The Dinner

 

The Friday afternoon of Labor Day weekend Marvin was finalizing his response to the client. He sat before his two monitors. One monitor held the client comments regarding the marked-up drawings stacked neatly to his left. The monitor on the right held the recipe for beef bourguignon. He was making plans for a quiet dinner Saturday night and the start of a new book.

As a lead engineer Marvin’s desk was inside a cubicle configured with partitions on three sides. The opening in the cubicle faced a wall and an aisle. The cubicle was at the end of a long aisle that traversed the first floor of the engineering firm. His desk was secluded from all the other engineers. This was of no consequence to Marvin for he kept to himself. Detachment from others meant that he could concentrate on his work without being disturbed by any human drama. The only semblance of his life outside the cubicle was a calendar of military planes that reminded him of his time in the air force.

Before leaving for the weekend, Marvin walked over to confer with another engineer. Landry’s cubicle was at the other end of the first floor. As was his manner, Marvin walked with a deliberate military gait without looking at the other engineers along his path. Any engineer seeing him pass might think of Marvin as an animated stick figure. The pencil thin Marvin conserved his motion and his emotions for the necessary.

Any female engineer, and there was one on the first floor who did, would notice that Marvin wore the same grey twill pants, black shoes and a version of a plaid shirt that he wore every day. On his belt hung a TI-36X Pro engineering/scientific Calculator. If asked, he would tell you that it was the same one he had used for his FE/PE engineering exams years ago. He would also tell you that the calculator replaced the slide rule he had carried on is belt during his days at the university. The shirt pocket pen pouch remained from those days.

The same female engineer seeing Marvin walk by also noticed Marvin’s dispassionate single-minded gaze beneath his dark unkempt eyebrows. And, that his disheveled dark hair and a stout mustache that covered his pursed lips gave Marvin an austere manly look, a no-nonsense guise. It seemed to her that the university geek, now in his early sixties, had continued to live in cerebral austerity. The never-married Marvin appeared to be married to his thoughts. This, she supposed, figured in Marvin’s lack of human interface except as required to complete the challenges presented to him.

Marvin conferred with Landry, a mechanical engineer who was months from his retirement and who gave a glib reply when someone asked him how he was: “I’m here and I’m loving it!” At Landry’s cubicle drawings were spread out on two desk tops. There was talk of the reactor coolant pump the client wanted for the nuclear plant. There was talk of length of pipe and the location of the pump, of water head pressure, of horsepower, of vendor drawings, of the calcs required and of a redundant system. They both noted that there was a labyrinth of pipes and conduits to contend with.

Marvin Left Landry’s cubicle after responsibilities were delineated. He then returned to his own cubicle to respond to the client. He sent his client an email outlining the work to be done and stating the date for the sealed engineering drawings to be handed over. On the other screen he looked once more at the beef bourguignon recipe and decided beef stew would be a good choice for a quiet Saturday dinner. He printed out the recipe and shut his computer down. He was weekend ready.

On Saturday morning, as was his manner, Marvin got up at 3 AM. he took his usual two-mile walk. When the sunlight began festooning houses with gold overlays, he drove over to the market to purchase the ingredients for his beef stew. With recipe in hand Marvin then drove over to a nearby liquor store where he found a burgundy that the recipe called for. He also purchased a bottle of aged bourbon that he would later pour into his “U.S. Air Force” engraved decanter and rocks glass.

With a plan to eat at 5 PM sharp, Marvin gathered up the ingredients: chuck roast, carrots, pearl onions, garlic, bacon, beef broth, olive oil, tomato paste, mushrooms, seasonings and the burgundy. At 3 PM he placed the recipe on a book holder. He began the process, methodically and carefully. There could be no room for error. After following the recipe to the letter, he placed the Dutch oven in the oven at the called-for temperature. Dinner would be served at 5 PM.

Just before 5 PM Marvin took the stew out of the oven and let it rest. He set his place at the table and poured into a wine glass the balance of burgundy. He set bread on the table and some butter. The smell of the stew filled his apartment. At 5 PM sharp he placed the Dutch oven on hot pad just before his place at the table. A large spoon was put into service as he opened its lid. Just then there was feverish knock at the door. “Now who could that be?” Marvin growled. He got from the table and headed for the door.

Through the door’s peephole he saw a concave figure of a woman who was nervously knocking again. “All right! All right!” Marvin snapped. He opened the door and became dumbfounded at the surreal sight before him. Somewhere under woman’s clothes and a wig was his neighbor Arturo. Before Marvin could say anything, Arturo rushed in and said, “You gotta help me!” Marvin stood holding the door open hoping the illusion would leave the way it came in.

“What?! …What is all this about?” Marvin had no calculus for what he saw. And he had no patience for any of this nonsense, as his beef bourguignon and a quiet night were waiting for him.

“You see …,” Arturo, frantic, started but he broke off as if to find words that a military man would understand. “You see…” Arturo started again, pushing back a wig curl that kept covering his right eye. “I …I …well, you see, it’s like this.” Again, Arturo broke off as if his next words would seal his fate. “You see, my friend (as if to cushion Marvin’s response) I … I … well, I put on some of my wife’s clothes while she is out at a church gathering with her girlfriends.”

Marvin looked Arturo up and down and said, “I’ve heard it said that in marriage the two become one but I didn’t think…”

“No, No, it’s not like that. I mean it is like that, but not like that.” Arturo thought that by not making any sense that he could persuade the unmarried rational Marvin with some secret knowledge of marriage that he, married to Martha, must possess. But Marvin wasn’t buying it. The food was getting cold.

“What do you want from me? I just sat down to eat.”

“I … I … locked myself out of the apartment. I took the garbage out…”

“Wait! You took the garbage out dressed like that?”

“Ah …mmmmm … ah I did”, Arturo turned eyes away from Marvin as if to hide the truth.

“So,” Marvin responded impatiently, “what am I supposed to do? There’s a simple solution. Call your wife and tell her that you are locked out.”

“It’s not that simple, you see …, my wife has no idea and I don’t want her to know about this.” Arturo waved his hand from head to toe.

“I can see why.” Marvin said sternly. The smell of the beef stew was now making his stomach growl.

“You’ve got to help me. Can you check the windows of my apartment to see if any are unlocked?’ Arturo petitioned Marvin.

“You want me to sneak around outside your apartment and look in your windows? The people around here will think I am as batty as you? And worse! And, besides, you have already made yourself known to the neighbors.”

“I … I …I learned my lesson. I cannot go out again.” Arturo was pacing back and forth as he spoke. The look on his face was one of holy terror.

“My wife will be returning, she said around nine-o’clock. I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“So, I get the privilege?”

“I sorry, my friend, to bring this to you but I have no where else to go for help. You are a smart man. You can think of things.”

“Right now, I am thinking of my dinner which is getting cold.” Marvin folded his arms across his chest.

“Say. What is that marvelous smell?” Arturo turned his face towards the kitchen.

“It is beef bourguignon and I am hungry. You can join me so I can eat. If you remain quiet.”

“Maybe you can think of a plan while we eat,” Arturo continued to ply Marvin’s ego as he sat down. He figured Marvin might respond better to the situation than to his makeup varnished face.

Marvin brought out another place setting and a wine glass and an uncorked bottle of red wine. He never had a guest eat with him before. He hoped that he could eat in silence and gain some semblance of the quiet evening he had planned.

The two ate in silence and finished their meal. The silence was broken when Arturo, noticeably agitated throughout the meal, queried Marvin. “Any thoughts?”

Marvin looked up from his plate. As was his manner he spoke dispassionately to Arturo. “My new found ‘friend’, I have no flow chart that can show me the next step. If you were a deadheading pump, I would have options. I could put in a piloted relief valve or a bypass or an unloader valve downstream system of the pump to allow excess pressure to be relieved and flow to continue through the pump and back to the tank.”

Arturo thought for a moment and then said, waving his hand over his body from head to toe, “This must be my relief valve.”

The red wine Marvin was drinking came out through his nose. Little droplets of red wine now hung precariously from his mustache. He wiped his mouth and got up from the table. As he walked to the kitchen he said. “It looks more like a Catch 22 situation. No entrance without a key and no key without an entrance.”

Arturo winced when he heard those words. He knew his fate was sealed. He went to the window and peered through the slats of the blinds. His wife had not come home.

In the kitchen Arturo helped Marvin put the dishes in the dishwasher. As he did black jagged lines formed beneath his eyes. Mixed with tears his mascara had run, giving him the appearance of a freakish clown.

When Marvin had finished in the kitchen, he told Arturo that he was going out to the patio for some bourbon and a cigar. He told Arturo to grab a glass and join him if he wanted to. “You look like you could use a drink.”

Arturo followed Marvin onto the patio but only after he looked around to see if anyone was looking. Then he ventured out and sat down. There, much like the privacy of Marvin’s cubicle at work, two sides of his apartment and one side of high bushes enclosed the space. The open side was the lawn.

Marvin poured bourbon from the decanter into the “U.S. Air Force” engraved rocks glasses. He handed one to Arturo who then sniffed it. Speaking with a quaver in his voice Arturo said, “Thank you for my last supper,” “Cheers,” said Marvin and he clanked Arturo’s glass.

Marvin lit the cigar his colleague gave at the close of last ASME IMECE congress meeting. Taking a long draw on it and, as was his manner, he looked dispassionately at the open space making mental notes of what needed to be done on Tuesday. Arturo, on the other hand, crossed and uncrossed his legs in nervous rapidity. With each cross and uncross his dress hiked up to mid-thigh exposing more of his hairy legs.

Martha’s dress was a size 8 floral print. On six-foot two 220-pound Arturo, the dress looked ready to burst at the seams. The dress’s three-quarter sleeves came to just above his elbows. They had a solid grip on his upper arm as did the wig on his head. Rivulets of sweat ran down Arturo’s forehead; the wig was so full and so tight that the breeze Marvin enjoyed came nowhere near Arturo’s scalp. Unable to fit into his wife’s shoes with his size 12 feet, Arturo wore her flip flops. The only evidence of them being worn was the thong between the big toe and the rest of the toes.

After crossing and uncrossing his legs once more Arturo stood up and said, “Excuse me. I’m going to see if Martha came home.” Marvin continued his dispassionate gaze into Tuesday.

Arturo went into the living room and peered through the blinds. Martha’s car was in the parking lot. Arturo rushed back to the patio in panic mode and told Marvin. Marvin got up with the hope that he could find the reverie he had promised himself the week before. They both went to the window and saw Martha’s car. But then they saw her taking out the garbage to the dumpster at the end of the parking lot. Arturo rushed to the door, opened it and saw that the door to his apartment was ajar. He ran out yelling “Not a word! Not a word!” Marvin closed his door and then peered through the peephole. He wanted to see the return of Martha.

Martha returned. But instead of going to her door she knocked on Marvin’s’ door. Marvin waited a few seconds and then opened the door.

“Have you seen Arturo? Martha asked.

Marvin opened his mouth and hesitated. With a darting glance at Arturo’s and Martha’s front door he said, “I can’t say that I have.” Marvin stood there in a plaid shirt, grey slacks and black shoes with a dispassionate look.

Martha searched the curious look on Marvin’s face. She wondered if there was a smile underneath his mustache. She had never seen him smile. She then looked over at her front door. It was still ajar.

“OK. Sorry to bother you. Good night.” As Martha walked away Marvin shut his door and breathed a sigh of relief.

Back on the patio Marvin sat down and took a swig of bourbon from his engraved rocks glass. He relit the cigar a colleague gave him and took some puffs. He opened the book that he had been waiting to read: “Chasing New Horizons: Inside the Epic First Mission to Pluto”. After reading for several minutes he took a long draw on the cigar and held the smoke in his mouth. As he breathed out the smoky cloud, he had a thought: “It would be easier to explain the trajectory of a space probe traveling billions of miles from earth to Pluto and the Kuiper Belt than it would be for Arturo to explain his recent trajectory to Martha.”

 

 

 

 

© Jennifer A. Johnson, 2019, All Rights Reserved

What Mattered to Hannah

 

Hannah wanted to get away so she booked a week at a cottage on a lake, the deepest lake in Wisconsin. Hannah boarded her parrolet Henry and headed north. The drive up from Chicago was just a few hours. Off the main highways she followed a lattice of county roads with names like “A” and “T” past fields of corn and cows. God, country, family and, lost love was on the AM radio. Hannah lived alone and drove to the cottage alone.

Hannah’s vacation hours had so accumulated at work that if she didn’t take them before the end of the year, she would lose them. But leaving work to vacation was hard for Hannah. The only relationship she had was with her work. It was a relationship which made increasing demands on her while offering yearly increases in pay. As the years passed and promotions were awarded her work responsibilities ratcheted up. To keep the relationship going and to do what she wanted to do – producing and giving – Hannah did what she had to do.

Using up the accumulated vacation hours was not Hannah’s only reason for getting away from work and home and going to the cottage. Getting away from being lonely in one spot was what mattered. Getting away from work to matter somewhere else mattered. Especially as she turned sixty-seven and the downtime they called “retirement” loomed in front of her. Could she matter without work? Hannah loved to work, to make things happen, to produce what mattered to others. Being an engineer was a career that produced things that worked and things that mattered. Could she live just as an observer?

When Hannah told her two younger sisters about her trip to the cottage, the youngest sister, Anna, gave Hannah a book. Anna described it as a book about hunter-gather societies, the noble savage, Gaia, “rootedness” and a dark green religion of “compassion”. The middle sister, Savannah, gave Hannah a novel about the Rapture. Hannah, put both books in the trunk of her car where they banged around as she drove. Hannah brought Chekov along for the week.

When Hannah called her ninety-year old mom and told her about the trip, her mother said “Good for you” and “Make sure to behave yourself.” When Hannah told her mom about her concerns about the food available at the cottage, for she had drastically changed her way of eating, her mom said “Take what you can get.”

The first day at the cottage was a day of unloading the car, putting things away and finding out that “We have WiFi” meant we can provide no internet signal you can use. The cable TV offered local news and weather forecasts and “This channel should be with you shortly”. The program never arrived. So, the cottage meant the basics like the flip phone Hannah carried.

That evening Hannah drove into town and went into the first restaurant she came to. There were cars on the street in front of the place so she felt it might be worth a try. It wasn’t a supper club. It was a bar and restaurant with the look and smell of the fifties and something past its prime. The redolence of time past and the objects on the wall made Hannah feel like she had gotten away from the present. On the walls surrounding the well-used wooden tables and chairs were fishing maps of the lake, a framed type-written menu from 1955, and black and white photos of townsfolk in parades and holding large fish. The bar area had the same but was updated with a “It’s a Great Day to Be a Packers Fan” plaque hung over the bar. Hannah was in north heartland.

There were three tables near where they sat Hannah. Two grey-haired women of large size sat at each of two tables. It was Saturday night and the special, rib-eye steak, was set before each of them. One of the women at the far table started up and then asked the passing waitress to move the butter closer. “I don’t want to have to walk.” She buttered her roll with the now available butter and then sat eating it looking blankly out at the street. The woman next to her ate looking at the wall behind Hannah.

At the third table, the one closest to Hannah, an old man and his wife sat with a younger fiftyish man. The younger was doing all the talking. The older couple was doing all the eating. Hannah noted that the older two pushed the pinkish red color meat to the side of their plates. She continued to note that the younger man finished his dinner and took his credit card out to pay the bill. The older man took some cash out of his pocket beneath the table and said nothing. The dinner bill was paid with the card.

Hannah ordered some perch. The waitress supplied the fish and the sides and promptly brought the bill when Hannah had finished. The bill lifted her loneliness. “I matter” she thought.

Back at the cottage Hannah observed the couple in the next cottage return from town. The man got out of his 4X4 pickup truck and walked through the screened porch door. His dejected look seemed to Hannah to be saying “The fish weren’t biting that night”. The short bean pole of a woman had followed him to the door but the screen door had already closed behind the man. The man was already at the cottage door. The woman reopened the porch door and went in.

The next morning Hannah was sitting on the dock when she heard some clomping behind her. The man from the cottage was heading to his boat with some fishing gear. He saw Hannah and said “Good morning. How are you?” Fine, thanks” Hannah responded. “Another day of fishing?” Yes ma’am.” “Good Luck!” “Thanks.”

That night in order to dispel the indoors with the outdoors Hannah slept with the bedroom windows open to let the lake breeze in. The cottage, with pine wood paneling throughout and fusty furniture and bedding, had a dank feel and a musty smell. It was as if the inside of the cottage had been inverted to the outside and then inverted in again for Hannah’s arrival.

Dealing with the windows was no easy task for Hannah. The wooden windows in her bedroom resisted change. One window would not go up and the other would not stay up. Hannah would have the same bout trying to sleep in a new bed: one position on the mattress did not give and another gave too much.

The next morning technology greeted her: “Your brew is complete! Enjoy!” The Keurig Hannah brought with her offered the comforts of home. “Home is where the good coffee is” would be a good country lyric, Hannah thought. After a cup of coffee and some reading Hannah went to the local diner for breakfast.

There, old men sat around a table talking about their trucks and politics and baseball. A beaming grandma led her grandchild to a table. A weary baby-carrying mom followed. Does one miss the weariness born of attachment? At that moment Hannah did.

It seemed that most of the patrons of the diner were older early risers like Hannah. The crossword puzzle in the daily Sentinel was already filled out by the time she arrived at 7 am, Hannah observed.

The atmosphere of the diner and its food were comforting to Hannah. Unlike the Keurig, the waitresses brought her breakfast, more coffee, and the check with “Here you go my dear” and “More coffee sweetie?” and “Have a great day hun.”

The atmosphere of the diner lifted her loneliness but the diner’s food began laying her low. The third cup of coffee, the well-buttered toast and the oil-coagulated hash browns – the settling food made her uneasy. The heaviness in her stomach and her sinking mood reminded her of the deep well of grief and sorrow she carried inside. The sediment of losses, screwups and broken relationships had settled deep inside her after sixty-seven years of life. But if she sat at a breakfast table with friends she’d wouldn’t be talking about her subterranean sorrows. She’d be talking about the weather, her kids, her job, and asking “what’s new with you?”

The shop owners along the small town’s main street were very happy to see Hannah come in. “Take what you can get” Hannah remembered. She bought a top and a flouncy blue and white summer dress that she knew she would never wear. Owning the feminine charm of the dress gave her the feeling that she mattered as a woman.

In the evenings, after dinner in town, Hannah sat on the cottage’s screened-in porch. There, she smoked little Brazilian cigars, read Chekov and when it was too dark to read, she listened to the night. It seemed to Hannah that the incessant chirring of grasshoppers and ratcheting of crickets was like millions of prayers being offered for those who would soon fall asleep to the murmur of their unspoken supplications.

It was on one of these nights that Hannah had a dream. Or, was it a vision? A Winnebago Indian princess named Lily Thunder Boss stood on the porch. She spoke to Hannah: “Trace the fingers of God and you will see the hand of God. You have come this far, keep tracing.” Hannah immediately woke up. It was 2 AM and the grasshoppers, crickets …

On the third morning Hannah walked down to the docks at the end of the row of cottages. The sun had just come up over the silhouetted shoreline behind her. It began to flash gold in the eyes of the houses along the far shoreline. The lake, not flush yet with direct sunlight and now beneath Hannah’s bare feet, was like a dappled green and grey quilt that stirred as if the lake was about to wake beneath it. In the company of moored pontoons and motor boats and of ducks bobbing for food and loons beginning their conversations Hannah sensed something familiar.

That afternoon she went to the Crossroads Grocery. She bought the fixings for a salad and some Chardonnay. The automated voice of the grocery’s self-serve checkout scanner said “Thank you for shopping with us”. Hannah remembered “Take what you can get.”

On Thursday morning Hannah took a canoe out onto the lake, the deepest lake in Wisconsin. She paddled to the center of the lake where she could see the full extent of its water. The day before she had driven to the south end of the lake but couldn’t come near it. There were private roads with houses nestled along the shoreline. These were now at a great distance from the canoe. The houses and boats appeared as white flecks against a jagged dark green background. The lake, reflecting the cirrus clouds and the baby blue sky as with an ancient uneven mirror, gently swayed her canoe. Hannah sat thinking about her future over the deepest part of the lake. Above her, the wide-open sky. Below her, the bounded water. She sat at the boundary of rapture and watery earth surrounded by voices nowhere near.

Later, she ate lunch at one of the nearby golf clubs which had a WiFi connection. She checked her emails; there was nothing pressing, mostly ads. She ate watching the golfers, men in shorts with caps and sweaters, as they gathered their foursomes. She overhears them kid each other as they wait for beer and sandwiches to take with them on the course. And though the well-manicured course was everywhere verdant and serene, the game, played between tees and holes and beers, seemed to Hannah, to be disquieting for some of the red-faced golfers who came in for water after their round. Hannah thought they must have spent most of their time playing outside the lines.

That night, after a day of hiking and eating a late supper at the diner, Hannah went to bed and dreamed: She was the lake, the deepest natural lake in Wisconsin. All around her were bass, trout, perch, walleye, white bass, trout, northern pike, muskies, catfish, crappie, sunfish and, schools of Walleyes and Large and Smallmouth Bass. They passed her with open mouths. She saw her four children swimming by her, each in different directions. They didn’t notice her. She was the lake. Her sisters swam by. They were talking as they passed each other. Air bubbles, not words, were coming out of their mouths. Deeper in her, her ninety-year old mother floated. She kept saying “I’m hanging in there” and asking me “What’s new with you?”. In the deepest part of her, the dark green part of her, was her dead father and a son who died in a car accident. They lay in repose. Hannah couldn’t say anything to any of them. She was the casket that held them.

At her surface were boats. Their arched outline appeared like dark mysterious icons. Above that was the sky. The sun cast shadows across her of transparent clouds and opaque birds coasting on thermals above. And then, at the surface, appeared an eel. It seemed friendly as it swam near the surface but then took on an impish smile and dove deeper. The creature then slithered and circled inside of her. It wanted to press her down to the bottom of herself. It was then that waking dream broke off. It was then Hannah understood its name to be TRAUMA.

The next morning, technology: “Your brew is complete! Enjoy!” As Hannah drank her coffee, she read and planned her last full day at the lake cottage. She would take the canoe out in the morning for her daily matins, then go for a walk and find lunch, then she would take a nap on the porch. In the evening she would go to a “Friday Night Fish Fry” which was the special on every restaurant’s menu that night. But she started off on the wrong foot.

At dawn Hannah pulled the canoe to shoreline and pushed it three-quarters of the way into the lake. She gathered a life-jacket and a paddle from the fish-cleaning shack and placed them into the canoe. With one hand on the aft of the canoe she placed her right foot in. The canoe rocked to the right and began to lurch forward into the water semi-sideways. Hannah quickly put her left foot in and began balancing the canoe with her hands and feet on each side of it. So far so good. She had done this before.

She was now hunched behind the seat so she moved her right foot forward past the seat while holding onto the canoe’s frame. Her legs were spread apart, one on each side of the bench – one leg forward and one leg behind. At this point nothing felt stable. The canoe began to rock back and forth with every shift of Hannah’s weight. With her hands on each side of the canoe frame she slid them forward hoping to steady the canoe and place her left leg over the bench. In that moment Hannah realized that the stiff lurching of a sixty-seven-year-old was exaggerated by the canoe. And then it happened. Hannah toppled over to her left and fell into the green wet murk. The canoe, on its side next to Hannah, lay beside her as if to comfort her after its practical joke.

Standing up in three feet of water and reeds, soaked, dripping and covered with algae and green mud, Hannah thought she looked like The Creature from the Deepest Natural Lake in Wisconsin. The words of an old song came to her as she walked to the shore: “Oh the old grey mare She ain’t what she used to be”. If her mother could have seen see her, she would have said “It happens to the best of us” and “You kids will be the death of me yet.” Like as with her mother, the days of her independence were becoming fewer. She would need a steadying hand going forward. Being mattered would matter more than ever.

Hannah returned to the cottage. Her flip-flops squished loudly as she walked past the other cottages. She hung her soggy underclothes on a clothes line. Her water-logged jeans and black sweater were laid on a picnic bench to dry in the sun. The pockets of her jeans were filled with algae and grit. Algae clung to the sweater as if it was a net. Her morning rituals on the lake now included baptism.

After seven days and nights at the cottage on a lake, the deepest natural lake in Wisconsin, Hannah returned home. At the door to her apartment Hannah found a package from Amazon. It was something she ordered a week ago. It was a book, a friend, and what mattered to Hannah.

 

 

 

© Jennifer A. Johnson, 2019, All Rights Reserved

 

800 Ordinary Beliefs

a short story…

Tomas took a bus across town to see Dr. Mendoza. His sister had told him that Dr. M would know what to do. On the bus Tomas talked to a lady with a sleeping child. Tomas told her that he wished he could sleep at night like the boy. The lady, a native of Guatemala, gave her advice: “You want to sleep like a baby? Add some epazote and menudo to your diet.”

Tomas entered Dr. M’s office. He signed in at the desk and was handed five pages of empty lines and boxes to fill out and to check. The doctor wouldn’t see him until all of the paperwork was complete. The only line that mattered to Tomas: “What brings you in today?”

Tomas wrote his down complaint and handed the five pages over to the receptionist. She told Tomas to have a seat. The crowded waiting room offered only one chair. When he sat down the old man next to Tomas told Tomas that he had been waiting for 45 minutes. In their conversation the man said he had no trouble sleeping at night but that his joints ached in the morning.

The door opened and a blue outfitted nurse called for the old man. “Hi, Mr. Long, how are you today?” The man responded, “I’ve been better.” Fifteen minutes later the nurse called for Tomas. She showed him to an examination room and told him to have a seat. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

Twenty minutes later Dr. M entered the room. He looked at the chart. Not looking up he asked, “What brings you in today?”  Tomas described his lack of sleep as the doctor continued to look at the chart. Without looking up Dr. M said, “I see.” He put the chart down and began his examination.

Dr. M looked in eyes, his ears, his throat. He checked his blood pressure, his reflexes, his heart beat, his lungs and drew some blood. “About this condition of yours, tell me more.”

Tomas explained as best he could. But he couldn’t explain why he wasn’t sleeping. Dr. M tapped the chart with his pen and said, I may have something which can at least help you get to sleep at night. Dr. M prescribed a relaxant and said “Come back in two weeks and I will have your blood work results.” The nurse returned with the prescription and handed Tomas a business card. “Dr. M has a cousin who is an estate planner. He can help you get your house in order.”

“Am I going to die?”, Tomas searched Dr. M’s face.

“No. But you should always be prepared for the unexpected. His cousin should be able to ease your mind.”

Tomas left the room, his shoulders drooping. He didn’t think his condition was terminal but maybe the doctor knew something he didn’t. He decided to pay the cousin a visit that very morning. Preparing for the worst might relieve his condition.

After a phone call Tomas met with the cousin. The cousin said, “Fill out these forms so that I can see your personal financial profile. Include your beneficiaries and your assets.” Tomas spent the next twenty minutes filling out the forms. His only assets were his condo and some cash in the bank. His only beneficiary was his sister Marisa with five children. The cousin explained estate planning and his fee. Tomas accepted the cousin’s terms and signed on the bottom line. The cousin shook his hand and handed him a business card: “A. Mendoza, Funeral Director”.  Tomas searched the cousin’s face.

“My brother is a funeral director. He can take of your end of life needs.”

“But, I’m only 37 years old. I told your doctor cousin my condition. This …”

“You never know Tomas …there are things beyond our control. It’s best to be prepared for eventualities.” Tomas stuffed the card into his shirt pocket and left. He was hungry.

On his way back across town, Tomas came across a Chinese restaurant. He went in for some chop suey. When he had finished the waitress cleared the table and returned with a small plate holding a fortune cookie and an almond cookie. Tomas cracked open the fortune cookie. He read it out loud. “You never worry about the future.” Tomas took the business card out of his shirt pocket and held it next to the fortune cookie slip: Rest assured. When You Need Us, We’ll Be There.

The waitress, a slender young Indian woman, returned with the check. She noticed a look of anguish on Tomas’ face. “Is everything OK, sir?”

Tomas looked up. “Um, I have a lot on my mind these days.”

“I find that yoga helps me with stress. They say thatmuch of our stress comes from us being hard on ourselves. I internalize everything. My emotional brain takes over. Yoga helps me connect with my logical brain. Yoga helps me balance the connection between my body and mind. It helps me with depression and anxiety.”

Tomas searched her face. As he did, she wrote the name of her yoga studio, Yoga for Your Life, on the back of a check and handed it to Tomas. Tomas thanked her, paid his bill and left her a handsome tip.

Marisa had invited him to dinner that night. So Tomas decided to take a walk to the park to fill up the time. The midday sun was glaring and hot. The park’s trees would offer some cover.

Tomas crossed the street and walked past the bus stop. As he did he noticed an advert on the back of a bench:

Psychic Cruises. See your psychic landscape from a new perspective. Get on board with your future.

Tomas smiled. No medium would know what his sister knew. She seemed to know everybody’s business.

Tomas walked further and heard a boom box blaring. What he heard sounded like a three-year-old kicking the back of a booth at a restaurant and crying, “I want your bottle”.

Walking into the park he heard, “Till death do us part.” A wedding was taking place in the park’s gazebo.

Beyond, he paused to watch a father helping his son learn to ride a two-wheeler. The father, holding the bike and the boy in balance, said “You can do this.” The father gave a push and yelled, “Peddle, Peddle! You’ve got this!” until the bike wobbled out of control and the boy fell. The father rushed over and picked the boy up. The father searched the boy’s tearful eyes. Would he try again?

The path took him around a small lake. There he saw an old man fishing. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. The man sat as still as the water. The scene reminded Tomas of a painting. As Tomas stood there a young girl skipped past him. Her parents followed behind. They smiled in the direction of the girl between words that seemed difficult for the other to hear.

Around another bend the path went along the great lawn of the Pavilion. The afternoon sun bore down on the field. The air was heavy and dense. Across the lawn a boy and girl were running as fast as they could with a kite in tow. As Tomas watched the kite fluttered and stiffened and jerked and snapped and then darted to the ground. They picked it up and ran again. Kites were meant to fly.

At the pavilion there was a rehearsal for the evening production: Shakespeare in the Park Tonight Macbeth.

Tomas sat down under a tree and listened.

Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

As he sat there, his eyes became heavy. Lunch was heavy in his stomach. The warm smothering air was like a blanket comforting him. He began to doze off. But reveille sounded. Protestors on the street were shouting. “If we don’t get no justice, you don’t get no peace”. A voice through a loud speaker ask-demanded “What do we want? A fair contract!  When do we want it?  Now!”

A gaggle of protestors marched down the path near Tomas. They chanted their signs.

We’ve got the crisis fixed!  Tax, tax, tax the rich!

Education is a right, not just for the rich and white!

Hold the burgers, hold the fries, we want our wages super-sized!

Climate devastation will not be solved by corporations. That’s BS, get off it.  The enemy is profit!

Not the church, not the state, women must decide their fate!

I’m a dreamer You can’t deport ideals!

The sinuous commixture of grievances walked through the park. Did they know? We would all share common ground someday.

Tomas could not see any counter-protestors, only the father and mother who went on quarreling and the little girl who went on skipping and the boy and girl who ran and tugged a kite in tow. Kites were meant to fly.

Tomas got up and looked for the park exit. The pharmacy should be right over there. Maybe I’ll dream tonight, after I take my prescription. That would be ideal!

At the pharmacy Tomas handed the script the doctor had given him over to the pharmacist. He told Tomas it would take fifteen minutes to fill. He could have a seat.

Tomas sat down next to a woman with a walker. She looked him over. “I’ve been here ten minutes already. But I don’t have anything I need to do anyway.”

Tomas nodded and picked up a magazine from the rack next to him. Go healthy and happy! You are what you eat. Fitter, healthier, happier.

Seeing the magazine Tomas was reading, the old woman leaned over. “I eat only organic. I don’t want all those chemicals in my food.”

Tomas nodded politely.

“Ma’am your prescription is ready.” The woman at the counter waved the bag of pills.

The woman got up and Tomas reached over to steady the walker. “Thank you. I wish my grandkids would eat better.”

Making every step count the old woman walked over to the counter. Tomas sat down again. He reached for another magazine on the rack. Achieve Financial Security. Sleep better at Night Knowing Your Financial House is in Order. Opportunity has its Own Door. Knock on it! Success has a price. What are you Willing to Exchange for it?

“Sir, your prescription is ready.” The woman at the counter held up the bag of pills.

Tomas replaced the magazine in the rack. He went over to the counter.

“Have you had these before?” The woman asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

The woman called the pharmacist over to explain their effect.

“These are to help you relax”, he said.

“I have had trouble sleeping at night.”

“Well, then these should take care of that.”

With that Tomas paid for the prescription. He left the counter and walked outside. He decided to call his sister to see if needed to bring anything for dinner that night.

Marisa gave him a list over the phone: avocado, Café Bustelo, and some diapers.

Tomas asked about having menudo. Marisa said it would take too long to make, besides, she said, “I have four children running around driving me crazy.”

Tomas asked a passerby where the nearest grocery was. “Mercado Fresco was two blocks down”, the man with the umbrella said. Rain water was pouring down off the pharmacy awning. Tomas returned into the pharmacy and bought an umbrella. The woman at the counter said, “Nice weather. For ducks that is!” Tomas agreed.

Tomas walked quickly, dodging from one store awnings to the next to escape the wind-driven rain. His shoes were soaked when he entered the grocery. They squeaked when he walked over to the tables of avocados. “Are these organic?” Tomas asked the produce stocker.

The stocker looked the avocados over and said, “They look natural to me.” Tomas picked one out and placed in a plastic bag. He found the Café Bustelo, and some diapers and placed them in his cart. He gathered the ingredients for flan. He headed to the checkout.

At the checkout Tomas there were signs advertising money transfers to Mexico and the Lottery. Standing in line he had time to look over the headlines of the tabloids racked next to him.

Aliens Break their Silence! The Earth Will be Destroyed in Twelve Years! (with photo)

Woman Loses 300 Pounds Eating Only Turnips! (with before and after photos)

Couple divorces and remarries 3X Finds Love! (with photo)

Bigfoot Sighted in Big Boy parking Lot! (with photo)

Doctors tell man wanting to transition a 6th time: Five is the Limit! (with photo)

“Anything else for you, sir?” The woman at the counter asked as she rang up the amount.

“No. Thank you,” Tomas replied. “Do people read those things?” Tomas pointed to the rack.

“Oh, yes! They have all the latest gossip and interesting news. Your sister buys them all the time.”

Taken back, Tomas queried,  “You know my sister Marisa?”

“Oh, yes! She called me and said you might come in to buy some things for her. She wanted me to remind you to get diapers. She said you have a mole on your right cheek. An astrologer told me that moles on the right cheek is a sign of a sensitive person who gives a lot of respect to his parents. But the left cheek, not so good for you.”

Tomas thanked the cashier and walked away wondering if she was going to call Marisa. She did!

Outside, the rain had stopped. But a bus drove by splashing him with rain water. Now his pants were soaked, too. He decided to walk the five blocks to Marisa’s. The intermittent sun might dry his clothes. Through the city buildings he could see a segment of a rainbow. Was this a promise of no more rain?

Another bus approached. Tomas ducked into a nearby store’s doorway. There was a sign on the bus: Vote Angel Rodriguez for Alderman He Knows Where You Live.

Tomas smiled. Angel Rodriguez may want to rethink that slogan.

Tomas continue to walk. He passed a book store. The door opened and there was a gust of Jasmine. In the window, next to hanging crystals, there was a poster in the window: Individual and world peace comes from having a mind that is open to everything and attached to nothing.

Another store had a rainbow flag out front. House of Raven Love doesn’t have to be blind. What’s in store for you? Readings, Advice, Predictions, Fill Up Your Psychic Void Restore Your Aura.

A block further. Night & Day Spa & Salon Come as You Are Leave as you See Yourself Revitalize, Rethink, Relax Out with the Old In With the New.

Further down that same block, an army recruiting center. Be All You Can Be. Tee-shirted recruits stood in formation in the alley next to the store front. A Sargent paced and shouted.

The next three blocks were lined with bungalows. There were signs in many of the yards. Vote for so and so and so and so will bring change.

He arrived at Marisa’s bungalow. His nephews and niece greeted him.

Marisa called from the kitchen. “Did you get the diapers?”

“You know I did.” Thomas replied as he walked to the kitchen.

“Enrique, come here. I need to change you. Ahora!”

On the counter were several lottery tickets tucked under a Our Lady of Guadalupe figurine. And a tabloid with a photo of the face of Jesus in naan bread. Tomas set the bags down. Out the window he could see his brother-in-law Agustín in the garage. He was always working on cars. Los Tigres del Norte’s Historias Que Contar blared from the radio.

Marisa came back into the kitchen. “Did you see Dr. M?”

“You know I did.”

“C’mon Tomas. What did he tell you?”

“He said I checked out OK. But my blood pressure was a little high. He prescribed something to help me sleep at night.”

“When was the last time you went to confession Tomas?”

“You mean you didn’t call Father Sanchez to find out?”

“You are impossible.”

“This noise is impossible.” Marisa didn’t hear him.

“Can I turn this off?’ Una familia con suerte. Tomas turned the TV off.

After getting the kids to wash their hands and making Agustín wash his twice, Marisa bought the food to the table. Chicken Enchiladas, refried beans and ensalada. She asked Tomas to give the blessing.

“For this we are about to receive, we give Thee thanks. Amen”

“So, the doctor gave you something to sleep at night. I think a little …” “Agustín!” Marisa stopped him short.

“I brought some flan for dessert, instead.” Tomas replied darting his eyes from Agustín to Marisa and to the kids.

When the meal was over, Marisa made some coffee and brought out the flan. The kids were quiet the next thirty-seconds. Agustín ate and smiled a devilish smile. Marisa ate and stared at him. Tomas ate and avoided both sets of eyes.

The flan gone, the kids were excused from the table. Agustín got up and gave Marisa a kiss. “Sin tu amor

No se que valla a hacer conmigo…

“I know what will happen to you if you don’t get out of my hair.” Agustín winked at Tomas and returned to the garage singing.

Tomas offered to help with the dishes.

“I heard Father Sanchez is going to Lourdes. He can bring back some water for you, Tomas.”

“I have all the prescriptions I need, Marisa.”

“You need a wife and some kids. At least there will be a reason you won’t get a good night’s sleep.”

Marisa turned from the sink and put her hand on Tomas’ shoulder. “Are you depressed?”

“No. I don’t think so. It’s just that … It’s that there is so much to think about at night that I don’t sleep.”

“Maybe you should talk to a counselor. And look,” Marisa pointed to a flyer on the counter, “Adam Lock is coming to town. He’s a spiritual healer. You should …”

Dishes done, Tomas thanked Marisa for the dinner and said good night. A bus carried him a block from his condo.

At home Tomas clicked on the TV. Soccer. Commercials. News. Commercials. Talk shows. Commercials.

There was a commercial of the same prescription the doctor had given him. A man was tossing and turning in a bed. His wife woke up next to him looking irritated. Then came the benefits and contraindications of taking the prescription. And then the next night the man settles into bed next to his wife. And then, the next morning, he awakes stretching his arms out. He is fully rested. A new day. The sun is shining. The wife is beaming.

Tomas clicked the TV off. He went into the bedroom and put on his pajamas. He swallowed two of his prescribed pills and then settled into bed.

Now, he just had to wait for sleep. Kites were meant to fly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

© Jennifer A. Johnson, 2019, All Rights Reserved

This Form Should Follow Function Out of Town

Every Sunday these days, as I attend church, I drive past a growing monstrosity. The miscreation covers one whole square block in the midst of a neighborhood of older classic-looking homes, homes with character that befits each homeowner. Even the new homes, as you will see, are fashioned with classic motifs. Both old and new houses in this neighborhood offer warmth, charm and beauty. These houses are homes. You want to be in them. For homeowners, fitting in matters and fitting in with beauty matters more. But now, these homeowners must view this place-destroying doesn’t-belong-here structure under construction.

The disjointed amalgam of glass boxes (cubist in profile) is to be the new public library in what one visitor called a “charming and quaint” little town. Other reviewers on a travel site had this to say: “If you long to be in vibrant Currier and Ives atmosphere, then this town is for you.” and “Straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.  People come to this town from miles around to journey back in time to when warmth, charm and beauty mattered. The town’s architecture dates from mid-1800s. The town’s website proclaims an historic shopping district.

Now what does a public library contain, other than videos? It contains a wealth of information from the past. It contains literature and records of what has worked and what hasn’t. Modernism wants nothing to do with the past nor the wealth of accumulated aesthetics. Modernism wants to be “iconic” on its own and stand outside of historical (and the neighboring human) context. Enter cold, ugly, and de-humanizing modernism into the “charming and quaint” little town to quash human sensibilities. Its Form Should Follow Function Out of Town. See for yourself.

These photos were taken on a grey overcast day, not unlike the dreary ominous subject.

This new public library adds insult to injury. Witness previous desecration of the townscape. This is the police station just off the historic shopping district and across the street from more of the homes described above.

About three blocks from the new public library and just off the historical shopping district is the historical (150 years old) church I attend.

~~~~~~~

Modernist buildings exclude dialogue, and the void that they create around themselves is not a public space but a desertification

-Roger Scruton, philosopher

Are You Witnesses of All This?

 

Over the last several posts I’ve written about philosophers (Epicurus in particular and Protagoras) and philosophies (Epicureanism and Stoicism). Taken together they state, among other things I described earlier, that this life is all there is. There would be no hereafter in that way of thinking. During the first century the Apostle Paul, the “the apostle of the Gentiles”, encountered those worldviews on the streets where he sold his tents and in the early churches where he taught.

Writing to those in the Corinthian church whose Gentile members denied a resurrection of the dead, Paul responded in a rather taunting manner to their philosophical take on death as final. The gospel he proclaimed – Jesus is Lord, forgiveness of sins, new creation, the kingdom of God on earth has been launched – all hinged on the resurrection of Jesus.

And if the Messiah wasn’t raised, your faith is pointless, and you are still in your sins. 1 Cor. 15:7

After addressing and closing the dead are raised issue with an eye witness defense (1 Cor. 15: 3-8), Paul responds to the heart of the Corinthian objection to resurrection: the nature of future bodies. He mocks their materialist objections using an analogy from nature:

But someone is now going to say, “How are the dead raised? What sort of body will they have when they come back? Stupid! What you sow doesn’t come back to life unless it dies. 1 Cor. 15: 35

No doubt, Paul also heard that Jesus responded in a similar fashion when he rebuked the Sadducees who denied the resurrection (as recorded in Luke 20:38 and below, in Mark 12:

“Where you are going wrong,” replied Jesus, “is that you don’t know the scriptures, or God’s power. When people rise from the dead, they don’t marry, nor do people give them in marriage. They are like angels in heaven.

However, to show that the dead are indeed raised, surely you’ve read in the book of Moses, in the passage about the bush, what God says to Moses? ‘I am Abraham’s God, Isaac’s God, and Jacob’s God’? He isn’t the God of the dead, but of the living. You are completely mistaken.”

In the same letter (1 Cor.15:19), agitated Paul, in talking about people’s motivations in light of their position on the resurrection, recommends Epicurean self-pity if the dead are not raised.

If it’s only in this present life that we have hope in the Messiah, we are the most pitiable members of the human race.

He later quotes a popular Epicurean saying that embraces self-pity and self-indulgence in light off…

…If the dead are not raised,

“Let us eat and drink,

for tomorrow we die.”

1 Cor. 15:32

What was Paul’s background that offered him insight into Greek philosophies? We learn from Acts 21: 37 -39 as he defends himself against highly agitated Jews who clamored for his arrest.  He is brought before a Roman tribune:

“Am I allowed to say something to you??” he asked.

“Well!” replied the tribune. “So you know some Greek, do you? Aren’t you the Egyptian who raised a revolt some while back and led those four thousand ‘assassins’ into the desert?”

“Actually, replied Paul. “I am a Jew! I am from Tarsus in Cilica. That’s not an insignificant place to be a citizen of. Please let me speak to the people.”

Inferring his Roman citizenship, Paul goes on to defend his Jewish background in the face of his Jewish accusers:

“I am a Jew, he continued, “and born in Tarsus in Cilicia. I received my education here in this city, and I studied at the feet of Gamaliel. I was trained in the strictest interpretations of our ancestral laws and became zealous for God, just as all of you today.”

Paul had significant first-hand knowledge of Greek, Roman and Jewish worldviews. Paul was more than able to respond to the Epicurean context of the Gentiles. Paul was more than able to present the gospel in the context of the Jewish worldview, a worldview of monotheism, the Temple, eschatology and …resurrection.

The narrative of the resurrection and an eschatology of the age to come took on great import during the Second Temple Judaism. Other than the words of Moses and some metaphorical allusions to resurrection by Isaiah (Isaiah 26:19) and Ezekiel (37), there isn’t mention of the resurrection in the Old Testament. Those allusions were applied during the Babylonian exile. They refer to the restoration of Israel as a nation and the reoccurring theme of exodus from bondage. The scribe Daniel is the first to mention the resurrection in non-metaphorical terms when he describes the “wise”, the Jewish resistance to Antiochus, not dying in vain (Daniel 11).

It was during the intertestamental period that scribes began writing about the resurrection of the dead, among many other topics of concern during late Second Temple Judaism. The Qumran community kept these writings in clay jars within caves in case the community was taken out by the Romans.

The Jewish religious leaders in Jesus’ time knew these writings, e.g., The Epistle of Enoch and 2 Maccabees. The disciples knew them. Paul knew them. The writings were talked about in the synagogues and on the streets. These writings offered a Messianic hope for the coming day when God would put things right. In the meantime, they stoked courage against the looming threat of Roman authority. It is very likely that Mary and Martha would have known about these writing as well. It appears that Martha had an understanding of them when she confronts Jesus after her brother Lazarus dies.

When Martha heard that Jesus had arrived, she went to meet him. Mary, meanwhile stayed sitting at home.

“Master,” said Martha to Jesus, “if only you’d been here! Then my brother wouldn’t have died! But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask him for.”

“Your brother will rise again,” replied Jesus.

“I know he will rise on the last day.”

(Notice the role reversals from the previous Mary and Martha encounter with Jesus in their home? Martha, the fussbudget homebody, is now interested to hear what Jesus has to say. She goes to meet him. Mary, who doted on Jesus at his feet, stays at home where she grieves and perhaps sulks that Jesus wasn’t there for her brother. She was given another chance at Jesus’ feet.)

Jesus responded to Martha.

“I am the resurrection and the life,” replied Jesus. “Anyone who believes in me will live, even if they die. And anyone who lives and believes in me will never, ever die. Do you believe this?”

“Yes, master,” she said. “This is what I’ve come to believe: that you are the Messiah, the son of God, the one who was to come into the world.”

Jesus responded to Martha’s eschatological understanding with, in effect, “I am revising your understanding with personal present tense knowledge of me”. Jesus then asks for Mary. Proximity to Jesus matters and not only for Mary and Martha’s sake but also for Jesus’ sake. He wants to see for himself the loss, the grief and the pain we feel. He would carry our griefs and sorrows to the cross and then remove the sting of death with his (and then our) resurrection.

When Mary came to where Jesus was, she saw him and fell down at his feet.

“Master!” she said, “If only you’d been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!”

When Jesus saw her crying, and the Judeans who had come with her crying, he was deeply stirred in his spirit, and very troubled…”

Mary and Martha witnessed the resurrection of their brother Lazarus. The three of them would learn of and perhaps be among the over five-hundred brothers and sisters who saw Jesus alive after his resurrection (1 Cor. 15: 5). All of them were witnesses of the things that came to pass. And what came to pass was not a doctrine or a philosophy or an apparition – a ghost. It was bodily resurrection.

No mere manmade philosophy, ancient or otherwise, could ever revive the dead or comfort the living in their loss with “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” No amount of pleasure reduces the pain we feel. No amount of materialism and its cheerleading proponent Progressivism – a political pandering to self-pity – will provide hope for today. Those philosophical positions are about nursing wounds. Those philosophical positions are ephemera compared to the reality of the bodily Resurrection of Jesus and the new life offered to those who believe.

Only the Resurrection and the Life can reverse the downward spiral of mankind and provide hope that doesn’t pass away with a meal. Live in the present tense Resurrection and Life as Mary and Martha and hundreds of early followers of Jesus did.

Are you witnesses of all this? Of the resurrection? Or, are you witnesses of the Easter bunny? I think that’s what Paul had in mind when he mocked the Corinthians.

Empty tomb

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Resurrection is the central theme in every Christian sermon reported in the Acts. The Resurrection, and its consequences were the “gospel” or good news which the Christians brought: what we call the “gospels,” the narratives of Our Lord’s life and death, were composed later for the benefit of those who had already accepted the gospel. They were in no sense the basis of Christianity: they were written for those already converted. The miracle of the Resurrection, and the theology of that miracle, comes first: the biography comes later as a comment on it. Nothing could be more unhistorical than to pick out selected sayings of Christ from the gospels and to regard those as the datum and the rest of the New Testament as a construction upon it. The first fact in the history of Christendom is a number of people who say they have seen the Resurrection.

Miracles, C.S. Lewis

See Him as He Is

 

Ears that hear and eyes that see– the LORD has made them both. Proverbs 20:12

Poor homeless beggar in despair

Over time my eyes have weakened. In my fifties I began to wear glasses. Last year before I turned sixty-six, I had my eyes checked again. I came out with a stronger prescription. The change was necessary for my job. Engineering drawings contain words and details that matter.

Not long ago I had another eye exam. I was asked if I see the world differently as a Follower of Jesus. I responded “Yes!”

Over time my vision of God, Jesus, Heaven, the Bible, the Eucharist, and prophecy had to be corrected. The stronger prescriptions came about through challenges in my life. Some of the challenges were brought on by circumstances beyond my control. Other challenges came about by my own will – the desire to know God and the meaning of life amidst the material concerns of day-to-day life. Some challenges came about because I had to change my ways. Some background information is required to help you see where I am coming from and what has changed my perspectives.

Like most kids, my early vision was through the eyes of others. The Bible churches I attended with my parents taught that heaven is my final home, that a rapture would take me away from the spoiled and messy world, and that creation occurred in six days. In my youth Bible prophecy was bound up in all kinds of adamant theories about the end times. Some of you will remember Hal Lindsey and his book The Late Great Planet Earth.

I attended Moody Bible Institute early in the seventies. Though I entered a Christian Education-Music program I ultimately became interested in the classes that taught Old Testament, New Testament and koine Greek. I have since pursued Biblical studies and added science texts and good fiction. Because of my studies I began to see things differently. Much differently. My eyes were opened and new realities appeared before me:

Heaven is a way station, a temporary place and not my final resting place. The version of heaven taught for so many years has been a great disservice to the kingdom of God on earth where Jesus will return to reign. Heaven and earth will be joined. All of Scripture’s references to the Temple reveal that God’s dwelling place is to be with man, his creation, on his creation. The good that God saw “in the beginning” will be seen again.

I see any pronouncement of a rapture as a misinterpretation of a Scripture metaphor. There will be no rapture. Again, not a literal passage.

I fully accept evolutionary creationism. God created the universe some 4 billion years ago with a Big Bang. At some point God breathed his spirit into evolved mankind so that man would begin to see God as He is. Genesis chapters 1 and 2 are true myth about what God wants us to know about our cosmic origin. These poetic chapters were not meant to be literal scientific texts.

Though physical reality surrounds us, science was never discussed in the churches I have attended throughout my life. Spiritual realities took center stage and those were often reduced to formula: believe, repent, go to heaven and before you leave this vale of tears go into ministry.

The six-day creation meme was considered de facto truth and therefore one was obliged to agree to the premise or your Christianity was in doubt. Put to the congregation, if you didn’t accept six-day creation then you didn’t believe the Bible to be God’s word. Science was considered a down-to-earth field and therefore had nothing to do with your heavenly home. Had science, as a means for searching for truth, been promoted in the churches I attended I may have chosen to be a physicist early on. I am fascinated by the God-created elements and forces that mankind is able to use. And, the mystery of quantum physics. There is no mystery to six-day creation. Without the mystery and wonder of science we might as well turn off the lights.

As science was characterized as a secular necessity and not a stairway to heaven, so was most anything else that wasn’t considered “ministry” related. Early on, the “ministry” was hammered into me via countless sermons and calls to dedication. Yet, I now see that my work as an electrical engineer is just as important as going to the “mission field”. The “harvest”, in cubicles, surrounds me.

After years of feeling guilty that I had revoked “God’s plan for your life”, I began to see that work in all forms is good, profitable, and sustains me, my family and the Kingdom of God on earth. My work as an engineer provides electricity to millions of homes. I add to the Kingdom of God by providing comfort, security and …light to my Lord’s world. And, my fellow engineers know that I am a not a light under a bushel.

The next change to my eyesight came from years of reflection. The churches I attended practiced communion Sundays. They offered symbols and remembrance. The sober times were like a memorial service for someone who had died. I was taught through sermons and schooling that transubstantiation doesn’t exist, that the bread and wine are representations and nothing more. Yet, at the same time, the corporate understanding was that the Holy Spirit indwelt believers. I reflected on this. If the Holy Spirit can dwell in believers then why can’t the True Presence of the Lord exist in the bread and wine?

I also considered that Jesus turned water into wine. That is transubstantiation. I came to see that the indwelling Holy Spirt and the risen Lord and the Father come together at the Eucharist as we celebrate with thanksgiving.

When I was asked if I see the world differently as a Follower of Jesus I responded “Yes! And, because of that, I also see the world differently.

The world does not accept spiritual realities. Instead, it accepts “red in tooth and claw” power struggles. The current world system is based on obtaining power over one’s circumstances by gaining and consolidating power over others. The tower of Babel and Pontius Pilate are two examples from history of man’s will to power. Climate change hysteria, LGBT activism, socialism crusading, feminist stridency, and the surge of occultism are modern-day examples of people trying to use power through force to subject others to their will.

Though I am not worried by the constant political hype pushing data-generated climate change, I am concerned about the media-generated moral climate change. There is a huge power struggle going on. The forces of darkness want control of humanity.

Many churches, under the banner of Christianity, have turned their backs on the precepts God set in place. Their members believe that they are more enlightened than God. They will tell you that Jesus abolished the Law and the Prophets. They have marched beyond the whole narrative of Scripture to an anything goes morality under the banner of love without judgement. As such, humans are reduced to bodily functions. Good and evil are reduced to “Likes” on social media. PC ear plugs and blindfolds block ears and eyes to anything that would expose physical and spiritual reality. The sad truth of such behavior is that one doesn’t see much inside a cave except one’s own eerie shadow flicker on the cave walls. Others are blamed for the self-imposed deafness and blindness. Jesus put it this way regarding Israel:

“Isaiah’s prophecy is coming true in them:

‘You will listen and listen but won’t understand

You will look and look and not see.

This people’s heart has gone flabby and fat

Their ears are muffled and dull,

Their eyes are darkened and shut;

In order that they won’t see with their eyes

Or hear with their ears, or know in their heart,

Or turn back again for me to restore them.’

-Matt. 13: 14-15

Look around. Beauty is being replaced by art and architecture that could have been created by objectivist Ayn Rand. The human element is removed and stark drab utilitarian buildings are erected. My church is redoing the 1800 built and rehabbed rectory into classrooms. The rectory is on the church grounds. The church was required by the village to redo the building so as to fit in with the neighborhood – older classic-styled houses. Three blocks away, in the same type of neighborhood, a monstrosity is being erected. The new public library is a modernist blech that doesn’t fit in at all. For sale signs are going up all around the construction site. The same debasing also applies to the sacred.

“In the presence of sacred things our lives are judged, and in order to escape that judgement we destroy the thing that seems to accuse us. And because beauty is a reminder of the sacred – and indeed a special form of it – beauty must be desecrated too” -philosopher Roger Scruton

Popular music, a noise produced by hormone-driven over-the-edge-of-seventeen generators, pounds with the annoying energy of a 3-year-old kicking the booth behind you in a restaurant. The lyrics of rap, hip hop, popular music, and rock promote animal urges to the nth degree. Unclean spirits roam the earth looking for a song to inhabit.

The vision held by the world is one of utopia. And, according to the world, power and control begets utopia. And so the world seeks power at all costs to others to acquire the long-sought utopia. Accordingly, you and society are to blame for the lack of utopia. Post-modern Progressives seek power to break up society and the communities that sustain them and to remake both in their image. For them, most of what happened before they came on the scene is of no value. This includes art, architecture, and male-female marriage. The foundations of cultural permanence are to be replaced with the shifting sands of Whim-Progressivism.

Humans require beauty. Beauty provides hope. What is being created today reflects the despair of the alienated worldview. Creative outrage is still outrage and does not produce beauty. Humility producing beauty and wonder have been co-opted by know-it-all outrage.

How does one correct one’s vision? Holding an almost cartoonish Sunday School vision of Jesus is not good enough. Reading good theology helps. Reading science texts challenges your mind and your worldview. A healthy imagination is a powerful means to regain your sight. Good fiction causes one to contemplate life whereas TV briefly entertains with its canned product. The ritual of sitting in front of the TV with your spouse needs to be re-examined. Exotic stimulation, violence and touchy-feely programs do not equate to the reality you need to live. Good fiction helps one see beyond one’s circumstances.

In C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy, a response-in-kind to H.G. Wells’ progressive humanist fantasies, one can read about Ransom, a philologist and the protagonist. He is forcibly taken out of this world via a spaceship by two men. One of the men is a humanist scientist intent on gaining control of Malacandra for mankind’s future. This is the pair’s second trip to Malacandra. On this return trip, the kidnapped Ransom is to be offered to the Sorns as a sacrificial offering to appease the natives.

Briefly, Ransom arrives on Malacandra (Mars), escapes the clutches of the two men and meets all kinds of celestial beings. His stay on Malacandra opens his eyes to a new reality. When he later returns to earth he learns that he has been invited back to the heavens. But this time it is to Perelandra (Venus). Once there, Ransom’s eyes are once again opened:

“At Ransom’s waking something happened to him which perhaps never happens to a man until he is put out of his own world: he saw reality, and thought it was a dream.”

The intent of C.S. Lewis space trilogy was to open eyes to realities greater than themselves. I recommend reading this trilogy.

Just as there are many accounts of people finding things in the Gospels, Scripture contains many eye-opening moments. In particular, I am reminded of Stephen before the Sanhedrin. Stephen sees Jesus sitting at the right hand of the Father. Later, Stephen’s stoning witness Paul has his eyes opened to see the glorified Jesus on the Damascus road. Reality broke in for both.

When the blind beggar’s sight was restored, he saw Jesus as he was, in human form. The Apostle John tells us that when Jesus appears again in his glorified human form as Lord of the Universe we will be like him “for we will see him as he is” (1 John 3:2). Every twinkling eye will be opened then. The blindfolds will be pulled off. Wisdom, who was with God before the Big Bang, will be revealed in all her beauty.

 

With this post I am confirming what I know to be true as I have let the Holy Spirit be the optometrist for my eyes of understanding. The Holy Spirit has prompted me over and over: “take another look” and “see Him as he is”. As I have responded I have been able to see the Lord and the world with his eyes.

The way I figure it, if a person stops growing in the Lord and they stop trying to see Him as he is, they have effectively closed their ears and eyes. They are saying, “I can feel my way ahead.”  Who knows where they will end up?

~~~

On Perelandra, The Green Lady speaks to Ransom:

“Your world has no roof. You look right into the high place and see the great dance with your own eyes. You live always in that terror and that delight, and what we must only believe you can behold…”

The Thicket

The boy ran as fast he could. The old man chasing him kept pace with longer strides. The boy ran down a gully and through a shallow creek. He soaked his feet. Running up the hill he saw a fence. Just a few more paces and he would be free. The old man won’t jump he fence, he thought.

Near the fence the boy took one last look and saw the old man standing on the other side of the stream. He was cursing with his fist in the air. The boy’s heart pounded faster. He ran toward the fence hoping to grab the post and throw himself over. He leapt and his leg was caught. Barbed wire. He held tightly to the cigar box and tried to pulled himself free. The barbed wire ripped into his leg. The slice of burning pain he felt in his leg turned to ice-cold fear in his face. The old man was now closing in.

“What possessed you boy to take my box? The old man came up and grabbed the boy’s leg. “I should whoop you to within an inch of your life.”

Taking his pocket knife, the old man cut the boy’s pants leg free from the barbed wire. He held the bleeding leg tightly and looked him in the eye. He remembered what his father had said as he lay dying, “They can’t take anything away from you Lloyd. I promised I would provide for you.”

The old man pulled the boy down from the fence. The boy wanted to run but the old man had a firm grasp on his neck. “You are coming with me.”

Back at the barn the old man let go of the boy in a stall. The boy, writhing in pain, fell back into the straw.

“You need to know somethings,” the old man spoke bent over, trying to catch his breath. After a minute he grabbed the cigar box off the straw and stood erect.

The old man opened the cigar box and looked through it. Everything was there including the farm’s deed at the bottom of the box. The old man pulled it out.

“I’m real sorry sir. That old box looked like it had old stuff in it and…”

“That ring was my wife’s wedding band and that piece of paper right thar is a promise from my father.”

The boy blinked away a gathering tear. He waved away a shock of hair from his eyes. “A promise?”

“Yes, a promise. My daddy promised to give me the farm when I was your age. This is a deed to the farm.“ The old man waved the deed in front of the boy’s wide eyes.

“I didn’t think an old piece of paper mattered to anyone.”

“Promises do, son. Promises do.”

“My daddy left me the land when he died. It was in his will, just like he said.  “Keep it in the family, he said. You take my promise away boy and I have nothing.”

The boy, recovered from running, looked outside where the moonlight offered passage to escape.

“I have a mind to talk to your parents,” the old man pointed his finger at the boy.

“That’s not possible, sir.”

“What do you mean, boy?”

“I mean that my parents are… they are dead, sir.”

“C’mon kid. Tell me their name.”

“There are Hawkins, sir. Tom and Betty Hawkins.”

“I know that name Hawkins. Your mom works at Mare’s Diner.”

“Yes, sir. She did.”

“Well, tell me what you mean that they are dead.”

“They were killed in a car accident on highway 27. A big ole truck hit their car.”

“Geez, son. I’m sorry.”

“It happened last Christmas Eve. They were driving home from… Geez, sir, I better git home. My aunt will be worried.”

The boy took off past the old man. Forgetting the pain in his leg he ran with all his might across the old man’s field toward the fence. The old man, still breathing heavy, didn’t give chase. He watched as the boy struggled to get over the barbed wire. The boy gave out yelp as he fell to the ground on the other side. He ran off to where no moonlight could trace him.

 

A month or so later the old man came to Mare’s Diner for his breakfast. Sally, the waitress, poured him a cup of coffee while taking in the old man.

“I don’t see you here much.” Sally wiped up split coffee with her apron.

“I’m not much to see,” the old man replied.

“C’mon now, you old geezer, you tryin’ to make me feel sorry for you?”

“No ma’am. Life does that all on its own without any help.”

Sally wiped more coffee from the table.

“Say, didn’t I see you here a while back with a young man.”

“That was my son Seth. He was saying goodbye. He was moving out to California to go live with his mom. I was with her years before I married Ruth.”

“He didn’t want to work the farm?”

“Hell no. He doesn’t care about soy beans and corn. He’s into data farming, whatever that is. Say, scramble me up some eggs with some dry wheat toast before I die of starvation.”

“I’ll go do that right now. I don’t want to anything to happen to that sunny disposition of yours.”

Sally headed off to the kitchen.

Five minutes later she returned with the old man’s breakfast.

“Do you know that boy?” The old man pointed out the window.

“Yeah, that’s Archie. His folks died a while back. Sad for a ten-year old boy to lose both parents. What’s he doin’?”

“He’s got his thumb out. O, my lord, he’s hitchhiking.” The old man got up and went outside.

“Hey boy! Hey Archie!” The boy turned and started running.

“Hey Archie! I’m not gonna chase you. C’mere and talk to me for a minute. The old man’s cracking voice carried out to the road.

The boy stopped. He turned and saw the old man standing at the door of the diner. The boy stood by the side of the road kicking gravel. A car passed and then a truck.

“What is it you want?”

“I’ll tell you over breakfast. C’mon my eggs are getting cold.”

The boy, hungry because he left home before his aunt woke, slowly walked toward the restaurant kicking stones as he walked.

“Where you off to boy? Sally says your name is Archie. Where you off to Archie?”

“Anywhere but here.” The boy brushed back a shock of brown hair from his face.

“I see. You better have some breakfast before you go. It’s on me.”

The boy shrugged his shoulders and followed the old man to the booth.

“Sally what have you got for this young man?”

“I’ve got eggs, hash browns, bacon, toast, flap jacks…”

“Go ahead and get what you want.” The old man nodded at the boy.

“I’ll have that.”

“OK. And some orange juice, too?” Sally added.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Morning sunlight coursed through the window making the boy squint. The old man pulled the shade down and the boy relaxed his face. His hands fiddled with the silverware.

“You don’t like here?”

“No, sir, I don’t like here. There’s nothing for me here… just like that field across the street. Ain’t nothing but dirt.”

“Son, you ain’t seen nothing yet. That field of dirt has got life in it…below the surface… you have to look longer than today.”

“I’ve seen all I want to see.”

Sally returned with the boy’s breakfast and placed several plates before him. She then leaned over to the old man and whispered, “I called the boy’s aunt so she ain’t worried. She’ll be comin’ for him.”

The boy heard. “Ah, noooo.” The boy started up from his seat but the old man grabbed his arm and held down.

“Sit down. Son, Archie, you’ve got man impulses but boy resources. You best stay with your aunt ‘til you grow you own.”

“My aunt knows nothing except yarn. She’s knitting all the time.”

“Some folks knit when they are lonely and bored and some hitchhike. I understand that your uncle passed away last year. Terrible sad time for your aunt and now for you with your parent’s gone.”

The boy didn’t look up. He kept eating, filling his cheeks like a squirrel’s.

“When my Ruth died, I was terrible sad and lonely. She …I ain’t gonna bother you with the details of my life.”

“You’ve bothered me already. But I’m here, ain’t I?”

“Ruth was good woman. I’d sit with her at night and we’d listen to our music on the radio. She’d knit and rock in her chair. And she made the best pies around. Even sold them here in the diner.”

“I could use some pie.” The boy spoke as he swallowed the last cheek-load. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

“Sally, what kind of pie you got today? This boy has another leg to fill.”

“Strawberry rhubarb and cinnamon apple.” Sally called out from behind the counter.

“Apple.” The boy had no doubt.

Sally returned with the boy’s pie. The boy started in on the pie.

“You ain’t havin’ any?” Sally set the pie before the old man.

“No. I’ll eat some after supper. It’ll slow me down. Pie has a way of catching up with you …”

The boy finished the pie and fell back against the booth cushion. He closed his eyes. “I’m full.”

As Sally cleared the plates the boy’s aunt, frantic, rushed into the diner and over to the booth.

“There you are! My lord, I thought I lost you!”

“He’s OK. He just had a silo-fill of breakfast. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The old man spoke as he stood.

“Thank you! I’ll take charge of him now. Land sakes, boys are…”

“Ma’am, he’s a boy lookin’ after himself. He just doesn’t know how to look ahead of himself.”

“Well, I sure don’t. I raised girls and they occupy themselves with books and flowers and…”

“Yes ma’am they do. Boys occupy themselves with a world of things like pocket knives and sling shots and chewing gum. And things that get them head-to-toe covered with the earth.

The boy’s aunt pulled the old man away from the table.

“Lord, I don’t know what to do with that boy. I was given charge over him when his folks died. I don’t know how to …I’m afraid he’ll run away again.” The old man looked out the window as if the past was passing by.

“Listen,” the old man stood between the aunt and the boy, “I’ll take him home with me. My farm’s over on Route 25. I have a bedroom where he can sleep. You can come over anytime to check on him. Would that work for you?”

“I…I guess, yes. You’re …you’re not a young man anymore to be chasing boys, Lloyd.”

“You are right about that. I’ll have him help me with the farm and see that he gets fed and man-folk things to do.”

“I guess it will be alright. I don’t know how to raise a boy without Howard around.”

“Then let’s do this and let’s see how it goes for the boy.”

“OK. Let’s. Call me if there is an ounce of trouble.”

“Oh, there will be plenty of trouble comin’ my way but that’s nothing compared to hitchhiking trouble the boy will encounter.”

“Yes, thank God you showed up at the right time.”

“I’ll take the boy with me, kicking and screaming if I have to. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. How about you make a fresh pie for us every week and you bring it over on Sundays after church?”

“That works for me! OK Lloyd I’ll be by this Sunday.”

The boy’s aunt went over to the booth. She kissed the boy’s forehead and left a red lipstick smear. She told the boy, “Lloyd here is gonna take you to his home.”

“I don’t want to go to his home!”

“He’s taking you to his farm. You’ll stay with him.

“What?! Nooooo!”

The old man came back to the booth and sat down.

“Archie, I’ve talked with your aunt. She and I thought it would be a good idea for you to stay with me for a time, nothing permanent… just a spell, so you can do the things that guys like to do.” The old man winked at the aunt.

“Like what?”

“Well, I’ve got a fishing hole on my property. A boy could go swimming. I could show you how to shoot a .22 and how to forge your own knife.”

“Swimming?” The boy put his face into his hands. “I guess. Just for a short time until I get some money for a bus ticket.”

The old man offered his hand to the boy. After a minute the boy took his face out of his hands, reached across and shook the old man’s hand. The old man drove them to the farm.

 

A month had gone by. The boy settled into a routine. He followed the old man around as the old man did his daily routine on the farm. He watched the old man as he repaired broken equipment. And, he watched him as he made their meals. The whole time the boy stood at distance with his hands firmly shoved into his front pockets.

In the afternoon, after the chores had been done, the old man told the boy to go to the fishing hole for a swim to clean off the sweat and dirt. As the boy swam the old man sat on the porch smoking a cigar and reading the newspaper and ag reports.

The evenings were spent eating dinner, cleaning up dishes and then taking a long walk. The old man told the boy that he and Ruth had spent many twilights walking and just being quiet together. The boy had no problem being the old man’s quiet hands-in-pockets companion. The conversation of crickets sufficed for both of them.

Back at the house the old man would read to the boy. He read books borrowed from the library. The old man read from the newly published set of Master and Commander novels. He told the boy that ever since he was a kid and saw tall ships on his trip out east to see his dying aunt that he wanted to be on the open see. But, being raised a farmer and inheriting the farm kept him landlocked. The boy took it in as he lay on the floor with his head perched in his hands.

On Sundays the boy’s aunt came over with a fresh baked pie and a set of folded laundry. She had offered to do their laundry on her first visit. The boy would bury his face into his clean clothes. They smelled of summer and buttery pie crust.

It wasn’t long before the boy’s aunt noticed that the boy’s eyes had brightened from their once desperate and unanimated gaze. It was if sense had been poured into him. She noticed, too, that the boy loved to run. A mention of the swimming hole had him remove his hands from his pockets and take off his tee shirt. He would run out the door like he was shot from a gun. “My lord, that boy can run!”

The old man agreed. “I wonder if he’ll be another Jim Ryun the sub-four-minute miler. He’ll make the half-mile to the hole in no time flat. The aunt looked puzzled but nodded. The old man continued. “Nothing can catch him except barb-wire.” The aunt looked puzzled again. The old man smiled. “I’ll let him tell that story when he’s ready.”

On Sunday they attended church. The old man was not a spiritual man. He believed in the elements and what his hands worked and sometimes the Farmer’s Almanac. He had taken his son Seth to church to let him decide for himself. But Seth later declared himself an atheist and said that the good life and the good weather was to be found in California.

One Sunday the preacher gave a sermon on Abraham’s faith: God commanded the sacrifice of Abram’s son. Abram proceeded to offer his son as a offering. As Abram raised his dagger an angel stopped him from slaughtering his son. A lamb was provided to take the place of the boy.

That night, during their evening walk, the boy asked, “How can a father kill his own son?”

“I wonder that myself. I guess Abram decided that God knew what he was doing, with his promise and all – descendants as many as the stars.”

The boy flinched. “You don’t have descendants if you kill them. If I was Isaac I would have run.”

“I guess Isaac decided that his dad knew what he was doing.”

The old man looked up at the night sky. “I read something a while back. All the elements on earth were forged under great pressure in stars – I’ll show you some rocks when we get back to the house. What do you think about that?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders and said, “I think rocks make more sense than killing your kid.”

They walked on to their turnaround point and then headed back to the house. There the old man showed the rocks he had collected when he was a boy: copper ore, iron ore, jasper, cobalto calcite fushite, citrine and many more specimens that his father brought home to him from his travels. The old man told the boy he could keep them in his room. The boy kept them on the stand next to his bed.

 

The next summer the boy spent his time at the fishing hole after completing his chores. It was there that he met two boys – brothers – about his age. They came over from a neighboring farm. The boys spent their time in the water and building a fort in string of trees along the old man’s field. When they became bored they decided to steal cigarettes off of old man Jacobs dresser. They smoked them in their fort.

The brothers, Jake and Riley, later decided that they would have more fun. They would steal a transistor radio from old lady Miller. The boy came along. He didn’t want to be on the outside, except as a lookout. As it happened old lady Miller hung out the laundry on Mondays. As she did, she listened to the radio perched on a nearby chair. The boys moved in when she entered the house. They snatched the radio and took off back to their fort.

Days later the local paper reported things disappearing from local houses: a radio, a watch, a bicycle, and issues of National Geographic. Per the account, no suspects had been determined. So, the boys continued to steal. The impulse to steal even bigger things and make a getaway was behind Jake’s and Riley’s decision to steal old man Jenkins car. They reasoned: the old man rarely drove it anyway; it was just sitting in his yard waiting to be used; besides, they would only take it for a ride to the next town twenty miles away where the five and dime carried comic books. They told themselves that they would bring the car right back as if nothing happened.

“I don’t know.” The boy voiced his resistance to taking the car and went on to say that they should stick to little things. But he soon changed his mind, the lure of friendship had been cast and the bait taken.

With a stolen pack of cigarettes, the boys made their getaway. Jake, the oldest of the three, knew how to drive. They left the farm down a back road and zig-zagged over to Hastings in the next county. They left a cloud of dust hanging over the fields they raced passed. Cigarette smoke added to the plume.

The car’s radio played loud, so loud in fact, that they couldn’t hear the siren of the police car behind them. Jake slowed up to make a turn. As he did the dust trailed off on the road left behind. Looking right the boys could see the police car’s mars light flashing red. They shut off the radio and pulled to the side of the road. The cigarettes were tossed. In the seconds before the officer reached the car, they tried to devise a reason for being in old man Jenkins car. A medical prescription emergency? They were gonna buy it from old man Jenkins and they wanted to test drive it? It was just for an hour, that’s all?

The officer would have none of it. He placed the three boys into the back of his car and radioed the station. He told the dispatcher to call Mr. Jenkins and let him know his car was found.

Back at the station the officer put the boys in a cell and proceeded to call their parents. Jake and Riley’s parents came right over. They were visibly shaken. Lloyd walked in minutes later and together they asked, “What’s the charge?’

The officer told them that stealing a car is a felony. He also said that he had good reason to believe that the three boys were involved in other things being stolen incurring possible misdemeanor charges. After admitting what they had done the boys were released to the custody of their guardians. A hearing date was set.

The silent ride home with the old man didn’t improve the boy’s outlook. The old man looked heartbroken. At supper that night they ate in silence. The boy didn’t want to catch the man’s gaze. The boy ate with his left hand spanned across his brow. The old man chewed his food as if he was chewing his thoughts.

The boy offered to wash the dishes. He left the room and came back with a cigar box. The old man picked one out and went to the porch.

The boy went to bed early that night. There would be no walk with the old man. There would only be an overwhelming sadness that pervaded his being. Events of isolation converged as he lay in bed: the loss of his parents and the loss of the old man’s trust and losing himself to the law. Sleep came after the boy, crying and clenching his teeth, beat his pillow with his fist.

The next day was Sunday. The boy’s aunt would make her weekly visit. When she arrived, the old man greeted her and put the pie she made for them on the rail of the porch. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The two set down the road the boy and the old man walked. The old man told the boy’s aunt about the day before. The aunt nearly fainted. “My lord!” she kept saying after each of the old man’s disclosures.

When they returned the old man called for the boy to come out to the porch. The boy, pensive, obeyed.

“Your aunt and I have been talking. We both think it best that I adopt you. I don’t know if you’ll be entering junior high this fall but whatever happens we will go through it together.”

The boy tried to look accepting. Fear of the unknown was now taking over. He shuffled over to his aunt and offered her a hug. The aunt, who had been wringing her hands, opened her arms and smothered the boy in a hug. With that something stirred in the boy. His fear encountered embrace.

That night, the boy, at the insistence of the old man resumed their nightly walk. The old man again told the boy that he was adopting him.

“Adopting? What’s that mean exactly?”

“It means that I promise to take care of you as your father would if he were here.”

The boy looked up at the old man. “Does it mean I have to take care of you?”

“Only if you have a mind to.” The old man smiled.

The boy didn’t speak until the turnaround point.

“I guess you know what you are doing, with your promise and all.” As the boy spoke, he felt a rush of tears gush up and pool in his eyes. He turned toward home and began walking ahead of the old man, snapping his leg with a twig he found.

 

The day of the hearing arrived. The old man had the boy take a shower, clean his face and comb his har. He had bought a tie for the boy to wear before the judge. “The judge has to see that you are trying to clean up our act. This is a start.”

Jake, Riley and the boy stood before Judge Gibbons as the charge of felony was read. Jake and Riley’s parents had retained an attorney. The old man had asked for a public defender. The boys were asked how they pled. They each responded “Guilty”. The anvil word was met with a hammer rap.

Before setting a sentencing date, the judge asked the boy’s parents and their attorneys to come into his chamber.

“Between us folks, these boys were behaving like boys. Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, as Proverbs says. From experience I know that foolish pranks can turn into foul play. Your boys are on the cusp of that. Though I could send them to a juvenile home, this is their first offence. I would rather they learn from this experience here and now. I would rather their foolishness be put away forever. Any thoughts?

Jake and Riley’s attorney spoke first. “As you honor said, this is the boy’s first offense, first major offense, that is. I have had a talk with them about the possible consequences including what having a criminal record would do to their lives. I ask for leniency and probation for the boys so they can turn their lives around. Their parents will keep strict attention on their behavior.

“And you sir”, the judge turned to the old man.

The old man, agitated in his chair began to speak slowly, aware of his racing heartbeat:

“Your honor…” the old man told the judge how he came across the boy one night and how he learned of the boy’s parent’s death and about the boy’s hitchhiking. He told the judge about their walks and their time together. He told the judge that the farm takes a lot of work so he let the boy run free after his chores. And that he now has a hired hand to help him with the farm so that he could spend more time with the boy. Lastly, he told the judge that he was the adopting the boy as his own. He showed the judge the adoption papers.

The boy’s public defender also asked for leniency and for probation and for the means to have their record expunged at a later time.

The judge having heard their statements gave his ruling when they returned to the courtroom:

“I sentence you to three years of probation – you will report to a probation officer every week and give account of your yourselves. You must not drink or smoke. You must also return what you have stolen. You must do 90 hours of community service. Your probation officer will tell you what that is. And, you must wash Mr. Jenkins’ car every weekend for the next three years. Mr. Jenkins will report your efforts to your probation officer. You will work to build trust again with those you have acted against or I will see you back here and send you where you can be trusted to behave.” The gavel came down and sighs of relief filled the courtroom.

 

The boy’s summer ended not as it started: in a routine chosen for him. He reported to the probation officer every week. He washed Mr. Jenkins car every week. He picked up litter along the highways two days a week. And he attended Willmans Junior High School five days a week. His walks and the reading time with the old man continued as before. Though his chores increased, the boy added to his routine.

The boy’s natural inclination was to run. When he could he ran down the highways he picked clean. The junior high had no program for runners, but the old man set him distance goals. The old man knew the high school had a cross-country team.

The summer after his junior high graduation the boy ran with the high school’s summer cross-country squad. The coach noted the boy’s endurance and speed. That fall the boy joined the cross-country team- the Harris Harriers. With the training, his schedule was now so packed, that the old man lifted some of the farm chores from the boy’s to-do list. To fuel the carbs being burned off during the boy’s distance runs, the old man was now in the habit of feeding the boy spaghetti as a side dish at every meal. The boy didn’t see any problem with that.

As the season progressed the boy won most of his distance events. He placed his ribbons and trophies on a shelf in the living room, a shelf the old man set apart for the boy. The team entered sectionals in the next county. The boy had to get permission from his probation officer to travel there with his team.

Near the end of the boy’s freshman year the boy completed his probationary period. He stood once more before Judge Gibbons. The probation officer gave his report concluding that the boy had fulfilled the judge’s requirements. The officer read a letter from Mr. Jenkins, which stated that the boy had “cleaned his car faithfully. The boy redeemed himself in my eyes.”

Judge Gibbons was pleased to hear these reports. He discharged the boy saying that he could petition the court to expunge his record. He was free to go.

Outside the courtroom Mr. Jenkins took the boy and the old man aside. He spoke to the boy. “You cleaned that car like it was yours. You can have it. Here are the keys. I’m told I’m too old to be driving it anyway.” The boy was taken back. He apologized for the trouble he had caused him. And, he thanked him for such a gift. The old man pulled the boy close and whispered, “The sowing and reaping have come full circle. C’mon, let’s go the Mare’s diner. I’ll meet you there.”

 

Over time, freshman year through senior year, the boy became the fastest miler in six counties. Because of his time in the state trial meets, the boy was sent to the state meet. There, the boy ran his best mile time: 04: 10.08 to win the state meet. When it happened the old man came out of his stadium seat and ran out to the track where the boy, flushed red, was holding his side and taking in big gulps of air. The old man hugged the boy, sweat and all.

That night, during their walk in the state capital, the boy told the old man that he was enlisting in the Navy. The old man said, “You, you can’t run on a battleship.”

The boy replied, “You told me once that I should spend my life growing. That’s what I intend to do.”

The old man, not able to argue with his own words, began to walk a step ahead of the boy back to the hotel.

When the time came the old man drove the boy to the bus station. He sent him on his way with some stationery and his copper ore specimen to remind him of home.

After basic training the boy was assigned as a mechanic on the Seventh Fleet aircraft carrier USS Enterprise. The Big “E” was the world’s first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier. “READY POWER FOR PEACE” was the motto on his arm patch. The carrier operated in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of northern Vietnam and southern China.

Early December 1966 the Big “E” tied up at U.S. Naval Base Subic Bay, Zambales, Philippines for supplies and repairs. It was then that the boy received two messages. The one from his aunt read, “Your father is dying. Come home.” The one from the preacher read, “You father asks for you.” The boy immediately took the message to his CO. The boy was granted two weeks leave.

It was two days travel to New Burrow. The boy’s aunt met him at the bus station. As they drove to the farm she told the boy about the old man’s condition: “The doctor says his heart is failing. His eyesight is almost gone. Your father doesn’t want to go to the hospital. He wants to die on his farm.”

The boy, dressed in his service uniform, entered the farmhouse and went straight to the old man’s room. He found him there asleep, his breathing heavy and rasping. The boy sat next to his bed and waited for him to stir.

Without opening his eyes the old man reached over and felt the arm of the boy. He spoke.

“Bless your aunt. She has cared for me. She read me your letters.” The old man stopped, taking in more air. After minute, his eyes still closed, he said, “The preacher was here. He told me to pray believing God knew what he was doing. I prayed and prayed and …his chest swelled and then he let out a choking cough. “And here you are.” The old man returned to sleep.

Two days later the boy entered the room with some water. The old man was awake. The boy could see that the old man’s eyes, struggling to stay open, did not respond to movement. Afternoon light coming through the window revealed the reddish-orange copper ore coloring and deep furrows the sun had worked into the old man’s face from years of working in the field.

“I’m glad you are here, Archie.” The old man made every effort to speak.

The boy leaned over to the man’s ear, “I’m here, dad. I’m not going anywhere.”

The old man gestured his withered hand over to the nightstand. “Don’t run off. That box is yours now and all it contains.”

“It is safe with me,” the boy replied putting his hand on its lid.

The old man, wheezing and gasping trying to respond, let out a long airy sigh and let go of the earth.

The boy sat with the old man. The aunt and the hired hand came by the old man’s bed. The aunt spoke wiping tears from her cheeks. “He made his peace with God when he prayed for you, Archie. He loved you. He made me promise that you would get that box. He said promises are only as good as those who hold on to them.”

After a time, the boy, now a young man, walked with the cigar box over to the fence where he first met the old man. He remembered the absolute terror he felt getting caught in the barbed wire and the old man freeing him and wondering what would happen next. And what happened next couldn’t be contained in the old man’s cigar box. The old man knew what he was doing.

After a time, he walked back to the house. He changed his clothes and went for a run down the road they walked together. At the turning point he wept.

Two days later the preacher gave the eulogy. He spoke of the resurrection of the dead. He spoke about a promise freed out of Egypt and out of a fiery furnace and out of the mouth of lions and finally out of the tomb.

By the graveside Archie read the 23rd Psalm. Seth, who arrived the day of the funeral, remained silent as the gathered sang “Amazing Grace”.

The boy, now a young man, laid the old man to rest. He read the words on the tombstone: “Lloyd Harold Long, June 7, 1880-December 14, 1966, Husband to Ruth, Father to Seth and Archie”.

 

 

 

© Jennifer A. Johnson, 2019, All Rights Reserved

AKA, Lena Lindberg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Interpreters

A knock. Then two more. Peter opened his front door. There stood his neighbor Dimitri stomping the slush off of his Oxford shoes. Peter had invited his neighbor Dimitri over for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Come in”, Peter gestured. “Let me take your coat. Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.”

Dimitri eyes glanced around the room until he saw the bookcase. “Ah.” He walked over to the bookcase.

After a minute he muttered under his breath, “You might as well read coffee grounds, Peter.” Dimitri put the Bible back on the shelf and walked into the living room shaking his head.

“Is everything OK, Dimitri?” Peter queried.

“Ah, yes, ahem, yes. Have you read Voltaire’s Candide?…say, what is that wonderful smell?

“Roast carrots from our garden. Didn’t Candide say, “We must cultivate our garden.”?

“Ah. Ahem. Yes. My cultivated garden is right here.” Dimitri tapped his forehead with his index finger.

“Any head carrots ready to be pulled up?”

“Ah. You make fun. But I take my intellectual cultivation very seriously. Everyone must make rational and practical choices from a well-cultivated garden. You can’t rely on superstition and dubious dogmas.”

“Smell that. That’s the smell of the dubious dogma is in the air. Man cannot live by carrots alone. There is roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn and…”

“Ah. I discovered good food by the operation of my reason.”

“Was each mouth-watering experience an eye-opener?”

“It wasn’t a spiritual experience, if that’s what you are after. I tasted the food and found it to be reasonably good.”

“I see. You’ll get to operate your reason again when I cut into the turkey.”

“Is your mother-in-law joining us today?’ Dimitri asked.

“Yes. She is out on the patio smoking a cigar and reading Chekov.”

“Ah, Chekov, a doctor after my own heart. You said your mother-in-law is smoking a cigar?

“Yes. She likes Dominicans. She says it reminds her of her husband who passed away three years ago.”

“Ah, but smoking is bad for your health.”

“So is living with a woman who is miserable, my friend. Have a seat next to me.” Peter pointed to a chair at the dining room table.

Mary set the turkey in the center of the dining room table. The large bird was surrounded by hot dishes. Mouthwatering aromas spiraled upward. The kids were called from upstairs to “come and eat!” Mary knocked on the patio door and summoned Constance to the table.

When grandma entered the dining room, Todd, the family’s youngest exclaimed, “Grandma, whew! you smell like Grandpa!” Grandma smiled at Todd. “Grandpa liked his cigars. I miss grandpa.”

“And, I love my grandma!” Todd gave grandma a hug holding his nose.

When all were seated Peter gave the blessing over the food. Dimitri watched with arched brows and bared whited teeth as the family closed their eyes and bowed their heads. “Amen!”. Dimitri’s white brows recoiled.  Sounds of wine and water being poured. Clanking dishes being passed. Then the clash of forks and knives.

Peter set his napkin down on the table. He stood up with his wine glass.

“I want to toast another year of God’s blessings…

Everyone raised a glass. Dimitri lifted his glass just off the table.

“To the One Who holds all thing together and to my family – Mary, Todd, Charis, and my mother-in-law…

Constance looked up from her plate to see if Peter had winked at Mary. He hadn’t.

“…and to my neighbor Dimitri. Cheers!”

Dimitri bolted up. “I would like to make a toast, too.”

“To science and technology and reason that hold all things together and…to a well-cultivated garden. Cheers!”

Everyone gulped and then downed their drinks.

 

 

“I had a dream last night.” Peter passed the sweet potatoes to Dimitri. “I think it’s about being held back at my job. I want to do the project work the electrical engineers are doing.”

Dimitri put his forked carrots down, straightened up and arched his right eye brow. “Tell me about it.”

Peter proceeded to describe the dream:

“I entered a large mall-like area. It looked like my high school and the inside of a large mall at the same time. There were escalators and lots of people walking around in front of stores.

To my left I saw a stairway that went down to a lower level. I walked over to the stairs and went down.

The next moment I saw myself as a prisoner inside a prison. There were lockers like a locker room. And, prisoners walking around.

I looked up above me and saw a funnel-like duct work going up. I went up the ductwork thinking I was escaping.

The next moment there were guards catching escapees in the duct work. The escapees were forced to return. I was among them.

What do you think that means, Dimitri?”

“I think it means that you should have gotten your degrees like I did. Then you can show them you are like them – university educated. I have something to show for all of my time studying climate. If you had a degree then you would have status like I enjoy at the university. I am well regarded and have full tenure.”

Peter responded. “I can do the work. The thing is…I’ve been interested in so many things I could never settle on one course of study. I teach myself what I am interested in and in what I need to know. The way I figure it, if I can understand electrical theory and physics and economics and can paint and write stories, then all the better. When they said I couldn’t be given those projects I felt I was being pulled back down to my ‘place’.

“Ah. If you are looking for a way to be at their level. You need a degree to show that you have a background of knowledge equal to the status you’ll receive. One must become knowledgeable and proficient in one area and then… and then you can apply your well-cultivated mind to all areas of your life. They call me doctor at the university and for good reason. I am looked up to as someone who has achieved superior knowledge above theirs in a certain area. They respect my well-cultivated mind and seek my opinions in all areas of life.”

Dimitri went on.

“They know me as a man of science.  I see things as they are – objects, data – and not as I wish them to be. I write papers and they are peer reviewed and well-accepted. I am published in the Journal of Climate Consensus.”

The dinner progressed. Second helpings were passed

“I was sorry to hear about your father’s death this summer.” Peter looked over at Dimitri. Charis, Peter’s daughter, came and put her arms around her father’s shoulders.

“Ah. That. Yes. He took his own life by…”

“Little ears, Dimitri, little ears.”

“Ah, yes. I see…. My father decided that there was no reason to live after mom died. Sad business. I was never an optimist or a sentimentalist so I knew it was inevitable. He said he drank to deal with the loss. His drinking and thinking of her drove him to the loss of himself.” Dimitris gulped down his glass of wine.

Charis came over and rubbed Dimitri’s shoulder.

“May I offer you some more wine, Dimitri? Constance held the bottle of wine in the air. Dimitri accepted.

“So, you have never married, Dimitri?” Constance asked as she poured the wine.

“I don’t think any woman could live with me. My standards are very high.”

Looking back into the kitchen, Mary wondered if this man of letters would put two and two together and offer to wash dishes later.

“Constance, you read Chekov? And, you smoke cigars?” Dimitri looked over at Constance.

“Yes.”

“I find it surprising that a woman…”

“That a woman likes Chekov?”

“No, I mean…”

“That I read Chekov outside on the cold patio?”

“No, I mean…”

“That I like Dominicans?”

“Ah. Yes. Cigars?”

“My husband would read Chekov and smoke cigars. Memories, really. Both are a revelation about his life.”

Holding up a carrot with his fork, Dimitri looked over at Constance. “It was Chekov who said to his wife, ‘You ask what is life? This is the same as asking: What is a carrot? A carrot is a carrot and nothing more is known about it.’ Dispassionate and clinical observance is what I require for my life.” Dmitri ate the carrot.

Constance whispered to Mary, “I see the carrot served its purpose well.”

Dimitri wiped his white goatee with his napkin. “Mary, for all practical purposes, that meal was a gastronomic revelation!” Dried mashed potato flecks fell from his beard as he spoke.

Mary thanked Dimitri and offered him some pumpkin pie. Through an extended yawn, Dimitri said “Yes” to pie and coffee. After dessert, Dimitri fell back in his chair, yawned like a lion and looked at his watch.

“I must be going. Tomorrow is a long day for me. Computer models to program. Algorithms. Tomorrow night I am attending a cocktail party with my colleagues after an award ceremony.”

Mary handed Dimitri a bag with the dinner’s leftovers. Peter helped Dimitri on with his coat.

Peter opened the door. “It would have been unreasonable of me to let you spend Thanksgiving alone.”

Dimitri stepped across the threshold and paused.

“Ah. Damn! It is snowing again! Not the best of all possible days.”

As Dimitri headed down the sidewalk Peter warned, “Be careful my friend. There’s a layer of ice under that snow!”

 

 

 

 

 

© Jennifer A. Johnson, All Rights Reserved

 

Tis the Season to Be Partisan

 

Despite the fact that Macy’s has their enormous Christmas tree lit up right now, signifying the coming season of glad tidings and of peace and of unbridled consumerism, the TV reminds us that it is knock-down-drag-out Partisan Season as candidates throw punches at their labeled-as-a-Grinch opponents. Democracy gives one the impression that with your vote, and with other’s who vote like you, that you can create a government in your image. Therein lies the boxing match. Campaign ads require a different metaphor.

As witnessed firsthand, the almost endless torrent of unbridled derogatory and prejudiced campaign ads spews like raw sewage from the digital spout. Based on the ads, hatred for the opposing candidate appears to be the biggest lure to pull voting fish out of the drainage.

I’ve come across those on Twitter who will vote for a Democrat because the other candidate is a Republican and therefore, based on the media narrative, is a tainted Trumpist. The Twitterer’s animosity towards Trump is stoked by a fight manager – the Leftist media. The combined one-two punch of hate and vote is meant to KO anyone on the Right.

“I do not know if the people of the United States would vote for superior men if they ran for office, but there can be no doubt that such men do not run.”
― Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America

Neediness for government to make their lives better (basically, government taking responsibility for their lives) feeds many folk’s compulsion to vote for the unctuous Democrat who is often Trumpian unctuous but vies for the anti-Trump vote amongst the media-fed lions as the “right thing to do” pol. Their candidate freely offers healthcare and untethered no-cost sanctimony regarding giving illegal aliens a pass on our laws. A free lunch is offered to all at no cost to the candidate.

One such candidate is a local Democrat. She is running against an incumbent Republican for a U.S. representative seat. She is an Africa-American female so she is definitely an unTrump figure. But like Trump her presence is ubiquitous. Her yard signs are everywhere. Her campaign volunteers wave her sign as they stand along the bridge I cross on my way home from work.

She is a healthcare candidate. This means she wants to give everyone government run healthcare. But like Obama’s ACA con game and Ocasio-Cortez’s socialism con game in New York, she has not provided the details of how to pay for the enormous bureaucracy to run your life and your healthcare. She does not talk about unintended consequences such as the lack of competition in the medical industry creating higher costs or the loss of incentive for doctors to practice because they become wards of the state or for the lack of desire for new doctors to enter the medical field. The consumer loses out when government chooses your options for you. Unlike the toothy candidate with the hope and change grin, government is impersonal. It is not altruistic.bureaucrat

Her campaign, her partisanship, is that she is not like the cold-hearted other guy who is hands-off in his approach to government and our lives. Her campaign, her partisanship, is that she wants your vote for government to be the cold-hearted hands-on entity to care for you.

 

 

So, in the spirit of the Season of Partisanship, I offer my own partisan views.

I am a conservative libertarian. That combination may sound like two terms which negate each other but I assure you it doesn’t. As a follower of the Way who walks on resurrection ground, I seek heaven on earth just as Jesus taught us to pray. That kingdom of God venture is not something I want to impose on my fellow citizens. Rather, I want them to have freedom to do as they please within the law and to receive the reward of their behavior. This, in essence, means that I do not want government to be a lifestyle safety net nor the means to bail you out if you decide to live your life with drugs or in sexual encounters or as parachute jumper. I want gravity and not government to be the force in our lives.

I am conservative with regard to social issues. And, again, I do not want to impose my kingdom view on others. I can impose that on myself and be the salt and light that the rest of the world will need when trouble comes knocking.

I am a small government fiscal conservative. Government has no business running my life or healthcare or bailing me or any industry or bank out. Taxpayer money could instead be used by the taxpayer to help his own neighbors and to pay for their medical care. The thinking that government has deep pockets if everyone was made to pay in denies the reality of escalating costs based on that assumption and the monopoly of government control you’ve created when vote that assumption.

“The American Republic will endure until the day Congress discovers that it can bribe the public with the public’s money.”
― Alexis de Tocqueville

 

Our government, as I define it, is a secular entity that provides protection from enemies foreign and domestic (including illegal aliens), provides transportation infrastructure and which enforces the Constitution and the laws of the land. Government is also to enforce contracts. The government is not to be a church dispensing Good Sarmatianism.

 The Constitution is the cornerstone of our republic. It aligns the foundation our nation is built on it. It should not be chiseled away by “living Constitution” jurists who put their finger in the wind for their opinions and judgments.

Having said all this, I want to further post my partisanship: I am by no means a Progressive. And you should know that there is no such thing as a Progressive Christian. Progressivism is a belief, not in God and His well-documented narrative, but in an ideology which requires that God’s well-documented narrative be changed for the Progressive to live his narrative. Progressivism negates Christianity.

I am follower of Jesus first and foremost. I vote libertarian-conservative. This means that I want to preserve what is good. I seek a small boring government and allowance for people’s freedom to do as they please within the law. I want people to take responsibility for the outcome of their choices. I also do not want to be forced to have to affirm their choices (the Progressive definition of “rights”).

I voted early. And, I did not vote for the statist or for her healthcare unicorn or for her “do the right thing” campaign. I have never voted for a Democrat. The fact that Democrats promote abortion is beyond the pale and is ironic for a party platform that promotes itself as “for the people” and wants you to “do the right thing” with your vote. Isn’t it telling that a Democrat woman can presuppose and visualize a problem for her future existence if she has a child and so aborts the child. But the same woman can’t presuppose and visualize her unborn child as a human.

Identity politics, created by Democrats, pits male against female and humans against those who choose to dehumanize themselves. There is also class warfare fueled by Democrats Obama, Sanders, Warren and Ocasio-Cortez. But Democrats want you to perceive something else. Democrat candidates would love to have you think they are the saviors from hate and discord (they have stoked) if you just give them control.

Democrats promise all kinds of bennies at the expense of others. So, let it be known that there is a major cost to the U.S. and to its people when illegal aliens enter the country with values that are not shared with Americans. Remember these aliens left countries they trashed with their values and votes. Many are victims of their votes.

 

In the spirit of the Season of Partisanship I leave you with a well-informed conservative economist – Thomas Sowell – and his three very important questions:

 

Tis the season to Be a Responsible Voter.

~~~

You Keep the Stub

 

You Keep the Stub

a short story

The Anderson family decided to go to a movie after an early supper. Dad, mom, Katie and Kevin got into the family’s van and headed over to the Markhem multiplex on the other side of Markhem River. They hoped that a 6:30 showing they wanted to attend wouldn’t be too crowded. To their surprise, the parking lot was empty except for one car. They were even more surprised to be the only ones standing in line for tickets. They knew from the promos that the movie was “box-office smash hit”. Dad told mom that it was probably just a quirk that no one was there at that time.

At the concession counter each asked for a tub of popcorn, a soda and some candy.  The guy from the ticket booth was now behind the counter. Now Dad noticed that the guy’s arms were covered in black thorny vine tattoos. The jagged vines went up under his short sleeves and then appeared again on his neck and into his hairline.

“Wow, for such a big place I don’t see many employees.” Dad spoke trying not to stare at the guy’s arms.

The guy answered, “Many of my friends left to work somewhere else. Something about feeling claustrophobic.”

“I’m glad you’re here!” dad pointed at the concession guy and then opened his hand. “But where are all the customers?”

“You don’t see them?!”

Katie looked around and scrunched her nose. “Daaaad?”

“Don’t worry, Katie, he’s just joking. We’re in a movie theater. We’re here to be entertained.

When the concession guy heard that he broke a half smile. He then directed the family over to the velvet rope cordon. The Andersons followed.

“We meet again!” dad joked.

The concession guy now turned usher tore off the tickets and handed them the stubs. He told them to keep their stubs. He pointed them to theater 2 where the movie, A Future Worth Fighting For, was playing.

 

The movie was the topic of discussion the night before. As the Andersons sat around the dinner table, a promotional commercial came on TV. Kevin pointed to the screen. Katie left her chair, headed over by the TV and told her parents, “That’s the movie everyone in my class has seen. I have to see it.”

Dad and mom learned from the promo that the movie was another in the Clash of Eco-SuperBeings series. Kevin and Katie filled in the movie details after dad had them turn off the TV and come back to the dinner table.

Katie began by telling mom and dad about the main characters, Vinica Tru and Wither.

“They’re Eco-SuperBeings. Vinica Tru has the power to create beautiful gardens and forests with lots of color. She directs light to make things grow. Wither also uses her power to control the environment, but in a bad way. Wither hates color. Wither wants to control light. Whiter wants to control how people see things. The web site says she’s an anti-chromatic fiend, whatever that means.”

Kevin jumped in.

“I think anti-chromatic means that Wither absorbs light and won’t reflect it back. She wears all black and a black hood. Black absorbs light and becomes heat. I learned that in physics class.”

Now dad jumped in.

“That’s my boy! Go on Kevin.”

Kevin told his parents about the super powers of Vinica Tru and Wither.

“Vinica Tru has two green thumbs. She uses the power in her thumbs to cause things to grow, like fields of flowers and prairie grasses and crops. She has the power to create over a thousand shades of green. She can shoot emerald rainbows into the sky out from between her thumbs! The rainbow falls to earth and things grow!

When Vinica Tru and Wither are not fighting, they said Vinica Tru is a watercolorist. Bill’s mom told me that Vinica Tru is an artist who paints with watercolors.

Wither is the opposite of Vinica Tru. Wither has the power to suck color out of anything. After she sucks in color she can spray a hot black fog out of her mouth. She says that the world must be colorless, that nothing should have color. Nothing should stand out. It should all be black.

Wither can also cast weeds and thorns out from her black thumbs. She destroys beautiful things like flowers and sunsets and …”

Katie interrupted.

“Wither hates rainbows. A rainbow in the sky means that beautiful things can grow. Wither will spray her black fog at rainbows in the sky to stop things from growing. But Wither is OK with rainbows that are not in the sky or are like the ones I see in puddles. Wither is OK with rainbows that don’t make things grow. I don’t have to take biology to know all that. Katie stuck her tongue out at Kevin.

Mom jumped in.

“That’s my girl? Go on Katie.”

“Like I said. If Wither sees a sky rainbow she sucks in their colors and sprays out a black rainbow to replace it.”

Now Kevin spoke.

“Wither wants to control the environment. She calls herself an environmental activist.”

 

The movie was everything Kevin and Katie had said. And more. Dad and mom weren’t used to the earsplitting sound effects. Dad wondered why the only lights in the otherwise dark theater, the red “Exit” lights, would flash whenever Wither appeared on the screen. Mom wondered why Katie was fidgeting so much. Both mom and dad noticed that whenever Vinica Tru used her green thumbs the theater became cool and energized, like a breath of fresh air. And whenever Wither breathed out the black fog, the air in the room became stuffy, stale and suffocating, like they had been placed inside a tomb.

 

After about an hour into the movie, Katie could not sit still. Mom asked her if she had to go to the bathroom. Katie said no but then changed her mind ten minutes later. What felt like prickly heat on Katie’s arms had become unbearable. Both her arms now felt like they were sunburned. How could that be? She hadn’t been out in the sun much at all.

“Mom! I’m going to the bathroom.” Katie whispered as she headed for the aisle.

“OK, honey. Come right back.”

In the bathroom Katie looked in the mirror. Both of her arms were lobster red and they burned.

“Whaaa?! What is going on?!

Katie returned to her seat and quickly forgot about her arms. The movie had more effect on her.

 

When the movie ended they walked out of the movie theater into the main hallway. Dad and mom couldn’t account for why all four of them had the chills and why they all felt so exhausted. Mom said, “I hope there wasn’t something in the air.” The thought of that had them head straight for the parking lot. On their way out, they noticed that the theater hallways were empty again. Outside they looked at each other and saw what looked like sunburn on each of their arms. Dad said, Wow! That VirtualMax gets under your skin!” Mom didn’t smile.

Once in the car they headed home without talking. Their minds were in a fog. The hot glow on their arms was all that concerned them.

The next morning Katie was the first out of bed. She headed to the bathroom and turned on the light. She looked at her arms. What she saw made her jaw drop. Her arms were covered with jagged black vines!

“Mom! Daaaad!” Katie cried.

Mom and dad rushed into the bathroom. When they saw Katie they both jumped back. Then, they looked at their own arms and saw the same black jagged vines. Looking in the mirror, the vines appeared to be growing up into their hair.

After several minutes in front of a mirror where he was trying to rub off the black, dad tried to make light of what he couldn’t understand. He said, “Wow! That VirtualMax gets under your skin!” But nobody smiled.

Dad, ever the optimist, was now dealing with a situation of seeming Biblical proportions beyond his control. He began looking for a positive outcome.

“Remember last night? They showed the promo of the sequel, The Abiding Battle where Vinica Tru battles Wither to restore color once and for all? The promo said, ‘In the final showdown, Vinica Tru uncovers the source of Wither’s colorlessness. Wither was once green but will never be green again.”

Dad rubbed his arm again. This time with a rag soaked with rubbing alcohol.

“This is not coming off. I guess we’re going to have to wait for the sequel. I’ll buy the tickets as soon as they come on sale next year.

Mom, looking at her horrified self in the mirror said, “I’m not waiting! I am going to start a garden!”

The next morning the Anderson family began their garden. After digging up and turning the black soil they tossed their ticket stubs into a hole and buried them. What the Anderson’s later learned was that certain ticket stubs have a way of growing into thorn bushes. But, to their great relief, as those thorn bushes grew, the black jagged vines on their arms began to fade away. But the black jagged vines left their mark, as if a tattoo had been removed.

Seeing no further improvement in the coloring of their arms, Dad decided it was time to cut down the thorn bushes and dig up the thorn bush stubs and be done with them. As he did he placed the prickly branches and the jagged stubs in a pile. He then doused them with gasoline and stood back. The burning heap crackled and hissed and gave off Sulphur fumes. A gathering column of blackness billowed from the screeching blaze, its only course toward the blue sky to meet its eco-fate – Vinica Tru.

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Jennifer A. Johnson, 2018, All Rights Reserved