Silver Creek
Stories
Contents
"Silver Creek" by Keith Hewitt
"The Rich Man and the Tailor" by Larry Winebrenner
"Open My Lips, Lord" by Larry Winebrenner
"A Broken Bottle, A Broken Pride" by Sandra Herrmann
"March of Darkness" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * *
Silver Creek
by Keith Hewitt
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
On the night of October 8, 1871 -- the same night as the great Chicago fire, which killed 250 people -- a firestorm flared in the forests of Northeastern Wisconsin. By the time it burned itself out against the natural firebreaks of Green Bay and Lake Michigan, over 2,000 square miles of forest had been consumed, along with dozens of small towns. The dead numbered around 2,500, many buried anonymously in mass graves, because the destruction was so complete that there was no one left to identify them...
"Don't go."
Jamison Lee paused in mid-motion, looked at the woman who stood across the bed from him and cocked his head slightly to one side, like a dog pondering a command it had never heard before. He stood like that for a moment or two and then resumed packing, tucking supplies into his bag: Bible, prayer book, extra socks… and, on top, a pair of Colt Navy revolvers. "You're not serious," he said quietly, as he packed. "I know you're not serious. Silver Creek is part of my circuit -- I have to go."
"Even if there's no town left?"
He snapped the bag shut. "Especially if there's no town left."
"Then take me with you." It was part suggestion, part challenge.
Jamison smiled, then, and walked around the foot of the bed. He took her hand, held it as he looked into her eyes, and shook his head. "It's not going to be any place for a woman."
"I'm not a woman, Jamison -- I'm your wife."
Gently, he brushed a strand of copper-blond hair away from her face and said, "And I'm your husband, and I say it's no place for you. You'll have to trust me on this." He lowered his hand, then, reached for the bag. "Heinrich is waiting for me. God willing, I'll be back next Tuesday."
She looked back at him, said nothing.
Confound it. What was he supposed to do, here? He hefted the bag, licked his lips, and added conversationally, "I don't expect there will be any mail, but if there is I'll send you a letter when I get there, to let you know I've arrived safely."
Silence, just the stare of those crystal blue eyes.
"Well -- Heinrich is waiting," he repeated uncertainly and turned away, stepped toward the door.
"Jamison?"
Relief! He would have hated to leave in silence. He turned. "Yes, dear?"
"Will you carry my valise, please? It's behind the door."
# # #
There was no question when the buggy crossed into the territory of the great fire. The smell came first -- a heavy scent of charred wood, held close to the ground by a layer of smoke that hung in the air, seemingly just above their heads. Soon enough they were passing through what remained after the conflagration -- ashes and soot, the corpses of trees, some standing like blackened telegraph poles, stripped of branches and leaves; others lying on their sides, not quite consumed by the fire that had toppled them.
Several times they passed close to homes that had been destroyed, and there was something more to the smell -- the stench of charred flesh and death that was so hard to recall, but impossible to forget. Maybe it was the stench that made the horses nervous, or maybe it was the ground that was still warm beneath their feet -- Jamison just talked to them soothingly and twitched the reins every once in awhile to draw their attention.
There was nothing he could do for his wife, who sat next to him, her face even more pale than normal. He spoke to her once or twice, but she just shook her head, jaw clenched, and he gave up, turned his attention to the squat, muscular man who rode beside them.
Heinrich had been talking almost nonstop for the last few miles. Jamison was familiar with this -- had seen it too many times during the war. It was as though the man was afraid to stop talking, for fear the silence would envelop him, and unwanted memories come flooding back. By talking, he could at least direct them, hold them at bay and divert them around some of the time -- take glancing blows instead of a full-on assault.
"-- wasn't much of a crop, this year, what with the drought and all," he was saying. "I wasn't sure how we were going to manage, and now this."
"I've never seen anything like this," Jamison said. "Just two weeks ago, this was all forest, and now..." He waved a hand toward the ashen desolation around them.
"Yeah, well, I prefer it now over Sunday night." The tanner shook his head, and for a moment there was something in his eyes -- Jamison watched closely, relaxed a bit when Heinrich started speaking again. "I tell you, Reverend, it was like nothing I ever seen before, or hope to see again. We got woke up by a rider from over toward Hobbs Corners."
That would make sense -- Hobbs Corners was north and west of Silver Creek. They would have been in the fire's path, first. Not his circuit, though. They had a little Lutheran church, and no need for him.
"By the time we was awake, we could already see the fire. It was moving pretty fast." Heinrich paused, stretched in his saddle and craned his neck, looking around -- for what, he didn't exactly know. Something familiar... something not charred, not lying on the ground, still sending wisps of smoke into the air. He settled back into the saddle and slumped, having found nothing to take his mind off the devastation.
"It was still dark, but it was like watching the sun come up over toward the west. There was this light in the sky, first -- then it started to glow red, and finally we could see the flames -- the actual flames -- in a line that stretched all across the horizon. The flames just marched toward us, coming and coming..." He paused, shook his head, then looked down at Jamison. "You was in the war, Reverend?"
"I was, Heinrich." It didn't come up, much, in church.
"Where'd you fight?"
"A lot of places you never heard of, I'd guess."
"I was at Gettysburg. Cemetery Ridge."
Jamison nodded. "Pickett's charge."
"Yeah. It was like that. Lookin' across the field, watching them Rebels come closer and closer -- marching like one long wave. Must be what it's like to watch the tide come in -- it just keeps coming and coming. It was easy to stand there and imagine that wave of Rebs just washing over us." He cast a covert glance at Jamison's wife, lowered his voice. "You was in combat, then, Reverend -- you know. I'm not ashamed to tell you I pissed myself that day. It was like watching the end of the world, just rolling right over you."
Jamison nodded again. "I know what you mean, Heinrich. Nothing to be ashamed of."
"I almost did it again, Sunday night. I was so scared, Reverend -- there was fire from one end of the earth to the other, and it just kept coming. I knew I was dead, for sure -- me and my family." His voice had risen, almost to a plea. "Did you ever feel like that, Reverend? Like judgment is coming, and you can't get out of the way?"
Jamison nodded, smiled tightly. "I have."
"Then what did you do?"
Jamison was silent for awhile, eyes scanning both sides of the dirt road, taking in the horror and the desolation. At last, he answered, "I'm a simple man, Heinrich. I don't know why these things happen. God didn't spare Jesus from the things he had to go through -- I doubt he's going to cut us any better break than he did for his own Son. All I know there are times when the only thing you can do is pray -- and praise God. Because we know that he may not always deliver us from whatever trial we're facing -- but he'll never abandon us. And that kind of love must be praised."
The trees -- what was left of them -- were thinning out, now. The haze hung closer to the ground, left there by the still, heavy air. Silver Creek lay ahead of them... or should have. It had never been much -- just a handful of houses and a general store spread along a wide spot in the road, and a little wooden church at the north end of town. But now it was gone... just gone. In its place stood a handful of piles of charred lumber and tumbled chimneys, and at the north end of what used to be the town, a skeletal ghost of a church, its blackened bones exposed for all the world to see.
Beside him, his wife let out a long, low sigh, then shuddered and said softly, "Now I know what hell is like."
Jamison thought about the places he had been, the carnage he had seen, and was about to answer when he heard it. It was faint, at first, dancing at the threshold of hearing -- as though the sooty haze did not want to carry the sound to him. But then a gentle breeze stirred, and brushed it in his direction. He listened for a moment to be sure, then smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
She turned toward him, looked puzzled.
He looked at their companion and said, "I think your friends understand, Heinrich." He gestured toward the remains of the town, then touched his ear.
Faintly -- ever so faintly -- weary voices were singing "Amazing Grace." Jamison let the words speak for themselves for a moment or two, then added gently, "This can't be hell -- because there is no hope in hell."
Then he twitched the reins and clucked at the horses, to take them toward the sounds of praise.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
The Rich Man and the Tailor
by Larry Winebrenner
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.
-- Matthew 6.3-4
Once there was a very rich man who lived up on the hill above the village. He lived in a very large mansion with numerous servants. He was immensely wealthy.
In the village below lived a poor tailor. He lived alone in a drafty apartment over the tailor shop, warmed by a lone fireplace.
Each evening after completing the day's work in the tailor shop, he'd go on the wealthy man's land and pick up wood for his fireplace. He always faithfully first went to the front door of the mansion and asked permission.
The butler met him at the door and announced, "The master says you have permission to gather as much wood as you need for today. But you must come get permission before coming another day."
Since the tailor also had a wood-burning cook stove, he gathered wood practically every day of the year.
The townsfolk thought it passing strange that the tailor was permitted to gather the wood, for if anything surpassed the mansion-dweller's wealth, it was his stinginess.
If one went to the door of the mansion the butler said, "The master insists you leave his property at once or he will turn the dogs loose on you. If you come back, he will call the constable and prosecute you for trespassing."
And woe be to the poor stranger seeking help at the house. "Begone!" the butler would snarl and slam the door.
Even the village mischief-makers avoided the property for fear of the dogs.
In contrast, the poor tailor was the soul of generosity.
"Perhaps the rich miser has heard of the tailor's kindness and that's why he permits wood gathering," suggested one woman to another one day at the local bakery.
"No," said a third. "If that old goat knew he sometimes gathered wood for Widow Brown, he'd deny wood gathering forever."
"Perhaps the tailor is a poor relation," suggested the first.
"No," said the second. "I've known them both and their families all their lives. They're not related."
"Maybe he sews the miser's clothes," murmured another.
"We'll never know," affirmed the third.
And so it was until the miser died. He was mean and stingy. The tailor always managed somehow, out of his poverty to find resources to meet others' needs.
The conventional wisdom was that the poor were always more generous than the rich.
Small wonder that at the rich man's funeral there were only two mourners; the butler and the tailor.
Generosity has its costs. One day the tailor heard three orphans needed clothes. He provided them at no charge as usual, but the next day when a poor farmer who provided free food to the orphanage mentioned his old coat was coming apart and he needed a new one, the tailor didn't simply give him one.
"I have no cloth for a new one," he said. "Bring me the old one and I mend and patch it."
Another day a poor traveler passed through the village. "I haven't eaten for three days," he said.
Instead of giving the man money for food at the local inn as usual, the tailor invited the traveler in and said, "I cannot buy you a meal, but this bit of bread and cheese and tea were to be my supper. It's all I have, but you may have it."
Later, as the traveler told of this kindness, he remarked, "I didn't want to tell him the tea had no strength the leaves been used so often before."
The time came when the tailor not only had nothing to give. He also was in debt for giving so much so often. He eventually seemed stingier than the miser had been. When he died there was only one person at his funeral -- the old butler. After the funeral the butler spoke to the pastor and left town forever.
The following Sunday the pastor opened his sermon with these words.
"Today I want to pay homage to two men who have reaped their reward in heaven. The rich man who lived on the hill. The poor tailor who lived in the village. At the tailor's funeral, the wealthy man's butler told me about this event.
"When the wealthy man moved into the mansion after his father's death he invited the tailor to tea one afternoon. He told the tailor that both the needy and the unneedy came to his door for help. He did not mind helping the needy, but the others he detested. Yet, he could not tell one from the other.
"So he made a deal with the tailor. No one but the truly needy would approach a poor tailor for help. If the tailor would help all who came in need of help, the wealthy man would finance the help. However, the tailor must never reveal that the help came from up on the hill. Never.
"A method of announcing the need and collecting the funds was devised. Every day the tailor was to go to the mansion ostensibly to get permission to collect wood. The butler would ask, 'How much money do you need today?' The tailor would say either none or the amount needed.
"There was no provision for funds after the rich man's death, but folks still felt they could go to the tailor for help. He did all he could, even going deeply into debt trying to help others. The stinginess people attributed to him was completely misplaced. In the end he was more in need than those who continued to go to him."
After the service the townsfolk went to the cemetery. They formed a circle around the graves of the rich man and the tailor and prayed for forgiveness.
Open My Lips, Lord
Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 51:1-17
Charles glanced quickly over the volunteer choir he had been asked to form.
"Don't worry, Charlie. We're not expecting that Mormon Tabernacle group. Just some folks to bump up our singing Sunday mornings," the pastor had said.
He didn't like being called Charlie. And he didn't like being handed a no-nothing job.
Well, maybe they weren't going to be the Metropolitan Opera. Neither were they going to be sloppy singers blasting away, off-key only interested in "bumping up" the morning worship singing.
Charles wasn't sure why he'd been given this assignment. He had no degree in music. He'd never sung in any outstanding choirs. Truth be known, he couldn't even read music!
Now he looked directly at the assembled group. When they had quieted down, he said, "I'm your new choir director. Do any of you want my job?"
There was some nervous tittering, but no takers.
"Then we'll do this my way," he said. "No singing until we know where we're going. Let's start with the Bible. Who do we know in the Bible that sang songs?"
Silence.
Finally, Emily said in a very quiet voice, almost too soft to hear, "I think Paul and another guy, maybe Silas, sang hymns while in prison."
"Great!" said Charles. "Let's hope we don't have to go to prison to get up enough courage to sing."
More tittering, but no real laughs.
I'm not sure I'm going to be able to do this thing thought Charles.
"Wasn't David a singer?" asked a bass whose name was also Charles.
"Right, Mr. Hurley," said Charles taking this opportunity to establish a separate identity for the other Charles. It gave him another idea.
"The Psalms are reputed to all be David's psalms. But all you have to do is look at titles to see others wrote some of the psalms. But certainly David authored his share. In fact, probably every event in life is associated with at least one psalm. Maybe even more."
"What about Bathsheba?" asked Maryann Meyers.
Ah. This is more like it thought Charles. Participation.
"Good question," he said orally. "What would be in a psalm like this? If you'd had this experience, what would you put in the psalm? If they like, women can chime in from Bathsheba's perspective."
"Confession," said Henry Martin.
"And asking for forgiveness," put in Andrew Paul.
"I think in his day he'd want to offer sacrifice," murmured Alice Shaw.
"How about that dude he offed to get at the dame," Philip Hogg wanted to know.
Several others added their thoughts once the ice was broken. When the suggestions died down to several repetitions, Charles said, "Let me read you something." He picked up his Bible and read:
For the director of music. A psalm of David. When the prophet Nathan came to him after David had committed adultery with Bathsheba.
"Hey!" said Charles Hurley. "Lemme see that. I want to see how much we got right."
"Grab your own Bible, Mr. Hurley. It's Psalm 51."
There was a general scrambling for Bibles to look up the passage.
"What's all this got to do with our choir?" asked Emily in that almost nonexistent voice.
"Yeah," said Henry as he scanned the psalm for his contribution.
"Three things," said Charles.
"First you worked together as a group to solve a simple problem. The choir will only work if we work together.
"Second, you've seen how not only does religious singing have a very long history -- David lived some 3,000 years ago, you know -- but that song dealt with real events in the lives of people back then.
"And finally, we've found a technique for looking at psalms. We'll use the same technique dealing with music and songs we'll use in Sunday services. Now, let's think about what should be in a song about....
Charles remained as choir director for 35 years. While his choirs never reached Mormon Tabernacle level, they were known far and wide as a choir that could make you feel what the hymn was all about.
Their motto is: "Open my lips, Lord, and my mouth will declare your praise" (Psalm 51:15).
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
A Broken Bottle, A Broken Pride
Sandra Herrmann
Psalm 51:1-17
He was walking down the street, contemplating what his life had become. It wasn't a ruined life. He'd enjoyed an occasional drink, had toked a few as a college student, and had dated a number of women before he married the one he was still in love with. He had avoided the excesses of his generation.
He had a job he liked well enough, enough money to afford an every-other-week cleaning woman and a kid to mow the lawn every Thursday. He liked the people he worked with, even counted a couple of them as friends. They went boating together occasionally, had beach barbeques together, and he and his wife had even been asked to be godparents to the daughter of one of those couples.
It was a comfortable life. He should have been satisfied. He was young enough to make changes, take a few chances, even. Still, he wasn't happy. And he didn't know why. He often thought about that line in the Declaration of Independence: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. He had the first two. Why did happiness seem so elusive?
He glanced toward the gutter. Something there sparkled just enough to attract his attention. Taking a step backward, he looked more closely. Rounded shards of glass were sparkling in the sunlight. He realized that he was looking at the remnants of a bottle of cheap wine. Parts of the label remained, and there was some residue clinging to the bottom of the bottle, which was still whole. He wrinkled his nose. It was not a pretty sight close-up, and the wine, warming in the sun, was rank. Still, he could not seem to turn away. The sunlight glinted into his eyes, and he was transfixed.
Suddenly, he was seeing scenes from his life. All of those half-done plans he'd had. All the dreams he'd set aside as being too much trouble or too complicated or not realistic. All the half-baked and unfulfilled promises he'd made to his wife. All the promises he'd made to himself that he kept putting off.
The picture got darker. He realized that at least some of his successes were due to "borrowing" ideas from his underlings, who had never benefited from his use of them, had never achieved recognition even from him, let alone his bosses. He saw the face of one of his secretaries, who had found an error in one of his proposals that saved him from making a fool of himself. He'd said he owed her one, and she had smiled. But he'd never returned the favor, never even brought her flowers on secretary's day.
A few scenes he was really ashamed of passed before his eyes: snarling at a coworker who had claimed some credit on a shared project; dismissing his wife's opinion in front of their friends (why had he not noticed the tears in her eyes, the blush of shame as she turned her face away?). Telling his parents they couldn't afford to make the trip back east, when what he did with the money was put a down payment on a boat. Lying to his mother when she found several unopened CDs in his room, telling her they were gifts from a friend, when in fact he had shoplifted them. Pushing his dad away when he tried to teach him how to change the oil in his car, telling him he never planned to be so poor he couldn't pay somebody else to get his hands dirty.
He was filled with shame. His life, he could now see, was like that broken bottle. It might sparkle in some people's eyes, but God saw him for the bottle of cheap wine he was. Maybe he stank in God's nose like the overheated residue on the bottom. In any event, he was a collection of broken pieces.
And then, just as suddenly as the pictures had started, they stopped, and he heard a voice in his head:
"You are forgiven. Now go and forgive others."
He realized that he was crying. Crying for his past mistakes, his regrets, his lost dreams. Crying for those who had loved him whom he had treated so badly. Crying for himself: his own stupidity, his own crassness, his seeking for happiness in all the wrong places, all the wrong ways. And at last, crying with relief that he had been told he was forgiven. He felt like he was holding the broken shards of his life in his hands, and then they were mended.
He realized that he had never felt the need to be forgiven. He had always figured he was doing the best he could. "How could I not have realized how my path had begun to slope downward rather than up?" he asked himself, shaking his head. "Thank you, God. Before I even knew I needed to be forgiven, you have opened my eyes."
Turning around, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stepped up his pace. He had a smile on his face as he pictured his wife's reaction to his invitation for a date. He would take her to her favorite restaurant and tell her how much he loved her, how sorry he was for some of his past behaviors. He would ask her forgiveness.
He wondered what kind of gift to give to a secretary who was indispensable. He'd probably have to ask his wife, explain how his secretary had saved his hide. But his wife had always said he didn't appreciate his secretary the way he should. He hoped his wife would understand why he needed her help. But he suspected her heart was more than big enough for this.
He was humming as he approached his driveway... a happy little tune, for the first time in a long time. He had some apologies to make, some appreciation to show. Funny how good that felt.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
**Here's Something a Little Different for Ash Wednesday by Keith Hewitt:
March of Darkness
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
no, flows.
Flows in like a tide
and laps at the ground beneath my feet.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
a tide
of loss and worry
that soon swirls round my feet and ankles.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
calves, now,
coldness of fear and doubt
pushing against my legs to make me fall.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
waist high.
Can it possibly keep rising,
is there any more that can go wrong?
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
chest freezing,
wrapped in bands of fear that sting like needles,
hard to breathe, harder to hope, but easy to cry.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
gasping, now
The tide must surely stop, but doesn't.
Then God touches me, and I know all this is fleeting.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches.
I could drown…
but instead I thank God, raise my feet, and float.
because I know that God is alongside darkness,
And God won't let me sink.
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 9, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Silver Creek" by Keith Hewitt
"The Rich Man and the Tailor" by Larry Winebrenner
"Open My Lips, Lord" by Larry Winebrenner
"A Broken Bottle, A Broken Pride" by Sandra Herrmann
"March of Darkness" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * *
Silver Creek
by Keith Hewitt
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
On the night of October 8, 1871 -- the same night as the great Chicago fire, which killed 250 people -- a firestorm flared in the forests of Northeastern Wisconsin. By the time it burned itself out against the natural firebreaks of Green Bay and Lake Michigan, over 2,000 square miles of forest had been consumed, along with dozens of small towns. The dead numbered around 2,500, many buried anonymously in mass graves, because the destruction was so complete that there was no one left to identify them...
"Don't go."
Jamison Lee paused in mid-motion, looked at the woman who stood across the bed from him and cocked his head slightly to one side, like a dog pondering a command it had never heard before. He stood like that for a moment or two and then resumed packing, tucking supplies into his bag: Bible, prayer book, extra socks… and, on top, a pair of Colt Navy revolvers. "You're not serious," he said quietly, as he packed. "I know you're not serious. Silver Creek is part of my circuit -- I have to go."
"Even if there's no town left?"
He snapped the bag shut. "Especially if there's no town left."
"Then take me with you." It was part suggestion, part challenge.
Jamison smiled, then, and walked around the foot of the bed. He took her hand, held it as he looked into her eyes, and shook his head. "It's not going to be any place for a woman."
"I'm not a woman, Jamison -- I'm your wife."
Gently, he brushed a strand of copper-blond hair away from her face and said, "And I'm your husband, and I say it's no place for you. You'll have to trust me on this." He lowered his hand, then, reached for the bag. "Heinrich is waiting for me. God willing, I'll be back next Tuesday."
She looked back at him, said nothing.
Confound it. What was he supposed to do, here? He hefted the bag, licked his lips, and added conversationally, "I don't expect there will be any mail, but if there is I'll send you a letter when I get there, to let you know I've arrived safely."
Silence, just the stare of those crystal blue eyes.
"Well -- Heinrich is waiting," he repeated uncertainly and turned away, stepped toward the door.
"Jamison?"
Relief! He would have hated to leave in silence. He turned. "Yes, dear?"
"Will you carry my valise, please? It's behind the door."
# # #
There was no question when the buggy crossed into the territory of the great fire. The smell came first -- a heavy scent of charred wood, held close to the ground by a layer of smoke that hung in the air, seemingly just above their heads. Soon enough they were passing through what remained after the conflagration -- ashes and soot, the corpses of trees, some standing like blackened telegraph poles, stripped of branches and leaves; others lying on their sides, not quite consumed by the fire that had toppled them.
Several times they passed close to homes that had been destroyed, and there was something more to the smell -- the stench of charred flesh and death that was so hard to recall, but impossible to forget. Maybe it was the stench that made the horses nervous, or maybe it was the ground that was still warm beneath their feet -- Jamison just talked to them soothingly and twitched the reins every once in awhile to draw their attention.
There was nothing he could do for his wife, who sat next to him, her face even more pale than normal. He spoke to her once or twice, but she just shook her head, jaw clenched, and he gave up, turned his attention to the squat, muscular man who rode beside them.
Heinrich had been talking almost nonstop for the last few miles. Jamison was familiar with this -- had seen it too many times during the war. It was as though the man was afraid to stop talking, for fear the silence would envelop him, and unwanted memories come flooding back. By talking, he could at least direct them, hold them at bay and divert them around some of the time -- take glancing blows instead of a full-on assault.
"-- wasn't much of a crop, this year, what with the drought and all," he was saying. "I wasn't sure how we were going to manage, and now this."
"I've never seen anything like this," Jamison said. "Just two weeks ago, this was all forest, and now..." He waved a hand toward the ashen desolation around them.
"Yeah, well, I prefer it now over Sunday night." The tanner shook his head, and for a moment there was something in his eyes -- Jamison watched closely, relaxed a bit when Heinrich started speaking again. "I tell you, Reverend, it was like nothing I ever seen before, or hope to see again. We got woke up by a rider from over toward Hobbs Corners."
That would make sense -- Hobbs Corners was north and west of Silver Creek. They would have been in the fire's path, first. Not his circuit, though. They had a little Lutheran church, and no need for him.
"By the time we was awake, we could already see the fire. It was moving pretty fast." Heinrich paused, stretched in his saddle and craned his neck, looking around -- for what, he didn't exactly know. Something familiar... something not charred, not lying on the ground, still sending wisps of smoke into the air. He settled back into the saddle and slumped, having found nothing to take his mind off the devastation.
"It was still dark, but it was like watching the sun come up over toward the west. There was this light in the sky, first -- then it started to glow red, and finally we could see the flames -- the actual flames -- in a line that stretched all across the horizon. The flames just marched toward us, coming and coming..." He paused, shook his head, then looked down at Jamison. "You was in the war, Reverend?"
"I was, Heinrich." It didn't come up, much, in church.
"Where'd you fight?"
"A lot of places you never heard of, I'd guess."
"I was at Gettysburg. Cemetery Ridge."
Jamison nodded. "Pickett's charge."
"Yeah. It was like that. Lookin' across the field, watching them Rebels come closer and closer -- marching like one long wave. Must be what it's like to watch the tide come in -- it just keeps coming and coming. It was easy to stand there and imagine that wave of Rebs just washing over us." He cast a covert glance at Jamison's wife, lowered his voice. "You was in combat, then, Reverend -- you know. I'm not ashamed to tell you I pissed myself that day. It was like watching the end of the world, just rolling right over you."
Jamison nodded again. "I know what you mean, Heinrich. Nothing to be ashamed of."
"I almost did it again, Sunday night. I was so scared, Reverend -- there was fire from one end of the earth to the other, and it just kept coming. I knew I was dead, for sure -- me and my family." His voice had risen, almost to a plea. "Did you ever feel like that, Reverend? Like judgment is coming, and you can't get out of the way?"
Jamison nodded, smiled tightly. "I have."
"Then what did you do?"
Jamison was silent for awhile, eyes scanning both sides of the dirt road, taking in the horror and the desolation. At last, he answered, "I'm a simple man, Heinrich. I don't know why these things happen. God didn't spare Jesus from the things he had to go through -- I doubt he's going to cut us any better break than he did for his own Son. All I know there are times when the only thing you can do is pray -- and praise God. Because we know that he may not always deliver us from whatever trial we're facing -- but he'll never abandon us. And that kind of love must be praised."
The trees -- what was left of them -- were thinning out, now. The haze hung closer to the ground, left there by the still, heavy air. Silver Creek lay ahead of them... or should have. It had never been much -- just a handful of houses and a general store spread along a wide spot in the road, and a little wooden church at the north end of town. But now it was gone... just gone. In its place stood a handful of piles of charred lumber and tumbled chimneys, and at the north end of what used to be the town, a skeletal ghost of a church, its blackened bones exposed for all the world to see.
Beside him, his wife let out a long, low sigh, then shuddered and said softly, "Now I know what hell is like."
Jamison thought about the places he had been, the carnage he had seen, and was about to answer when he heard it. It was faint, at first, dancing at the threshold of hearing -- as though the sooty haze did not want to carry the sound to him. But then a gentle breeze stirred, and brushed it in his direction. He listened for a moment to be sure, then smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
She turned toward him, looked puzzled.
He looked at their companion and said, "I think your friends understand, Heinrich." He gestured toward the remains of the town, then touched his ear.
Faintly -- ever so faintly -- weary voices were singing "Amazing Grace." Jamison let the words speak for themselves for a moment or two, then added gently, "This can't be hell -- because there is no hope in hell."
Then he twitched the reins and clucked at the horses, to take them toward the sounds of praise.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
The Rich Man and the Tailor
by Larry Winebrenner
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.
-- Matthew 6.3-4
Once there was a very rich man who lived up on the hill above the village. He lived in a very large mansion with numerous servants. He was immensely wealthy.
In the village below lived a poor tailor. He lived alone in a drafty apartment over the tailor shop, warmed by a lone fireplace.
Each evening after completing the day's work in the tailor shop, he'd go on the wealthy man's land and pick up wood for his fireplace. He always faithfully first went to the front door of the mansion and asked permission.
The butler met him at the door and announced, "The master says you have permission to gather as much wood as you need for today. But you must come get permission before coming another day."
Since the tailor also had a wood-burning cook stove, he gathered wood practically every day of the year.
The townsfolk thought it passing strange that the tailor was permitted to gather the wood, for if anything surpassed the mansion-dweller's wealth, it was his stinginess.
If one went to the door of the mansion the butler said, "The master insists you leave his property at once or he will turn the dogs loose on you. If you come back, he will call the constable and prosecute you for trespassing."
And woe be to the poor stranger seeking help at the house. "Begone!" the butler would snarl and slam the door.
Even the village mischief-makers avoided the property for fear of the dogs.
In contrast, the poor tailor was the soul of generosity.
"Perhaps the rich miser has heard of the tailor's kindness and that's why he permits wood gathering," suggested one woman to another one day at the local bakery.
"No," said a third. "If that old goat knew he sometimes gathered wood for Widow Brown, he'd deny wood gathering forever."
"Perhaps the tailor is a poor relation," suggested the first.
"No," said the second. "I've known them both and their families all their lives. They're not related."
"Maybe he sews the miser's clothes," murmured another.
"We'll never know," affirmed the third.
And so it was until the miser died. He was mean and stingy. The tailor always managed somehow, out of his poverty to find resources to meet others' needs.
The conventional wisdom was that the poor were always more generous than the rich.
Small wonder that at the rich man's funeral there were only two mourners; the butler and the tailor.
Generosity has its costs. One day the tailor heard three orphans needed clothes. He provided them at no charge as usual, but the next day when a poor farmer who provided free food to the orphanage mentioned his old coat was coming apart and he needed a new one, the tailor didn't simply give him one.
"I have no cloth for a new one," he said. "Bring me the old one and I mend and patch it."
Another day a poor traveler passed through the village. "I haven't eaten for three days," he said.
Instead of giving the man money for food at the local inn as usual, the tailor invited the traveler in and said, "I cannot buy you a meal, but this bit of bread and cheese and tea were to be my supper. It's all I have, but you may have it."
Later, as the traveler told of this kindness, he remarked, "I didn't want to tell him the tea had no strength the leaves been used so often before."
The time came when the tailor not only had nothing to give. He also was in debt for giving so much so often. He eventually seemed stingier than the miser had been. When he died there was only one person at his funeral -- the old butler. After the funeral the butler spoke to the pastor and left town forever.
The following Sunday the pastor opened his sermon with these words.
"Today I want to pay homage to two men who have reaped their reward in heaven. The rich man who lived on the hill. The poor tailor who lived in the village. At the tailor's funeral, the wealthy man's butler told me about this event.
"When the wealthy man moved into the mansion after his father's death he invited the tailor to tea one afternoon. He told the tailor that both the needy and the unneedy came to his door for help. He did not mind helping the needy, but the others he detested. Yet, he could not tell one from the other.
"So he made a deal with the tailor. No one but the truly needy would approach a poor tailor for help. If the tailor would help all who came in need of help, the wealthy man would finance the help. However, the tailor must never reveal that the help came from up on the hill. Never.
"A method of announcing the need and collecting the funds was devised. Every day the tailor was to go to the mansion ostensibly to get permission to collect wood. The butler would ask, 'How much money do you need today?' The tailor would say either none or the amount needed.
"There was no provision for funds after the rich man's death, but folks still felt they could go to the tailor for help. He did all he could, even going deeply into debt trying to help others. The stinginess people attributed to him was completely misplaced. In the end he was more in need than those who continued to go to him."
After the service the townsfolk went to the cemetery. They formed a circle around the graves of the rich man and the tailor and prayed for forgiveness.
Open My Lips, Lord
Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 51:1-17
Charles glanced quickly over the volunteer choir he had been asked to form.
"Don't worry, Charlie. We're not expecting that Mormon Tabernacle group. Just some folks to bump up our singing Sunday mornings," the pastor had said.
He didn't like being called Charlie. And he didn't like being handed a no-nothing job.
Well, maybe they weren't going to be the Metropolitan Opera. Neither were they going to be sloppy singers blasting away, off-key only interested in "bumping up" the morning worship singing.
Charles wasn't sure why he'd been given this assignment. He had no degree in music. He'd never sung in any outstanding choirs. Truth be known, he couldn't even read music!
Now he looked directly at the assembled group. When they had quieted down, he said, "I'm your new choir director. Do any of you want my job?"
There was some nervous tittering, but no takers.
"Then we'll do this my way," he said. "No singing until we know where we're going. Let's start with the Bible. Who do we know in the Bible that sang songs?"
Silence.
Finally, Emily said in a very quiet voice, almost too soft to hear, "I think Paul and another guy, maybe Silas, sang hymns while in prison."
"Great!" said Charles. "Let's hope we don't have to go to prison to get up enough courage to sing."
More tittering, but no real laughs.
I'm not sure I'm going to be able to do this thing thought Charles.
"Wasn't David a singer?" asked a bass whose name was also Charles.
"Right, Mr. Hurley," said Charles taking this opportunity to establish a separate identity for the other Charles. It gave him another idea.
"The Psalms are reputed to all be David's psalms. But all you have to do is look at titles to see others wrote some of the psalms. But certainly David authored his share. In fact, probably every event in life is associated with at least one psalm. Maybe even more."
"What about Bathsheba?" asked Maryann Meyers.
Ah. This is more like it thought Charles. Participation.
"Good question," he said orally. "What would be in a psalm like this? If you'd had this experience, what would you put in the psalm? If they like, women can chime in from Bathsheba's perspective."
"Confession," said Henry Martin.
"And asking for forgiveness," put in Andrew Paul.
"I think in his day he'd want to offer sacrifice," murmured Alice Shaw.
"How about that dude he offed to get at the dame," Philip Hogg wanted to know.
Several others added their thoughts once the ice was broken. When the suggestions died down to several repetitions, Charles said, "Let me read you something." He picked up his Bible and read:
For the director of music. A psalm of David. When the prophet Nathan came to him after David had committed adultery with Bathsheba.
"Hey!" said Charles Hurley. "Lemme see that. I want to see how much we got right."
"Grab your own Bible, Mr. Hurley. It's Psalm 51."
There was a general scrambling for Bibles to look up the passage.
"What's all this got to do with our choir?" asked Emily in that almost nonexistent voice.
"Yeah," said Henry as he scanned the psalm for his contribution.
"Three things," said Charles.
"First you worked together as a group to solve a simple problem. The choir will only work if we work together.
"Second, you've seen how not only does religious singing have a very long history -- David lived some 3,000 years ago, you know -- but that song dealt with real events in the lives of people back then.
"And finally, we've found a technique for looking at psalms. We'll use the same technique dealing with music and songs we'll use in Sunday services. Now, let's think about what should be in a song about....
Charles remained as choir director for 35 years. While his choirs never reached Mormon Tabernacle level, they were known far and wide as a choir that could make you feel what the hymn was all about.
Their motto is: "Open my lips, Lord, and my mouth will declare your praise" (Psalm 51:15).
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
A Broken Bottle, A Broken Pride
Sandra Herrmann
Psalm 51:1-17
He was walking down the street, contemplating what his life had become. It wasn't a ruined life. He'd enjoyed an occasional drink, had toked a few as a college student, and had dated a number of women before he married the one he was still in love with. He had avoided the excesses of his generation.
He had a job he liked well enough, enough money to afford an every-other-week cleaning woman and a kid to mow the lawn every Thursday. He liked the people he worked with, even counted a couple of them as friends. They went boating together occasionally, had beach barbeques together, and he and his wife had even been asked to be godparents to the daughter of one of those couples.
It was a comfortable life. He should have been satisfied. He was young enough to make changes, take a few chances, even. Still, he wasn't happy. And he didn't know why. He often thought about that line in the Declaration of Independence: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. He had the first two. Why did happiness seem so elusive?
He glanced toward the gutter. Something there sparkled just enough to attract his attention. Taking a step backward, he looked more closely. Rounded shards of glass were sparkling in the sunlight. He realized that he was looking at the remnants of a bottle of cheap wine. Parts of the label remained, and there was some residue clinging to the bottom of the bottle, which was still whole. He wrinkled his nose. It was not a pretty sight close-up, and the wine, warming in the sun, was rank. Still, he could not seem to turn away. The sunlight glinted into his eyes, and he was transfixed.
Suddenly, he was seeing scenes from his life. All of those half-done plans he'd had. All the dreams he'd set aside as being too much trouble or too complicated or not realistic. All the half-baked and unfulfilled promises he'd made to his wife. All the promises he'd made to himself that he kept putting off.
The picture got darker. He realized that at least some of his successes were due to "borrowing" ideas from his underlings, who had never benefited from his use of them, had never achieved recognition even from him, let alone his bosses. He saw the face of one of his secretaries, who had found an error in one of his proposals that saved him from making a fool of himself. He'd said he owed her one, and she had smiled. But he'd never returned the favor, never even brought her flowers on secretary's day.
A few scenes he was really ashamed of passed before his eyes: snarling at a coworker who had claimed some credit on a shared project; dismissing his wife's opinion in front of their friends (why had he not noticed the tears in her eyes, the blush of shame as she turned her face away?). Telling his parents they couldn't afford to make the trip back east, when what he did with the money was put a down payment on a boat. Lying to his mother when she found several unopened CDs in his room, telling her they were gifts from a friend, when in fact he had shoplifted them. Pushing his dad away when he tried to teach him how to change the oil in his car, telling him he never planned to be so poor he couldn't pay somebody else to get his hands dirty.
He was filled with shame. His life, he could now see, was like that broken bottle. It might sparkle in some people's eyes, but God saw him for the bottle of cheap wine he was. Maybe he stank in God's nose like the overheated residue on the bottom. In any event, he was a collection of broken pieces.
And then, just as suddenly as the pictures had started, they stopped, and he heard a voice in his head:
"You are forgiven. Now go and forgive others."
He realized that he was crying. Crying for his past mistakes, his regrets, his lost dreams. Crying for those who had loved him whom he had treated so badly. Crying for himself: his own stupidity, his own crassness, his seeking for happiness in all the wrong places, all the wrong ways. And at last, crying with relief that he had been told he was forgiven. He felt like he was holding the broken shards of his life in his hands, and then they were mended.
He realized that he had never felt the need to be forgiven. He had always figured he was doing the best he could. "How could I not have realized how my path had begun to slope downward rather than up?" he asked himself, shaking his head. "Thank you, God. Before I even knew I needed to be forgiven, you have opened my eyes."
Turning around, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stepped up his pace. He had a smile on his face as he pictured his wife's reaction to his invitation for a date. He would take her to her favorite restaurant and tell her how much he loved her, how sorry he was for some of his past behaviors. He would ask her forgiveness.
He wondered what kind of gift to give to a secretary who was indispensable. He'd probably have to ask his wife, explain how his secretary had saved his hide. But his wife had always said he didn't appreciate his secretary the way he should. He hoped his wife would understand why he needed her help. But he suspected her heart was more than big enough for this.
He was humming as he approached his driveway... a happy little tune, for the first time in a long time. He had some apologies to make, some appreciation to show. Funny how good that felt.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
**Here's Something a Little Different for Ash Wednesday by Keith Hewitt:
March of Darkness
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
no, flows.
Flows in like a tide
and laps at the ground beneath my feet.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
a tide
of loss and worry
that soon swirls round my feet and ankles.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
calves, now,
coldness of fear and doubt
pushing against my legs to make me fall.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
waist high.
Can it possibly keep rising,
is there any more that can go wrong?
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
chest freezing,
wrapped in bands of fear that sting like needles,
hard to breathe, harder to hope, but easy to cry.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches,
gasping, now
The tide must surely stop, but doesn't.
Then God touches me, and I know all this is fleeting.
I stand on the rocks and watch as darkness marches.
I could drown…
but instead I thank God, raise my feet, and float.
because I know that God is alongside darkness,
And God won't let me sink.
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 9, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
