
position at the fishbowl, arms
wrapped tightly around, chin on
the table, forehead on the glass.
DARLA has not moved except that
her eyes have followed the move-
ment of the fish.
There is a knock at the door.
Wow.
I need to work on my poetry.
Judging from these comments and the e-mails I've gotten, I completely missed that one. But that's ok. That's why I blog...to be refined.
So. Here's the scoop on Dulce.
1. It is not a comment on patriotism, the war, or current politics.
2. It is not a statement about current restrictions on television viewing resulting from my affiliation with a certain university or religious credo.
3. It is not a brood-ish piece...at least, I didn't intend it to be so.
What is it, then?
Visit a friend's house. Open the door, and walk into the living room. Friend is sitting in the arm chair, limp. She's staring at that box-in-the-corner again. Sit down to stare at it with her.
It's a TV show of the Police Shoot-Out strain. But this episode is based on a true story. Good stuff. Watch some more. And get really worried about that one Cop that you really hope doesn't get shot, but you know he will. You bite your lip and wait as all the people around him get torn by semi-automatic-shots. No, forget the semi-bit. Don't you remember what your Uncle told you? That's automatic all the way, baby. Tense. The muscles in your neck are really tight. The gunman points right for the cop, Your Cop. Gasp. Commercial break. The third one you've sat through already.
Make small talk. Very small talk. You're both worried about him. So talk doesn't make sense. Show resumes. He's shot. Heart pounds.
[interruption] (from somewhere back in your consciousness.)
"In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking drowning."
"But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one."[/interruption]
Images from Wilfred Owen merge with the box-in-the-corner. The lad in arms. The sacrificed son. The coughing of blood from war-torn lungs.
And for the first time, you're sickened by all the men rolling around on the grass, spurting blood from needless wounds. You've been sitting there for an hour. A whole stinkin' hour. You've blushed and turned away during the commericials, but it wasn't a big deal, I mean, really. The show's based on a real story. A real one. That's important. And you're a writer, too. That counts for something. Doesn't it.
You squirm inside. Writer. You. Wilfred Owen wrote because he couldn't escape those images. They changed him. And he wanted to be sure that everyone knew what was going on. You? You just sat there and drank in the death of twelve cops. No, thirteen. The red-headed one, remember? Owen called for action with his images, his graphic, putrid images. This show only calls you to stay tuned for next week's blood bath.
Go home. Try to sleep. Try to go to work the next morning. But Owen's still there. His cause. His reason for writing. Blog a poem. Blog a poem about how we just sit there, how we just like to sit there and watch men die. Maybe you don't agree with Owen's political stance. But you can't blame him after seeing what he saw. And he's done so much more than you. He had a reason and a reaction. Me? I just sat there.
5:35pm in my room,
ready to head off campus
for some much-needed
time with the fiance.
phone rings.
"Did you remember
that you're supposed to work
the 5:30-11:00 shift?"
5:40pm running down the stairs,
books spilling out of arms,
on the cell phone
with fiance.
"I just found out.
I have to work.
Won't get to see you tonight.
I hate this."
5:50 at the desk,
pretending to smile
and hoping the my eyes
don't look too red.
thinking,
"i hate this,
i want to see Ben
i hate this,
i have laundry to do
i hate this."
6:30 behind the desk,
hearing a conversation
behind me,
"i'm going to try
really hard
to get my white glove
done tonight.
yes, i know it has to get done.
i'm going to try.
i will."
6:32 a glance over my shoulder.
it's the girl who lives
across from me.
her Daddy died
last weekend.
6:33 she's gone upstairs
to clean her room.
6:35 fiance. ben.
bringing me dinner
and offering to do my laundry
6:37
forgive me, Father.
i have sinned.
This is a Children's Lit project from this week.
I and two other girls were given a picture (from The Mysteries of Harris Burdick; if you ever plan to teach children, you should own it.)
The picture was of a boy skipping rocks, and the caption read: "He threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back."
From this info, we had to write a story containing the caption. We brainstormed some semblance of plot, and then I wrote what we had into a story. Hope you enjoy it...it's rather weird, but it was fun to write.
River Stones
Prologue
Sometimes, letting go is the hardest part.
Page 1
There is a rumor in our town. There is a rumor of a madman who lives in the
forest on the edge of town and sleeps on the ground like a dog. And like a dog, he eats moldy scraps from yesterday's trash. Those who have seen him say that he always carries...
But, I get ahead of myself. Every town has its rumored madman, you say. I should tell you why our madman is different from the rest. And so I shall. It all began one hot strange day in July.
Page 2
Peter held three stones in his fist and crunched them together. He liked the
grinding noise, especially today. He heard Mattie running up behind him.
"Peter, Peter, please play with me, Peter."
He sighed. His sister was always following him around. He threw the first
stone across the water. Only two skips. "I don't want to play right now,
Mattie. I'm thinking."
Page 3
But Mattie just stood there. "You're thinking about Merlin again, aren't
you?"
He chucked the second stone at the river. No skips. Just a loud klop in the
water. "Go away, Mattie."
"Mommy says Merlin's not coming back." Peter squeezed the rock harder into
his hand while Mattie kept talking, "Mommy says your dog died."
"I wish he were here. Right now," Peter whispered.
"Well, he's not. So will you play with me?" Mattie could be so...
"I wish he was here," Peter shouted, he threw the third stone out to the
water.
Page 4
He threw with all his might, but that third stone came skipping back.
Five skips, backwards, and the stone was at his feet again.
Page 5
Peter picked up the stone, carefully. It was dry and warm, warm like Merlin had
been. He smiled. "I wish..."
And before he could finish, he heard a dog bark. It wasn't loud. Just quiet,
like when Merlin came home after a good run. Peter squeezed the stone even
harder, and suddenly, he saw him. Merlin. He was far away and little, but he
was running towards Peter. "Oh Mattie, look!"
Page 6
"Look at what?" Mattie had started throwing pebbles into the water.
"Merlin! Look!" Peter dropped the stone into the river. And when he did,
Merlin disappeared.
"I don't see anything, Peter."
But Peter wasn't listening. He was groping, splashing, sloshing in the
water, trying to grab at that stone. He found it again. And when he held it,
Merlin came back. "There, see! Merlin!"
"He's not there, Peter," Mattie said. Peter dropped to his knees, petting
and cuddling the Merlin that wasn't there. Mattie started crying. "Peter?
He's not there! Peter? Please play with me, Peter?"
Page 7
That night at dinner, Peter wouldn't eat. And he wouldn't let go of the
river stone. He kept talking to Merlin. He kept petting Merlin. He wouldn't
listen to Mattie. Or to Mom. Or to Dad.
And after dinner, Peter wouldn't watch TV. He wouldn't read his books. He
wouldn't do his homework. He sat on the dining room floor, petting his
imaginary dog, and telling his sister to go away. He had a Merlin again. And
he didn't want anybody to take him away.
Page 8
For two weeks Peter wouldn't let go of the stone. And he wouldn't talk to
anybody but the Merlin that wasn't there. He went to school with Merlin and
he even went to sleep with Merlin. Then one night, he heard Mattie tip-
toeing into his room.
Peter pretended to be asleep. Mattie walked right up to his bed, and stared
at him. It seemed like forever, and it was hard to stay "asleep" with her
staring like that.
Page 9
But soon, she moved. She moved quickly, and before Peter
knew what happened, Mattie grabbed the river stone and started running. But
she was little; she wasn't fast. And Peter was fast. Peter was angry. He
sprang out of bed and tackled her. They wrestled over the stone, over the
Merlin that wasn't there.
Then Peter did something he had never done before. He hit Mattie. Hard.
Right on the face. She dropped the stone and cried, but Peter didn't even
notice. He scooped up the stone and ran out of the house. He ran down the
street. He ran down the street with the river stone and the Merlin that
wasn't there. And he never saw Mattie again.
Page 10
There is a rumor in our town. There is a rumor of a madman who lives in the
forest on the edge of town and sleeps on the ground like a dog. And like a dog, he eats moldy scraps from yesterday's trash. Those who have seen him say that he always carries a rock in his left hand.
"Every major philosophy has taken hold
because of the Storyteller,
and NOT the philospher."
DonnaLynn Hess
"English usage is sometimes more than
mere taste, judgment, and education--
sometimes it's sheer luck,
like getting across the street."
E.B. White
confession:
i collect off-the-wall postcards
(justification: they inspire my writing, ok?)
so.
i picked up a postcard of this
rather scruffy guy
cut off, T
cross necklace,
dark glasses,
long hair.
but there was something,
something in his stance,
and you had to believe that
he could conquer the world.
and i picked up another postcard.
of a very, very geeky guy.
but something in his
eyes (framed by way-huge-o glasses) said,
"i don't care what you think about me"
so i bought them both.
and brought them home.
only to discover,
that i had purchased
John Lennon
and
Bill Gates.
Don't know why, but here's a little story I wrote.
It's Christmas-y (in that it's set during the holidays...other than that?), so I figured this would be my contribution to our Christmas spirit.
The ending's still rather rough, I think.
* * * * * *"Only one loaf today, Jerry. I'm sorry," I say, trying not to sound disappointed. It's always hard to smile when we don't have lots of food at the food bank. Especially in these Colorado winters, and especially for Jerry. With some of the people, you don't care too much. They're like vultures, and you want them to go away. But Jerry, he's different. A nobleman in a homeless body, he's happy even when it snows on him at night. He's proud of having all the buttons on his one orange dress shirt with the hole in the left sleeve. And he says thank you, always. Even when I only have one loaf of bread to give him, like today.
But Jerry smiles at me, like always. He says, "That's ok, Angel. One loaf's better than none! And thank you for your most kind service." He takes off his sooty green ball cap and bows; I laugh. "Just be sure," he whispers loudly at me, "that you save a loaf for the new family. Came to the shelter last night, but they wouldn't take them in. Slept in their car, I think. I told them to come this way. Told them my Angels would take care of them." Jerry winks and shuffles away, pushing his squeaky cart to the other end of the warehouse. He waits in the long milk line next to Henry with the perpetual sniffle.
There's a long row of freezers with a few jugs of milk that we save for old people and small kids. There's a table scattered with a few dented cans donated from the grocery store, and a couple shelves with old donuts. And more than anything, there are lines. Lines for milk. Lines for one loaf. Lines for cans. It's almost like those pictures of Russia I used to see when I was a little girl. No food. Just long lines.
I smile as I hear Jerry faintly reprimanding another client "Don't forget to thank the Angel! She doesn't have to give you that milk." We're all angels, he tells us, because we "do good things for people who hurt." But Jerry doesn't bow for all the angels, only me. And I'm glad.
The lady with the green socks and swollen ankles is next in line. I repeat my mantra: "Only one loaf today; I'm sorry." She nods her head (her broken pink curlers slap at each other) and takes the food. Another, and then another time I have to say my phrase. "Only one loaf today; I'm sorry." Days like today, I want to quit. Want to go back to McDonalds, to my easy job selling cheap food to fat, rich people. Dad wants me to quit, too.
“They're lazy, Dana," he told me last night. "Why do you feed lazy people for free? It's not right. You're not helping them." I wanted to tell him that I'm lazy, too, sometimes, but he feeds me. Wanted to tell him that the people there work, they work harder than I do. I hand out loaves of bread during Christmas vacation. They don't have a vacation. "Living off handouts, and they're not even grateful," he muttered as he left my room.
“He's right,” I told the ceiling. Some of them don't work. Some of them, like the green-sock swollen-ankle lady, live off handouts. Why did I give her food? I couldn't say.
As I bend down to pull out a fresh box of stale bread, another figure comes to my shelves. I mumble the one-loaf line from below the table. I hear a laugh, not like Jerry's laugh. This is a feather-bed-rested laugh. "Goodness Child, what a joke!" It's Mrs. Connoly, our biggest donor (in more ways than one). I tell myself to be nice. Mrs. Connoly can afford lots of food. "You are a tease!" Mrs. Connoly says. "I do hope these poor souls appreciate your sense of humor as much as I do."
I glance at the line of hungry people, hoping they didn't hear her robbing them, didn't hear her saying "poor souls," didn't think that their souls were even poorer just because she said so. Like when I got my Strawberry Shortcake bike in the third grade, I thought it was really nice until my big brother wrinkled his nose up and called it "kinda nice." Then I didn't think it was so great any more.
"Mrs. Connoly," I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd be in today." And I put the bread on the shelf, trying not to be rude to our patron saint. Mrs. Connoly ignores the line and the hunger the moment she has my attention, and that irritates me. I know Mrs. Connoly is important. No. Mrs. Connoly's money is important. Without money from fat rich people who can afford to buy McDonalds, you can't feed poor people. I tell myself to be nice. Mrs. Connoly does have a good heart; why else would she give this money to us? And if she quit giving the money, there wouldn't be a food bank.
"I was out shopping," Mrs. Connoly is talking, "and I thought I should just pop in and see how my little project is going! I thought perhaps I could say a few words to cheer up your boss, but I see Kat's gone to lunch." She purses her pinkish-orange painted lips into a pouty face.
I wish that Kat wasn't at lunch. I wish that I could get back to my one-loaf hungry-people line. But I can't. Mrs. Connoly is dragging me over to inspect "her project": new posters to give our plaster-white walls a "touch of home." Some of these people have never had a home. And they'd much rather have food than posters. And three posters could buy one more loaf. I glance back at my station: a few shelves of day-old bagels, half-smashed Wonderbread, stale crackers, and a long line of hungry people. They're watching me, thirsty eyes following me across the warehouse. And Jerry is watching me, too, from the milk line.
"Well," Mrs. Connoly says, "I was hoping that the posters could be in green; you know, that Martha Stewart green that everybody's going for these days. I think it would go nicely with our slate grey.” She sighs. “But purple? We'll just have to start over."
Slate grey. That's what she calls the cracked concrete floor. "Martha Stewart Green" can't complement an ugly floor. The only thing our floor is good for is holding shelves of food. Lots of it. Lots of food for all the people that walk across our slate-grey floor, for the people who don't care what color the floor is or the walls. I get frustrated with the large Mrs. Connoly who probably doesn't know what color hunger is. And I tell her so, calmly, I hope. "Mrs. Connoly, I am sorry about the posters, but they're done now. And they're up. And I'm sure they're really homey-ish. But if you'll look at the people in line, they're not interested in the posters. The people want food."
Mrs. Connoly doesn't look. She winks at me and whispers, "Well, if the people want food, then maybe they should get a job!" And then she laughs at her wittiness. She laughs so loudly that the "poor souls" can hear her mocking laughter. I want to clap my hand over her mouth, tell her to be respectful. But Mrs. Connoly waddles condescendingly across our dirty slate grey floor before I can do anything about it. She starts taking the wrong-color posters down, humming to herself and looking out the window.
I return to feed my hungry line with just one loaf. "I'm sorry; only one..." I begin to say. But I see Mrs. Connoly huffing toward me like a fat hen in desperate need of a nesting box. She nearly topples the green-sock, swollen-ankle lady who finally made it through the dented can line.
"Dana," she says in a choked whisper, "there's a Mercedes out there! In the poor person lot." She nods her head a few times and repeats, "a Mercedes," just in case I didn't hear it the first time, I guess. "And, they're coming in here." Her manicured hand tugs at my grey sweatshirt. "Look, there they are!" I tell her it's rude to point, but she doesn't stop. "And dressed so nicely, too. I'm going to tell them to leave!"
I grab her silk blouse. I grab it hard, and I don't let go. The hungry people in my one-loaf line stare at me. I look out the window at the car. Mercedes, older, but still a nice Mercedes. The family is in the food bank. Dressed nicely, tastefully, no green socks, no orange shirts with holes in the left sleeve. I feel queasy; they don't need food. Why are they parked in the client lot? "Lazy, just plain lazy. It's not right," I hear my father say. And Mrs. Connoly's squawked "whispers" hit my ear: "Don't you feed them; they're just taking advantage of us." I start to let go of Mrs. Connoly. They shouldn't be here.
“May I help you?” My voice is shaky.
The man answers me politely, “Yes, we came to see about getting...food assistance.” He drops his eyes to the slate grey floor. It must be hard to say “food assistance” when you're used to driving a Mercedes. He hands me some papers. “I lost my job back in January. Here's the list of places I've sent my resume. They repossessed our house this week...the car's all we've got. I know it looks...well, quite frankly it looks like we've got a lot of money, but I spent our last twenty dollars putting an ad in the paper to sell the car. Here's the receipt.” I look at it and so does Mrs. Connoly.
Mrs. Connoly decides without my help. “I don't think we can help you,” she says.
I feel my face getting red, and I don't want to disagree with her. “Mrs. Connoly, I can't turn them away.”
“You can.”
“They've got proof.”
“People will go to no lengths of trouble to get a handout. You should know that by now. These are probably all fake.” She shoves the stack of papers back at the man. He doesn't argue. But I do.
Mrs. Connoly silences me with a sweep of her hand. “I do not give my money to institutions that lack discretion. And I don't think you want me to take these funds elsewhere. That's the end of it.” I stare at her, hard. I have to feed these people. But Mrs. Connoly knows we can't survive at the food bank without her money. She walks stiffly back to her stupid posters. “I want these redone by next week,” she says.
“I'm sorry, Sir, I can't...” I try tell the man, but my words get all stuck. He nods. My toes tighten inside my shoes, and I'm frozen to my spot. All those hungry people looking at me. The family starts to walk away.
“Well, I'll be!” I see Jerry's orange shirt out of the corner of my eye. “Never knew money could make folks so stingy. Well, it's a mighty nice thing I don't have any, then. Here you are, Sir. Hope this helps with the little ones.” Jerry hands the man his gallon of milk. And his one loaf. And his two dented cans of vegetables.
The green-sock lady brushes past me. “Take my bread, too,” she says. “One loaf won't be enough for all of you.” Others come.
Now Mrs. Connoly looks frozen to the floor. I walk over and finish taking the rest of the posters down. “I'll have these fixed in no time, Mrs. Connoly. What color did you want again?”
Let me tell you a little story.
When I first began attending my fundamental-independent-baptist church, I was shocked to hear my family mentioned as a prayer request at visitation. And I was even more appalled that the soul-winner/assistant pastor had pronounced them unequivocably unsaved.
I didn't know that anybody from the church had even contacted my family. I obviously took issue with the comment, respectfully of course. The assistant pastor and his wife had been out door knocking (the fundamentalist term for this is soul-winning) as they often did during the week. They pick a street on their way home, knock on a few doors, and then go about their evening.
One fateful night, they happened to land on my street without knowing it. Upon "witnessing" to my parents, they decided that they MUST be unsaved because....get this....because of the church they attended. This "awful" church used drums in worship, and any church who used drums was also charismatic, and by definition, charismatics must speak in tongues. And anyone who goes to such a church that believes in speaking in tongues is clearly not saved.
I respectfully attempted to correct the skewed picture, but this only cast me into the shades of suspicion, too. I earned a lengthy office visit, during which I assured the assistant pastor that nobody at the church engaged in that fateful "unbiblical" practice of tongues-speaking, but yes, they did use drums in worship, and no, they did not publicly condemn Billy Graham. I still had to fight tooth and nail to prove that my parents were indeed truly, Biblically saved and had "followed the Lord" in believer's baptism--by immersion.
After this new information, my family was graciously moved from "unsaved" prayer list to the "far from God" prayer list. This act of magnanimity was decided upon by the almost unanimous consent of the Thursday night visitation crew.
The one dissident (me) still insists that her parents have been and are godly, upright, and smack-dab in the center of God's will.
When I, righteously enraged, told my parents of the incident, my father quetly replied, "They're just trying to serve the Lord, Stephanie." He rebuked me for being so hasty to judge them, and reminded me that they were indeed godly men, and that even the most godly man will be confused along some point of his doctrine and practice.
Amazing. Even though vilified as unsaved and ungodly, my Father still believed that his accusers were godly, upright Christians. I tried to argue that they wouldn't give him the same benefit of the doubt, but I was shut down: "They're just confused, Stephanie. We all are. No one is perfect."
I tried to justify my church's actions, tried to reason it away. Perhaps it was only an isolated incident involving only one church. But the comments have never stopped coming--from many churches, many institutions. This week alone I have heard three statements (by prominent leaders of Fundamentalism) to the effect that "Any person who does ________ CANNOT be a devout, faithful Christian." And each of the "unpardonable sins" is either something that my parents do, or something that is practiced in their church.
Are we re-writing scripture by our practice?
- "By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if you wear clothes that don't look like the current fad."
- "By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if you don't listen to CCM."
- "By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if your hair doesn't look worldly."
- "By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples, if you separate from and denounce every brother who disobeys the first three commands."
I am sad, heartbroken this week. After a long battle to justify Fundamentalism's practice in my mind, I must now here admit that Paul's commendation of the Thessalonian church does NOT apply to us:
"Now concerning brotherly love you have no need for anyone to write to you, for you yourselves have been taught by God to love one another, for that indeed is what you are doing to all the brothers..."
1 Thessalonians 4:9-10
Let us pray.
And then let us do something about it.
an excerpt from chapter 23 of my new book:
"solutions to all your problems in eleven easy steps".
scenario:
benjamin gives stephanie
a box of lady grey tea at work.
stephanie needs to drink lady grey tea
to cure her frazzledness.
problem:
stephanie only has a metal mug at work.
metal mugs do not go in microwaves.
at least, not very well they don't.
frazzledness increasing rapidly.
solution:
1. place tea bag in mug.
2. remove ice cube tray from freezer.
3. empty ice cubes.
4. fill now-empty ice cube tray with water.
5. place in microwave on high for 2 minutes.
6. dump contents of ice cube tray into metal mug.
7. do not burn pinky.
8. let steep 2-3 minutes.
9. remove tea bag.
10. drink.
11. be unfrazzled.
caution:
contents may be hot after heating.
the happiest smile
i've ever seen
leaped upon the face
of that dear girl
(that girl who had rocked
back and forth
from fright
all through
the auditions)
the smile leaped,
i say,
the moment she,
having stumbled
most sadly through her piece,
stepped off the stage.
she made the auditions
worth all our toil.
just to see that
?i did it? smile.
<observation>
the rumble of a beat-up black pick-up truck, tailgate down.
skin head in a wife-beater t-shirt.
two jr-high age boys running out of the store.
the truck's door opening.
a beer can clattering to the ground, unnoticed.
“some-unitelligible-gruff-words-from-within-the-truck.”
“on the way. getting developed,”
the older boy answering,
“those pictures of all the women you want.”
the boys inside, door slammed.
truck rattling off.
silence returning.
my heart bleeding.
</observation>
"I'm 45 years old.
I'm at the very top of my profession.
And I've realized,
I've spent my entire life
making people happy
with a bunch of garbage."
The 45 year old man and his wife were our hosts for the evening. Time magazine, Business Week, MADD Magazine, Entertainment Weekly, The Tonight Show, all boast of having work from this man. His technique is studied in colleges around the country, and he even does lectures in various universities. "And now I'm finding out how empty that is. Especially after your program tonight. I don't have much time left. I've done nothing that will last."
"But I want to change that."
"I've been praying for a children's book. For a while I tried writing my own. But I'm not an author. I want to illustrate a children's book. I want to influence kids. I want to do something with this work, use this talent to serve Him."
We talked for a long time. And don't get him wrong. Most of the info about his accomplishments came from a little bit of research that I did on the web. This man could do much for our Lord. And I really want to see him with some fellowship among other Christian artists.
I told him I'd talk to some friends back at Bob Jones about a story for him to illustrate. He gave me quite a portfolio to show around. But there's a bit of a problem that he may not see.
A lot of his older work, though spectacular, is a little bit dark. It may be hard to sell a children's author, especially a Christian author, on doing a story for someone with that history, even if that someone has since changed. I'm not really sure what to do. I've been praying a lot, so now I'm asking you.
One person has presented the idea of having this man do Rime of the Ancient Mariner, just to get him started. It would establish him as a children's illustrator, bridge the gap between the styles, and show that he's really serioius about this new career path. It may be a good idea. Other suggestions? Other stories?
PS I can direct you to his online portfolio, if you are interested.
Friday, May 16
(afternoon driving day, with a stop in St. Louis)
one word.
or maybe two.
Bourbon Street.
It started because Brad wanted to see St. Louis.
And then we wanted to eat some authentic Creole food.
"Hey, guys, I hear Bourbon street's real famous.
They've got to have real good food down there!"
And I'm in the back thinking,
"Does he know what Bourbon street is famous for??"
But I keep my mouth closed.
Maybe I'm misinformed.
Then again.
Maybe not.
Picture the Bob Jones University van
creeping along
the blackest street
of Sin-City.
It was a van full of blushing faces,
to say the least.
We came to a general consensus
that never again
will Brad suggest a place to eat.
We wound up at a Red Lobster
Many miles outside of St. Louis.
Talk about real Creole food ;)
Sunday, May 18, Katy and Houston Texas
I have decided not to include every scrap of info about our trip.
I hope you do not mind.
The services went well.
I will only write the most memorable moments of our meanderings....
(sorry the fundamentalist in me took over, and I could not resist the urge to alliterate)
Monday, May 19, San Antonio Texas
Rest Day.
The river walk.
Wonderful thought.
Which is precisely why I decided
to *walk*
along the famous river walk
rather than pay $6 dollars
to ride a boat
down the famous river walk.
And so it came to pass that
while the others
were being annoyed by a tour guide,
I found myself
meandering happily around downtown San Antonio.
A happy discovery:
St. Joseph's Episcopal Church.
Built in 1868.
I walked all around the beautiful building,
and determined that I should come back tomorrow
and try to see the inside.
Tomorrow.
(the twentieth of may, two thousand three)
Some wanted to see
the IMax re-enactment of the Alamo's fall.
Not wanting to spend $9 on bad acting,
and very much wanting to see St. Joseph's,
I slipped away.
And spent an hour
inside the church.
Sitting,
Praying,
Soaking in the beauty.
Another moment of re-inspiration.
The vanity of religion.
My concept for Antigone.
Romans 1.
The creation of a God in our own image.
How many times do I do the same?
How oft do I act as the heathen do?
Every time I worry.
Every time I limit my God.
Every time I refuse to accept His forgiveness, His righteousness.
Then I have made God in my own image.
He is not altogether such an One as I.
Later we all met up to see the Alamo.
Excitement fizzled when we walked around the corner
Down-town, and saw it
sitting there,
surrounded by stores, malls, and lots of tourists.
It kinda reminded me of Disney.
I guess we just all expected the Alamo
to be out in the middle of nowhere.
But nope.
Right in the heart of San Antonio
sits a giant tourist trap they call the Alamo.
It was still really neat,
in a touristy sort of way.
But it made me sad.
People worshiped here.
So come spend all your money on cheap trinkets!
People died here.
Let's make some money out of it!
As you can see,
I am no big fan of tourism...
Wednesday, May 14, Hartwell, GA
First service.
It's started already.
Lasagna.
In those lovely foil pans.
We laugh,
knowing that our God's provision
often includes a healthy dose of the humorous.
Brad wouldn't believe us that
we ate lasagna all the time.
And there he stands,
a monument of irony.
Thursday, May 15, Pass Christian, MS
(A long day full of traffic jams)
A quick stop at the beach
Brings memories of a childhood spent by the shore:
Toes squishing in the sand,
waves lapping at my ankles.
Who cares if I'm wearing a skirt!
I'm going wading.
Tonight's service is one of the most
spiritually refreshing I have seen on the road.
This tiny church is occupied by 4 complete generations of the Ball family,
each growing more comfortable,
more attached to its idyllic Southern community.
Until one of the youngest couples
decides to shatter the comfortable reality they've built around them.
Amanda & Michael Ball
have just told the clan
that they are going to the mission field.
Emotional chaos, to be sure.
"No one's ever left!" They cry.
"What about my great-grandbabies?
You can't do that to them!"
Enter the unsuspecting BJU Drama team.
And a drama about leaving our comfort zones,
our plush lifestyles to minister to those around us.
A family shaken,
But a spark ignited.
Anticipation of a happy send-off
for the young couple.
Friday, May 16
Before we leave the now rejoicing Ball family,
We go to a nursing home.
How I miss these people,
these precious people.
Elijah.
He's in his fifties.
Deaf.
Cannot read.
Cannot sign.
My heart breaks.
Oh, but for a year to work with him.
To open the eyes of his understanding
that he might behold the beauty of our God.
Whitey is here, though.
Amanda's sister.
She's discouraged from long hours of fruitless labor.
We talk.
She leaves inspired to continue working with Elijah
and others.
And the others.
Daphne.
She's 25.
Cannot communicate but by typing.
The product of heroine.
Her husband, Turtle, fled.
Her child rarely visits.
But she radiates
with a joy that only comes from
contact with the Almighty.
I leave Pass Christian refreshed,
burdened, inspired.
This is the Lord's working, and it is woderful in my eyes.
Japan's famous haiku poet.
He traveled all over the country,
Writing a beautiful haiku journal.
Unfortunately, I am no Basho.
(Yes, I know what you're thinking:
"Basho was NOT this verbose.")
But many of you have asked me
to write a little of our day to day
meanderings.
Enter major problem:
Stephanie does not do group e-mails.
Enter great solution:
BLOG
(For those of you who are new to this territory,
a blog is an online journal, of sorts.)
So, if you received an e-mail leading you to this site,
this entry is to notify you
that you are on the list to receive my blog updates.
In luddite language,
You will get a generic e-mail
every time there is new info
about the BJU drama team posted on this site.
If you didn't get the e-mail,
but want to be on the list,
simply post a response to that effect
and you will be included in the next update.
Or, if you are on the list and you do not wish to be,
post a response to that effect.
At this time, I must go to our next service :)
So, you'll have to wait till the next post
to actually read something about the trip.
Once upon a very happy day,
I had gone with Grandma
to the little bitty mountain library,
ran my hands along the shelf (as was my wont),
and picked up the first book that popped out at me.
To my dismay, it was quite obviously
a fairy tale.
I sighed, much vexed in spirit.
But, it was my policy
to always read the very first book that grabbed my eye.
I trudged back to the car,
the loathsome book in tow.
Now, I had already learned
(through a prior bad book choice),
that when one finds oneself forced
to read particularly unpleasant literature,
it is best to do so out of doors.
The clean air and sunshine
helps alleviate
the general burden of the experience.
And so it was that I found myself
perched in a large aspen tree
in the middle of my grandparents' mountain property.
Reading a fairy tale.
But to my surprise,
this fairy tale was quite different.
The princess was, well, normal,
She didn't like frippery,
and she definitely did not look "princessish."
Yes, she predictably married a prince,
but at least he was every bit as ordinary as she.
And to top it off, they did not fall in love.
As far as I could tell,
they were the only fairy tale couple
to stand any chance of living happily ever after.
I was so pleased with the book
that I fully intended
to write down the title and author.
And I fully intended
to purchase the book for my children someday
as the first and primary fairy tale they should read.
I fully intended to do a great many things...
but something happened that ended our mountain stay
a good deal sooner than expected.
In the hustle and bustle,
I forgot about the book.
Every year when I visited my grandparents,
I went back to the library and looked for that book,
but never found it again.
Whenever I wandered their mountain land,
and passed that aspen tree,
I remembered the only fairy tale
that ever made sense.
And wished that I could find it again.
But nine years of visits worked upon my memory,
and in time, I forgot about that delightful book.
And only half remembered it
when visiting that musty old library.
Once upon another very happy day,
I celebrated my 22nd birthday.
My dear Ichiro
gave to me a book.
A fairy tale.
Even though he knew
that I abhorred fairy tales.
I took the book home.
And leafed through the pictures.
One in particular
jumped out at me.
Memory whirled.
Another picture.
And another.
Snippets of a story.
A tree.
An aspen tree.
In the mountains.
Of a little girl,
discovering a book so wonderful,
that she wanted to buy it for her
future children.
Thank you, Ichiro
Thank you for finding
my fairy tale.
I have waited long
to own this little edition.
They called themselves "People of the Living God." And we thought they ran a boarding school. But, right in the middle of a big swig of Kool Aid, I learned that we were horribly mistaken. "Yeah," the pastor casually remarked, "we eat all our meals together."
I was a bit confused, so I asked, "You mean, the entire church eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner together?" Another sip of Kool Aid.
"Yup," he nodded his head, "we live communally."
I almost threw my glass of Kool Aid down. "Communally?!" I choked.
We all sat there. The six of us. Terrified. Communally. That means...we're in a commune. A compound. Visions of David Koresh flashing before our eyes.
At first it was kinda cool. You know, one of those once-in-a-life-time experiences that you tell everybody about: "Hey! I was stuck in a commune in the middle of nowhere Tennessee!"
Then it got to be....not-so-cool when we learned that nobody leaves the commune. Well, except for the once a month grocery run. They all eat, drink, live, work, play....gulp...die in this "haven" complete with farms, roads (Zebu Lane), dining halls (Zebu Dine), living quarters (Zebu Lodge), hotel (ZebuTel), school, and cemetery (Zebutery--just kidding! The first four names were real...I didn't have the nerve to ask what they call their cemetery. Do you blame me?)
Then it got to be downright scarey when all the single guys came around to...shall we say, "survey" the newcomers (particularly those of the female persuasion). We had already secretly met to devise an escape plan, should one become necessary, and necessary was fast aproaching. Rachel and I bolted for our room, leaving some lame excuse about being sleepy, or tired, or hungry (to be honest, I can't remember what we said, but the point is, we got out of there). We locked our door and spent the night shaking in our beds.
Morning comes early. And unfortunately, so do the parishioners. A tour. And a history lesson about the "community" (for some strange reason they shied away from the terms "commune" and "compound").
"Well, back in the thirties...."
Oh, wait a minute. I must first introduce our tour guide. Mrs. Fountain. Cheery. Bouncy (every chubby ounce of her). Animated. And completely sincere. Even in those moments when you thought you were going to bust your gut trying not to laugh, she would plod along with her narrative, without a hint of a clue that her "sacred lore" was so....ludicrous.
Mrs. Fountain had the good fortune of being married to (you guessed it) Mr. Fountain, who, despite his inordinate joviality, was sorely vexed that he had waited a "whole ten years for my wife to grow up so that I could marry her." (Well, if the only woman in the compound who is not your cousin is 10 years your junior, I guess you have no choice but to wait for her to grow up.) But, the most wonderful thing about their courtship: "We were actually allowed to date at the dairy barn!" Can you believe it? The dairy barn? NO! Really? "Yes! And you know what? By the time we were married--giggle, giggle--we didn't even notice the smell anymore!" How wonderful. As Droopy Dawg would say, "I'm so happy."
"Well, back in the thirties Grandpa...." Hold it. Grandpa. They ALL called him Grandpa. "Grandpa had a dream from god that he was supposed to start a haven for Christians in Tennesse, Washington, Louisiana, and Canada. So...we started communities in Wahsington and Louisiana. Then god closed both of those communities--whisper--people problems." At this point we decided that "god" wore a badge...and a blue uniform."So, now we're in Tennessee, just like Grandpa's dream!"
They have around 100,000 acres. And 4 new buildings under construction. I looked around. There were only 40 people or so...that I could see. "Um, why are you putting up all these new buildings?" I ventured to ask. "It doesn't look like you have the people to fill them."
"Oh, those? Grandpa had a dream that more people were coming. So we're building these to get ready for them."
Call me rude, but I could resist: "Did Grandpa's dream tell you where all these people would be coming from?"
Mrs. Fountain, Dairy Barn Dater Extraordinnaire, blinked a few times, then answered: "Well YOU came, right?"
Nervous laugh. Must not...bolt...for...door....AAAAAAH!!
Yup. Traveling. It's great.
And if you are ever in need of a place to stay...I know of a really great hotel in the middle of nowhere Tennessee. :)
Dear Mrs. Harris,
Leaning over his walker, the stranger gently chided, "Young lady, you need to come apart and rest awhile." Without slackening my pace, I mumbled something about being too busy, and maybe later I could rest. I charged right by, intent upon all the "good" things I had to do that day--visit a friend in the hospital, write a paper, go to a rehearsal. Rest? Nope. That wasn't on the agenda.
But his gentle admonition continued whispering to my frantic soul. Slow down. Come apart. Rest....Be still. I could not escape it. I scurried back to the bench in hopes of finding him again.
There he sat with his wife, both lightly dozing while keeping one hand on their walkers.
They awoke and smiled as I passed. "May I join you?" I timidly asked as I sat on the bench. A nod. A smile. Silence...and more silence. I shifted uneasily in my seat. "What a beautiful butterfly!" the wife said at last. But it wasn't a comment driven by a dislike of silence or forced out by the awkwardness of the moment. Indeed, she was not the least bit uncomfortable as silence once again descended.
I felt the tension oozing out of my muscles. Come apart. A most delicious sense of calm swept over my spirit. I sighed. Not a sigh of worry or exhaustion, but of complete content The silence was soothing.
"Jesus loves us, this we know..." she had begun to warble that little song! And nothing seemed more natural than to sing along. So I did. Never before had that song seemed so real as it did when it passed through her lips. It ended. A hush fell. Then one of them quoted a passage of scripture. Another song. More scripture. Silence. Song. And that's how we passed the afternoon. I have no idea how long I was there. It didn't matter. We never had introductions. They were unnecessary. We were in Christ. And that was the most blessed time of fellowship I've ever known. Scripture was natural conversation for these dear saints. I later learned that I was sitting with Mr. & Mrs. Ludwig, precious, faithful servants of our Lord.
Mrs. Harris, that was my "beautiful thing" for the day. And the memory of it has been my "beautiful thing" for many days now. I had to share it with you. I wish you could have been there; you would have understood. Thank you for all you've done, for teaching me to see beauty all around me. thank you for your refreshing smile and inspiring faithfulness. I am praying that you will have a blessed week resting in Him.
Love, Stephanie Geter
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This was originally written as a private letter to a dear professor. But since she has begun copying and circulating it among the administration and faculty of the University, I feel at liberty to share it with you. It was a moment that changed my life. I trust you will rest in Him this week.