Love In Deed
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Love in Deed" by Craig Kelly
"The Goat Shepherd" by Frank Ramirez
What's Up This Week
This Sunday is colloquially known as "Good Shepherd" Sunday -- but exactly what does it mean to be a good shepherd? This edition of StoryShare offers a pair of intriguing pieces addressing that important question. Our government officials are supposed to be custodians of the common welfare -- but as we all know, it seems that often they are more interested in looking good than in doing good. Craig Kelly depicts a typical harried politician on his way to a press conference -- but when confronted with the stark reality of a traumatized boy who needs someone who actually cares about him, the politician suddenly re-evaluates what's really important. Then Frank Ramirez muses on a prominent group of goats in his town, and concludes that how people feel about them is a good analogy for how God takes care of his flock… we're that important!
* * * * * * * * *
Love in Deed
by Craig Kelly
1 John 3:16-24
"Tell Congresswoman Jeffries that I am not going to budge on this one. The other side of the aisle is going to have to learn to play ball or we'll get nothing done. Then she can explain to the good people of Kansas why she doesn't have anything to show for her time in Washington."
The congressman snapped his cell phone shut and let out a long breath. He leaned back against the headrest in the backseat of his Ford Explorer hybrid as his chauffeur, Sam, navigated through the congested traffic of New York Avenue in Washington, snaking and weaving his way to their destination. Beside the congressman, his chief of staff, Warren, had his nose buried in a file, stopping only to check something on his BlackBerry.
"Okay, Congressman," he said in his usual nasal tone. "You've got a breakfast meeting with Senator Davis tomorrow at 9. I'll have Sam come by your apartment at precisely 8:30. Then you have the Appropriations Committee meeting at 10:30, followed by a vote on the tariff bill at noon. You'll then have a security briefing on the upcoming trip to Pakistan, and I left my notes on the bioethics bill on your desk. You'll want to look those over before Friday."
"Thanks, Warren. Now where exactly are we going again?"
Warren hit a button on his BlackBerry. "Amy's House. It's a battered women's shelter on Fenwick Street. We're going as part of a congressional delegation to give a press conference about the new government funding for faith-based initiatives in low-income communities."
"I'm glad you told me. This morning, I could have sworn it was called Annie's House. How long will we have to be out there?"
Warren didn't look up from his file. "The press conference will be about 20 minutes, including some question time. There shouldn't be too many reporters there. Probably just someone from the Post, from the local news stations, and a few people from CNN, MSNBC, and FOX News. If it's faith-based, you know FOX will try to be there."
"Yeah, yeah," the congressman replied nonchalantly. He let out a sigh as he scratched the back of his neck. "Look, Warren, I have been stuck in committee meetings, debating on the floor, and trying to placate every interest group and non-profit group that has sent someone to darken my office door. Is there any chance I might be able to make it home in time to collapse on my couch and catch a few innings of the Nats game? They're playing the Cards tonight at home."
Warren still didn't look up. "The first pitch is at 7:30. If you get through my notes quickly, you should be home well before the seventh inning stretch, sir."
"Just once this year, I'd like to be able to see a complete baseball game," he said to himself.
"If you would take my advice and TiVo it, sir, you would be able to," Warren said, flipping a page in the file.
"Nah," the congressman said, shaking his head. "It never fails. When I try to do that, I always end up hearing the final score before I get to watch the game. Takes the fun out of it."
"Have it your way, sir," Warren said, his nasal voice teeming with apathy.
Sam continued down New York Avenue, eventually turning onto Fenwick. The Ivy City neighborhood in Washington wasn't much to look at. A few houses on one side, some more dilapidated than others, and empty warehouses and train storage lots on the other. It was hard to believe that this street was in the same city that boasted the marble columns of the Capitol, the immaculate lawns of the White House, and the beauty of the National Museum of Art. The congressman looked outside and saw a little girl pushing a dirty plastic toy stroller down the sidewalk, followed closely by a barefoot baby wearing nothing but a diaper. Women who looked like they hadn't slept in days sat on their porch steps smoking cigarettes, while groups of teenage boys walked down the street with their hoods up, covering their faces. Everywhere the congressman looked, the message was the same: no hope.
The SUV slowed as it passed two police cruisers. City police had set up a small perimeter to ensure a safe press conference. Sam pulled off to the right and parked by the curb behind three other SUVs that had brought three other members of Congress to the house. As the congressman exited the car, he looked at Amy's House. It didn't look particularly different from the others except it had a fresher coat of paint and newer windows. It was a large building, three stories, with a fenced-in backyard. Otherwise, there was nothing to distinguish this house from any of the others on this block.
As the congressman took it all in, he noticed a large man in a black suit sporting a million-dollar smile approach him. "Congressman Whitney! Good to see you!"
Whitney extended his hand. "Congressman Giles, good to see you too. Everything almost ready?"
Giles looked back toward a podium set up on the sidewalk in front of the house. "Not quite. They're still doing a few sound checks on the microphones. It's giving us a chance to look around. If I'm going to be plugging this place, I need to know what I'm talking about." He flashed his smile again. "Want to look inside?"
"Sure, sounds good." The two men made their way up the steps onto the porch. Giles held the door open for Whitney.
The two colleagues stepped through the door into an open foyer. Through a doorway on their right, they saw five young women sitting in a living room, each with a Bible in hand, apparently deep in spiritual discussion. To their left was another doorway, through which they saw a woman in her early- to mid-fifties, her salt-and-pepper hair worn up in a bun, walking around three tables where about a dozen children sat playing board games. Giles guided Whitney into the room, where the lady monitor walked over to greet them.
"Amy Carter, allow me to introduce Congressman Mark Whitney from Missouri," Giles said, yet again flashing that smile. "Congressman Whitney, this is Amy Carter. She's been running this shelter for over ten years now."
Whitney extended his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Carter. I must compliment you on the extraordinary work you're doing here." He tried his best to match Giles' smile.
Amy took his hand. "You too, Congressman. Thank you for coming." She smiled, but not as much.
"So how many women and children do you house here?" Whitney asked, releasing Amy's hand.
Carter turned to check on three kids playing Hungry Hungry Hippo. "Right now, we have seven women here, and with the children, that makes 20 housed here altogether. We're really at the maximum we can support, but if more come, we usually manage to find someplace for them to lay their head." She bent down. "Now, Devon, let Shay have a turn, too, okay?" She patted the boy on the shoulder, flashing him a bigger smile.
Giles leaned in toward Whitney. "I'm going to go out to check on the preparations for the press conference. I know we still have to wait on a couple of reporters. See you later." He patted Whitney's shoulder and made his way outside to make sure the cameras were ready and waiting.
Whitney looked around. Each table had a different game on it -- Hungry Hungry Hippo on one, Operation on another, and Trouble on the third. The children sitting at the tables looked to range in age from 4 or 5 up to 12 or 13. Each one, he was sure, had a story: drunk or strung-out parents; living with Grandma for a while, or maybe an aunt or uncle; watching their mom get beat to a pulp by their dad, or the current boyfriend. How could one even call that a childhood? Many of the older kids probably had to become mom or dad to their younger siblings, looking after them when no one else would. Here, at least for a while, they could be kids again, perhaps recovering a little of that lost innocence. And now that he helped vote the increased funding for initiatives like this through Congress, perhaps more battered moms and traumatized kids could have a place like this to come to.
"So do you have any plans as to how you would be able to use the extra funding?" Whitney asked. Expecting to see a smile on Amy's face when she turned around, he was surprised to find there was none. She just looked tired as she wove a stray lock of hair back into her updo.
"Look, Congressman, I'm very grateful for the money," she began. "I know it will do a lot of good here, but as broke as we are, money is not the most pressing need we have here."
This surprised Whitney. After constantly hearing lobbyists clamoring for more funding for this or that project, it caught him off-guard to hear someone say this. "No? Then what is it you need?"
Amy let out a slight chuckle. "Me, personally, I don't need anything. My God and this ministry give me what I need. But what these women and kids need is for someone to not just throw money around and think that will make everything better." She walked up beside him, putting her hand on his arm. "They need to be loved. I'm showing them everything I can about God's love for them, and that's a lot, don't get me wrong, but they need to see other people out there giving a d… well, you know -- about them." She blushed a little bit, looking down. "Sorry, Congressman. I'm a saved, Spirit-filled woman, but when I think about all those people out there, in their fancy homes and jobs, in that beautiful Capitol building, telling people how we need to be supported, or even tossing a few bucks our way and thinking they've done their good deed for the year, it starts to bring back a few old habits."
Whitney just stood there dumbfounded. It had been so long since someone was so frank with him. He had been one of those people in a fancy home, salving his conscience with the occasional gift to charity or speech to Congress about how the haves need to look after the have-nots. In the back of his mind, he always thought he was part of the solution. Now it seemed like he was just part of the problem.
Amy turned and pointed to a boy sitting by himself at a table in the corner of the room. On the table was a game of checkers, set up for a new game. The boy was short, maybe 7 or 8 years old to look at him. He wore a Redskins t-shirt and baggy jeans. When he looked up at them, there was something in the boy's eyes that, to Whitney, seemed out of place. It was as if someone had taken the eyes of an adult and put them in a boy's body. They had the look of someone who had seen too much and was worn out, too tired to face whatever life had in store for him next.
"See him?" she asked. "His name is Marcus. He and his mother came three days ago. She had an eye swollen shut, two missing teeth, and a cracked rib. Marcus had a bruise across his cheek as well as his shoulder. He wouldn't speak to anyone for over a day. He just sat there, looking at that checkerboard, never playing it, never letting anyone come to play with him. According to him, checkers is a 'man's game.' His mother told me that he used to play with his grandfather all the time until some of her boyfriend's addict friends jumped his grandfather, stole his wallet, and stabbed him while he was walking Marcus home. It's a miracle that they didn't do anything to Marcus. His grandfather died later that night. When the mother confronted her boyfriend about it, he didn't take it too well, to say the least. That's why they're here. That's why so many of them are here. They live in a world where there is no hope, no reason to hope that tomorrow might be better than today." Amy turned to look at Whitney. "You see, Congressman, money, fancy speeches, and good intentions won't heal that boy's wounds. That boy needs to know what love is again, love not in words from a distance but love in action, love up close. He needs Jesus in his heart, but he also needs to see the love of Jesus with his eyes in the actions of another human being. So you'll forgive me if I'm not jumping up and down in excitement to see a bunch of politicians that I'll probably never see again hold a press conference in my front yard. Now if you'll excuse me," she said, "I need to get back to these kids." She turned away, bending down to talk to one of the children playing Operation.
Whitney continued staring at Marcus until his vision began to blur. He blinked the forming tears out of his vision. Marcus continued to look down at the checkerboard, oblivious to Whitney's stare. Slowly, Whitney walked over to the table. He wasn't sure if Marcus would want to talk, or if he would even acknowledge him, but for some reason, he had to try. He walked up beside Marcus and lowered himself to one knee.
"Marcus?"
The boy didn't look at him.
"Hey, my name's Mark. It's nice to meet you."
Nothing.
"I, uh, I noticed you sitting here by yourself with this perfectly good checkerboard in front of you, and I thought you might want to take me on. I used to be pretty good at checkers back in the day. I would beat my old man almost every time. Wanna try your luck?"
Marcus still said nothing, still staring at the board. Whitney sighed and rose to his feet.
"Well, I just figured you could maybe like someone to talk to, to keep your checker skills sharp. But if you don't think you're quite ready to take me on, that's cool." He turned and started to walk away.
"Red."
Whitney turned to see if he heard correctly. Marcus looked up at him. "I always play red. You can be black."
Whitney smiled and took a seat across from Marcus. He quickly found Marcus to be a worthy opponent, losing to him within 10 minutes. He also noticed Marcus start to smile every time he said, "King me." He even chuckled a little when he took Whitney's last piece. "Okay, now I'm warmed up," Whitney said. "Best two out of three?"
"Okay, but you have to set up this time. It's the rules."
"Yes, sir." Whitney began setting up the black pieces in front of him and the red in front of Marcus. "Hey, Marcus, do you think I could come by now and then and play checkers with you, you know, just to keep sharp and all?"
Marcus looked at him, sizing him up. "Okay," he finally said, "but I'm always red."
"You got it."
They just started their second game when Giles came into the room, walked up to Mark, and whispered, "We're all set up. I've heard this press conference will be carried nationally, so we'd better get out there."
Mark looked up at him. "Uh, yeah, Giles, I don't think I'll be able to participate. I'm working on something a little more important right now. You all go on without me."
Giles gave Mark a quizzical look. "But you're playing a game of checkers with a kid," he whispered.
Mark smiled his own million-dollar smile. "I know."
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing.
The Goat Shepherd
by Frank Ramirez
John 10:11-18; Psalm 23
I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me…
-- John 10:14
The little town of Everett, Pennsylvania, partway between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, used to lie right on US 30, the old Lincoln Highway that runs all the way across the country. Then it was bypassed, which certainly sped up traffic for those rushing on the east-west highway, but also helped motorists drive past the little town without stopping for something to eat. This small town shares the same difficulties that folks have across the country -- lack of jobs, for instance, drug use, and education. But people still love the town and love to live there.
Main Street is two miles long. As you leave the town going east you climb a little hill and then merge with the Lincoln Highway. There are steep cliffs rising to your right as you wind under the main road before joining it. Large trucks barrel down off the bypass so you have to be a little careful. One of the biggest problems is that there is a distraction -- there are flocks of wild goats that feed on those steep hills. Adults and little kids hop easily from stone to stone on the steep cliffs. These are graceful animals who seem to have little trouble surviving in what would be a hostile environment for most people.
According to local legend a farmer bought them to keep down the weeds, but they refused to cooperate. They ate what they wanted, not what he wanted. He is said to have driven them away when he grew tired of paying for feed. The flocks thrived.
So the problem is not the goats, but the drivers who spot them and crane their necks to see how they're doing. Folks know they're out there. They might be missing for a month or a season. Perhaps they have migrated to better feeding grounds. But eventually they return -- and when they come back people want to see them. Then people start talking about them. Folks at the diner will not only talk about seeing goats, but which ones. They have nicknames for the goats, depending on their appearance. And they are happy to see old friends return on those hillsides.
Now, the authorities have tried to remove the goats on occasion because they want to prevent possible accidents by the rubberneckers -- with little success. But things came to a head a year ago when a couple of goats, well known around the town, experienced a new difficulty. One of them broke a leg and disappeared, then the other one disappeared. Letters to the editor of the local newspaper demanded an investigation. Prosecutions were demanded. Finally letters from animal organizations appeared to assure folks that the injured goat was being cared for in a secure but hidden location, and that once healthy it would be returned into the wild.
Some might wonder why it is that with problems that seem too great to handle a town would worry about a couple of goats. But folks know these goats. The goats are individuals to them. And that's the perspective of the shepherd towards the flock, whether it's a flock of goats or, as in the case of this week's Bible passages, a flock of sheep. The Good Shepherd knows every member of the flock. They are all individuals. They are missed when they are gone. The Good Shepherd will never discount any member of the flock and will search for anyone that is lost -- and will even lay down a life to protect the flock.
And that's how we look to God. There are no disposable members of the human family. If we are lost members of the flock, Jesus will look for us. And because we were in danger of eternal death because of our sins, Jesus was willing to die for us. God knows us all by name. We are personalities to the creator. We are talked about around the coffee pot in heaven. That's a comforting thought.
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and has served as a pastor for nearly thirty years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
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StoryShare, May 3, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"Love in Deed" by Craig Kelly
"The Goat Shepherd" by Frank Ramirez
What's Up This Week
This Sunday is colloquially known as "Good Shepherd" Sunday -- but exactly what does it mean to be a good shepherd? This edition of StoryShare offers a pair of intriguing pieces addressing that important question. Our government officials are supposed to be custodians of the common welfare -- but as we all know, it seems that often they are more interested in looking good than in doing good. Craig Kelly depicts a typical harried politician on his way to a press conference -- but when confronted with the stark reality of a traumatized boy who needs someone who actually cares about him, the politician suddenly re-evaluates what's really important. Then Frank Ramirez muses on a prominent group of goats in his town, and concludes that how people feel about them is a good analogy for how God takes care of his flock… we're that important!
* * * * * * * * *
Love in Deed
by Craig Kelly
1 John 3:16-24
"Tell Congresswoman Jeffries that I am not going to budge on this one. The other side of the aisle is going to have to learn to play ball or we'll get nothing done. Then she can explain to the good people of Kansas why she doesn't have anything to show for her time in Washington."
The congressman snapped his cell phone shut and let out a long breath. He leaned back against the headrest in the backseat of his Ford Explorer hybrid as his chauffeur, Sam, navigated through the congested traffic of New York Avenue in Washington, snaking and weaving his way to their destination. Beside the congressman, his chief of staff, Warren, had his nose buried in a file, stopping only to check something on his BlackBerry.
"Okay, Congressman," he said in his usual nasal tone. "You've got a breakfast meeting with Senator Davis tomorrow at 9. I'll have Sam come by your apartment at precisely 8:30. Then you have the Appropriations Committee meeting at 10:30, followed by a vote on the tariff bill at noon. You'll then have a security briefing on the upcoming trip to Pakistan, and I left my notes on the bioethics bill on your desk. You'll want to look those over before Friday."
"Thanks, Warren. Now where exactly are we going again?"
Warren hit a button on his BlackBerry. "Amy's House. It's a battered women's shelter on Fenwick Street. We're going as part of a congressional delegation to give a press conference about the new government funding for faith-based initiatives in low-income communities."
"I'm glad you told me. This morning, I could have sworn it was called Annie's House. How long will we have to be out there?"
Warren didn't look up from his file. "The press conference will be about 20 minutes, including some question time. There shouldn't be too many reporters there. Probably just someone from the Post, from the local news stations, and a few people from CNN, MSNBC, and FOX News. If it's faith-based, you know FOX will try to be there."
"Yeah, yeah," the congressman replied nonchalantly. He let out a sigh as he scratched the back of his neck. "Look, Warren, I have been stuck in committee meetings, debating on the floor, and trying to placate every interest group and non-profit group that has sent someone to darken my office door. Is there any chance I might be able to make it home in time to collapse on my couch and catch a few innings of the Nats game? They're playing the Cards tonight at home."
Warren still didn't look up. "The first pitch is at 7:30. If you get through my notes quickly, you should be home well before the seventh inning stretch, sir."
"Just once this year, I'd like to be able to see a complete baseball game," he said to himself.
"If you would take my advice and TiVo it, sir, you would be able to," Warren said, flipping a page in the file.
"Nah," the congressman said, shaking his head. "It never fails. When I try to do that, I always end up hearing the final score before I get to watch the game. Takes the fun out of it."
"Have it your way, sir," Warren said, his nasal voice teeming with apathy.
Sam continued down New York Avenue, eventually turning onto Fenwick. The Ivy City neighborhood in Washington wasn't much to look at. A few houses on one side, some more dilapidated than others, and empty warehouses and train storage lots on the other. It was hard to believe that this street was in the same city that boasted the marble columns of the Capitol, the immaculate lawns of the White House, and the beauty of the National Museum of Art. The congressman looked outside and saw a little girl pushing a dirty plastic toy stroller down the sidewalk, followed closely by a barefoot baby wearing nothing but a diaper. Women who looked like they hadn't slept in days sat on their porch steps smoking cigarettes, while groups of teenage boys walked down the street with their hoods up, covering their faces. Everywhere the congressman looked, the message was the same: no hope.
The SUV slowed as it passed two police cruisers. City police had set up a small perimeter to ensure a safe press conference. Sam pulled off to the right and parked by the curb behind three other SUVs that had brought three other members of Congress to the house. As the congressman exited the car, he looked at Amy's House. It didn't look particularly different from the others except it had a fresher coat of paint and newer windows. It was a large building, three stories, with a fenced-in backyard. Otherwise, there was nothing to distinguish this house from any of the others on this block.
As the congressman took it all in, he noticed a large man in a black suit sporting a million-dollar smile approach him. "Congressman Whitney! Good to see you!"
Whitney extended his hand. "Congressman Giles, good to see you too. Everything almost ready?"
Giles looked back toward a podium set up on the sidewalk in front of the house. "Not quite. They're still doing a few sound checks on the microphones. It's giving us a chance to look around. If I'm going to be plugging this place, I need to know what I'm talking about." He flashed his smile again. "Want to look inside?"
"Sure, sounds good." The two men made their way up the steps onto the porch. Giles held the door open for Whitney.
The two colleagues stepped through the door into an open foyer. Through a doorway on their right, they saw five young women sitting in a living room, each with a Bible in hand, apparently deep in spiritual discussion. To their left was another doorway, through which they saw a woman in her early- to mid-fifties, her salt-and-pepper hair worn up in a bun, walking around three tables where about a dozen children sat playing board games. Giles guided Whitney into the room, where the lady monitor walked over to greet them.
"Amy Carter, allow me to introduce Congressman Mark Whitney from Missouri," Giles said, yet again flashing that smile. "Congressman Whitney, this is Amy Carter. She's been running this shelter for over ten years now."
Whitney extended his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Carter. I must compliment you on the extraordinary work you're doing here." He tried his best to match Giles' smile.
Amy took his hand. "You too, Congressman. Thank you for coming." She smiled, but not as much.
"So how many women and children do you house here?" Whitney asked, releasing Amy's hand.
Carter turned to check on three kids playing Hungry Hungry Hippo. "Right now, we have seven women here, and with the children, that makes 20 housed here altogether. We're really at the maximum we can support, but if more come, we usually manage to find someplace for them to lay their head." She bent down. "Now, Devon, let Shay have a turn, too, okay?" She patted the boy on the shoulder, flashing him a bigger smile.
Giles leaned in toward Whitney. "I'm going to go out to check on the preparations for the press conference. I know we still have to wait on a couple of reporters. See you later." He patted Whitney's shoulder and made his way outside to make sure the cameras were ready and waiting.
Whitney looked around. Each table had a different game on it -- Hungry Hungry Hippo on one, Operation on another, and Trouble on the third. The children sitting at the tables looked to range in age from 4 or 5 up to 12 or 13. Each one, he was sure, had a story: drunk or strung-out parents; living with Grandma for a while, or maybe an aunt or uncle; watching their mom get beat to a pulp by their dad, or the current boyfriend. How could one even call that a childhood? Many of the older kids probably had to become mom or dad to their younger siblings, looking after them when no one else would. Here, at least for a while, they could be kids again, perhaps recovering a little of that lost innocence. And now that he helped vote the increased funding for initiatives like this through Congress, perhaps more battered moms and traumatized kids could have a place like this to come to.
"So do you have any plans as to how you would be able to use the extra funding?" Whitney asked. Expecting to see a smile on Amy's face when she turned around, he was surprised to find there was none. She just looked tired as she wove a stray lock of hair back into her updo.
"Look, Congressman, I'm very grateful for the money," she began. "I know it will do a lot of good here, but as broke as we are, money is not the most pressing need we have here."
This surprised Whitney. After constantly hearing lobbyists clamoring for more funding for this or that project, it caught him off-guard to hear someone say this. "No? Then what is it you need?"
Amy let out a slight chuckle. "Me, personally, I don't need anything. My God and this ministry give me what I need. But what these women and kids need is for someone to not just throw money around and think that will make everything better." She walked up beside him, putting her hand on his arm. "They need to be loved. I'm showing them everything I can about God's love for them, and that's a lot, don't get me wrong, but they need to see other people out there giving a d… well, you know -- about them." She blushed a little bit, looking down. "Sorry, Congressman. I'm a saved, Spirit-filled woman, but when I think about all those people out there, in their fancy homes and jobs, in that beautiful Capitol building, telling people how we need to be supported, or even tossing a few bucks our way and thinking they've done their good deed for the year, it starts to bring back a few old habits."
Whitney just stood there dumbfounded. It had been so long since someone was so frank with him. He had been one of those people in a fancy home, salving his conscience with the occasional gift to charity or speech to Congress about how the haves need to look after the have-nots. In the back of his mind, he always thought he was part of the solution. Now it seemed like he was just part of the problem.
Amy turned and pointed to a boy sitting by himself at a table in the corner of the room. On the table was a game of checkers, set up for a new game. The boy was short, maybe 7 or 8 years old to look at him. He wore a Redskins t-shirt and baggy jeans. When he looked up at them, there was something in the boy's eyes that, to Whitney, seemed out of place. It was as if someone had taken the eyes of an adult and put them in a boy's body. They had the look of someone who had seen too much and was worn out, too tired to face whatever life had in store for him next.
"See him?" she asked. "His name is Marcus. He and his mother came three days ago. She had an eye swollen shut, two missing teeth, and a cracked rib. Marcus had a bruise across his cheek as well as his shoulder. He wouldn't speak to anyone for over a day. He just sat there, looking at that checkerboard, never playing it, never letting anyone come to play with him. According to him, checkers is a 'man's game.' His mother told me that he used to play with his grandfather all the time until some of her boyfriend's addict friends jumped his grandfather, stole his wallet, and stabbed him while he was walking Marcus home. It's a miracle that they didn't do anything to Marcus. His grandfather died later that night. When the mother confronted her boyfriend about it, he didn't take it too well, to say the least. That's why they're here. That's why so many of them are here. They live in a world where there is no hope, no reason to hope that tomorrow might be better than today." Amy turned to look at Whitney. "You see, Congressman, money, fancy speeches, and good intentions won't heal that boy's wounds. That boy needs to know what love is again, love not in words from a distance but love in action, love up close. He needs Jesus in his heart, but he also needs to see the love of Jesus with his eyes in the actions of another human being. So you'll forgive me if I'm not jumping up and down in excitement to see a bunch of politicians that I'll probably never see again hold a press conference in my front yard. Now if you'll excuse me," she said, "I need to get back to these kids." She turned away, bending down to talk to one of the children playing Operation.
Whitney continued staring at Marcus until his vision began to blur. He blinked the forming tears out of his vision. Marcus continued to look down at the checkerboard, oblivious to Whitney's stare. Slowly, Whitney walked over to the table. He wasn't sure if Marcus would want to talk, or if he would even acknowledge him, but for some reason, he had to try. He walked up beside Marcus and lowered himself to one knee.
"Marcus?"
The boy didn't look at him.
"Hey, my name's Mark. It's nice to meet you."
Nothing.
"I, uh, I noticed you sitting here by yourself with this perfectly good checkerboard in front of you, and I thought you might want to take me on. I used to be pretty good at checkers back in the day. I would beat my old man almost every time. Wanna try your luck?"
Marcus still said nothing, still staring at the board. Whitney sighed and rose to his feet.
"Well, I just figured you could maybe like someone to talk to, to keep your checker skills sharp. But if you don't think you're quite ready to take me on, that's cool." He turned and started to walk away.
"Red."
Whitney turned to see if he heard correctly. Marcus looked up at him. "I always play red. You can be black."
Whitney smiled and took a seat across from Marcus. He quickly found Marcus to be a worthy opponent, losing to him within 10 minutes. He also noticed Marcus start to smile every time he said, "King me." He even chuckled a little when he took Whitney's last piece. "Okay, now I'm warmed up," Whitney said. "Best two out of three?"
"Okay, but you have to set up this time. It's the rules."
"Yes, sir." Whitney began setting up the black pieces in front of him and the red in front of Marcus. "Hey, Marcus, do you think I could come by now and then and play checkers with you, you know, just to keep sharp and all?"
Marcus looked at him, sizing him up. "Okay," he finally said, "but I'm always red."
"You got it."
They just started their second game when Giles came into the room, walked up to Mark, and whispered, "We're all set up. I've heard this press conference will be carried nationally, so we'd better get out there."
Mark looked up at him. "Uh, yeah, Giles, I don't think I'll be able to participate. I'm working on something a little more important right now. You all go on without me."
Giles gave Mark a quizzical look. "But you're playing a game of checkers with a kid," he whispered.
Mark smiled his own million-dollar smile. "I know."
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing.
The Goat Shepherd
by Frank Ramirez
John 10:11-18; Psalm 23
I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me…
-- John 10:14
The little town of Everett, Pennsylvania, partway between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, used to lie right on US 30, the old Lincoln Highway that runs all the way across the country. Then it was bypassed, which certainly sped up traffic for those rushing on the east-west highway, but also helped motorists drive past the little town without stopping for something to eat. This small town shares the same difficulties that folks have across the country -- lack of jobs, for instance, drug use, and education. But people still love the town and love to live there.
Main Street is two miles long. As you leave the town going east you climb a little hill and then merge with the Lincoln Highway. There are steep cliffs rising to your right as you wind under the main road before joining it. Large trucks barrel down off the bypass so you have to be a little careful. One of the biggest problems is that there is a distraction -- there are flocks of wild goats that feed on those steep hills. Adults and little kids hop easily from stone to stone on the steep cliffs. These are graceful animals who seem to have little trouble surviving in what would be a hostile environment for most people.
According to local legend a farmer bought them to keep down the weeds, but they refused to cooperate. They ate what they wanted, not what he wanted. He is said to have driven them away when he grew tired of paying for feed. The flocks thrived.
So the problem is not the goats, but the drivers who spot them and crane their necks to see how they're doing. Folks know they're out there. They might be missing for a month or a season. Perhaps they have migrated to better feeding grounds. But eventually they return -- and when they come back people want to see them. Then people start talking about them. Folks at the diner will not only talk about seeing goats, but which ones. They have nicknames for the goats, depending on their appearance. And they are happy to see old friends return on those hillsides.
Now, the authorities have tried to remove the goats on occasion because they want to prevent possible accidents by the rubberneckers -- with little success. But things came to a head a year ago when a couple of goats, well known around the town, experienced a new difficulty. One of them broke a leg and disappeared, then the other one disappeared. Letters to the editor of the local newspaper demanded an investigation. Prosecutions were demanded. Finally letters from animal organizations appeared to assure folks that the injured goat was being cared for in a secure but hidden location, and that once healthy it would be returned into the wild.
Some might wonder why it is that with problems that seem too great to handle a town would worry about a couple of goats. But folks know these goats. The goats are individuals to them. And that's the perspective of the shepherd towards the flock, whether it's a flock of goats or, as in the case of this week's Bible passages, a flock of sheep. The Good Shepherd knows every member of the flock. They are all individuals. They are missed when they are gone. The Good Shepherd will never discount any member of the flock and will search for anyone that is lost -- and will even lay down a life to protect the flock.
And that's how we look to God. There are no disposable members of the human family. If we are lost members of the flock, Jesus will look for us. And because we were in danger of eternal death because of our sins, Jesus was willing to die for us. God knows us all by name. We are personalities to the creator. We are talked about around the coffee pot in heaven. That's a comforting thought.
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and has served as a pastor for nearly thirty years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
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StoryShare, May 3, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
