Testing One, Two, Three...
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Testing One, Two, Three..." by Keith Hewitt
"The Account" by Keith Hewitt
"Set Free" by Timothy Smith
What's Up This Week
Nobody's perfect -- that statement has been used to offer solace to us all at some point or another. It reminds us that we cannot go through life mistake-free. We are going to mess up; we are going to miss the mark. It is in our nature to do so. We have a word for when we miss the mark regarding our relationship with God -- sin. In those times when we do sin, it is so easy for us to think that God has turned his back on us in anger, severing all ties. This week's StoryShare reminds us that nothing could be further from the truth. In "Testing, One, Two, Three..." Keith Hewitt reminds us that even when we may think that God has abandoned us, God is always there, waiting for us to come to him in faith. "The Account" is a parable illustrating how God can take our past, our mistakes, and wipe them away, giving us a fresh start. While we make mistakes, sometimes we endure hardship through no fault of our own. "Set Free" takes us through the journey of one man from the darkness of dejection and self-loathing because of his upbringing to the brightness of joy and new life in Christ.
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Testing, One, Two, Three...
Keith Hewitt
Exodus 17:1-7
Since becoming a teenager, she had taken refuge more often than ever in her room or online. Interaction with her parents seemed doomed to spiral down into some discussion about chores she wasn't doing, or grades, or any one of a number of other topics she had no interest in discussing -- not with them. When they did finally violate her privacy, to force an issue, it usually ended up in an argument -- either the almost-silent kind, where she would only give monosyllabic answers, chipped from ice; or the loud, stormy kind where everyone ended up yelling and nobody heard anything that was said.
It was after one such argument that she retreated to her room, slammed the door, and turned on the stereo, let the music wash over her as though it could scrub away the anger that flared out of nowhere and burned bright inside of her. How would she be able to last another couple of years under the same roof as them? College -- going away to college -- flickered like a lighthouse riding the horizon, unbearably far away. Despair sparked anger, and she struck out, punched her wall, hard, with her right hand.
The wall won.
She looked down at her half-closed fist as the pain swept over her, and wondered why she had done it... and, a moment later, whether she had broken anything. She sat down on her bed, put her arm across her chest, held her hand tightly beneath her other arm and rocked, fighting a groan, choking back expletives... well, most of them. When the worst of the pain had faded, she took her hand out and looked at it -- she could flex her fingers, stiffly, but the knuckles were bright red... and it looked like they were starting to swell.
By the next morning, the swelling was obvious. She took herself out to the kitchen, opened the freezer door, and got out the ice cube tray. Her mother, who was standing at the counter, looked at her. "What are you doing?"
"Getting ice," she answered, and held up her hand, so her mother could see it.
Stepping closer, now, her mother stared at her hand for a moment. "What did you do?" she asked, touching it softly, probing tentatively; her daughter winced.
"I tripped on something in my room and fell against the dresser. I guess I hit it with my hand," the girl explained.
"Wouldn't happen if you picked up your room once in a while," her father contributed from the other room. Then, "Can you move your fingers?"
"Yes," she said, wiggling them a bit, wincing once more. "It's fine."
"Uh-huh. It might help if you could see the floor, at least."
She rolled her eyes and dumped the ice cubes into a bag, then retreated to her room. A little while later, her father opened her door, looked around at the mess, and shook his head. "Come on, let's go," he said, and left. She followed him after a moment, followed him out to the living room and gestured with her hands, holding them apart, palms up, as if to say "What now?"
"Going to the doctor," he said, tossing her coat to her. "He'll see you right away, but we've got to get going." Then he was gone, out the door.
She followed him, pulling on her coat as she walked. She got into the van, pulled the belt across, and clicked it while he started the engine, then pulled out quickly. They rode in silence, for a while; she stared out the window, eyes narrowed, trying to make it all fit. When it just wouldn't, she looked at her father and said, "I thought you were mad at me."
"I was." A mile or so later, "I still am."
"Then what --?" she gestured again, with her good hand, a gesture encompassing her other hand, the car, and everything that was happening.
He shook his head, surprised that she didn't understand after all the years that had gone by. "I love you," he said, matter-of-factly, "Your Mom and I both love you, even when we're mad. You should know that whatever happens, we're always going to take care of you."
"Oh," she said simply, and lay her head back against the headrest. After a while, her hand stopped hurting quite so much.
It's difficult to know, thousands of years later, just what motivated the people of Israel after they came out of Egypt. Had generations of slavery so degraded their sense of self-worth that they felt a constant need to try to force God into showing he loved them, and would take care of them? Or were they just spoiled children, suffering from a bad case of what-have-you-done-for-me-lately?
The answer probably lies somewhere in between, but in retrospect, it's hard to understand how they could have doubted that God would see them through. After all, they had seen the wave of plagues that swept over their masters, yet left them untouched; they had marched out of their ancient ghettos, led by a pillar of smoke and flame; they had stood on the shore of the Red Sea and watched a path of dry land open before them -- and then stood on the far shore, and watched their pursuers perish as the waters rushed back in. In the wilderness, they dined on manna and quail -- bounty provided by a caring God.
And still, when a tight spot came along, when they hit a bump in the road, the first thing they did was complain; when hard times hit, the first thing they wailed was, "Why us?"
It's tempting to look back at them, and feel smug and superior -- but before we dislocate our shoulders, patting ourselves on the back, we ought to look at our own lives.
You don't have to be fleeing Pharaoh's army to feel like the world is closing in on you; you don't have to be wandering in the wilderness to wonder if you have a future; you don't have to be in the desert to be hungry and thirsty, whether it's for physical sustenance, or the nurturing warmth that comes from knowing you're loved.
When those moments come -- and they do, for everyone -- is our reaction to question God? When tragedy strikes, when we realize that the control we thought we had over our lives is nothing but illusion, do we become the Israelites of Exodus, crying, "Why me?"
Or are we at a place in our journey with God where we realize that we are never alone?
Jesus calls for us to trust in God above all else. When we walk with him, when we nurture our faith like a carefully tended garden, we put ourselves into a place of quiet strength -- a strength that is not just ours. When times of turmoil come, we can be strong in the knowledge that God is with us -- and that no matter what happens to us, here, it's just the blink of an eye when compared with the prospect of eternity in the presence of the Lord.
When faith grows, the need for proof fades away.
The Account
Keith Hewitt
Romans 5:1-11
"Will there be anything else?" the shopkeeper asked, as he finished wrapping the meat in white paper, then tied it tightly with white string that came from a spool that hung just overhead, above the top of the cooler.
The woman looked at the groceries gathered there -- flour, check; eggs, check; sausage, check; ground beef, check -- then glanced at her list, mentally scratched off a couple of items that were just too expensive; she had included them on a whim, hoping that they might be on sale at the little corner market. Jago sometimes did that, if he could catch something that was about to turn, but hadn't quite gone bad, yet. She shook her head. "That's it, thanks." Pause. "Can you put this on our account, please?"
"Sure thing," the man answered, almost at once. He wrote up a receipt, showed it to her, then stuck it on a spindle next to the cash register, along with a couple of dozen others. Later, he would go into his books and add the day's groceries to the tab they had running; she looked away, shocked once at how much she had spent, and again at how much she thought would be available to spend.
"Walter gets paid tomorrow, doesn't he?" the shopkeeper asked as he packed the groceries into a plain brown bag. He almost managed to sound casual.
She appeared to think for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yes, yes he does. I'm surprised you remember."
He shrugged, rubbed a finger under his eye, bumping up his glasses. "You kind of have to these days. You've got to know who's not working, and who is -- and when they get paid. You know --" He hesitated, then smiled shyly. "My wife gets nervous about all these accounts, and when they're going to get paid." He shrugged again, bumped his glasses, "I tell her, 'Don't worry so much, it's not good for you. Besides, now that Roosevelt is in, things are going to get better.' "
"I sure hope so," she said, and reached for the bag. "Thanks for your help -- and your understanding."
He held the bag for the barest moment as she started to take it and looked at her through thick lenses that made his eyes seem huge. "We need to have something paid on your account," he said quietly, almost apologetically. "It's up past forty dollars, now."
She nodded again, sliding the bag across the counter, turning her eyes away. "Of course," she said. "Tomorrow, then." She cradled the bag in her arms and walked out the door, listened to the jingling bell that mocked her with its airy cheeriness as she pulled the door open. She walked down the couple of concrete steps to the sidewalk, rounded the corner, and hurried home, feet taking her on her way while her mind struggled with other things. $40? It had to be closer to $45, she calculated, trying to remember her last couple of purchases.
When was the last time they'd been able to pay down the account? She shook her head; the longer they went, the worse it got. They lived at the mercy of her husband's job, and there just hadn't been that many hours, lately. He was a die maker, a good, solid job that a man ought to be able to raise a family on -- but when the factory sat idle, there was no need for his skills.
She fretted about it the rest of the night -- as she had so many other nights before -- in silence that sat like a rock on her chest. She couldn't talk to him about it -- he had other worries -- and there was no talking to the children, of course. Although they must suspect -- they must all suspect something, she thought. How thin could you make a stew, before it became soup -- and how thin could you make the soup, before it became broth? But nobody ever said anything, sitting around the table.
She was waiting for her husband the next day when he came home from work. As he did each payday, he had gone to the Building & Loan to cash his check, and pay on their mortgage, returning with whatever was left over tucked away in a creased white envelope. It had been a better week than others she thought as he took the envelope out of his pocket -- they ought to be able to knock some of the forty-plus dollars down. She thought about what they would do, what they could pay off, what they should keep for expenses....
Across the table, their daughters ate butter and sugar sandwiches, watching as the ritual played out.
He put his thumb under the flap, ripped it down the length of the envelope, and puffed it open, dumped out the contents on the pale yellow linoleum tablecloth. The bill slid out silently, the coins clinked softly, almost drowned out by the noise of the wind in the leaves outside the kitchen window. She stared at what was left of his pay, even as he lowered his head and turned away. Her fingers flashed out to the table, shaking slightly as she sorted through once, then again, to be sure. The answer was the same both times: $1.27.
The hope that had stirred for a moment -- even as a part of her knew it was fantasy -- sank, and sucked her soul down with it, a torpedoed ship that took dreams to the bottom where they would never see the light of day again. After what seemed like a long time, she realized the girls were still there -- she looked at them, forced a smile, and said gently, "It's good. There's something left over this week."
And hated the lie.
Although Columbus Street ran along the crest of a hill, when she walked to the market after dinner it seemed like a steep, uphill journey. For a block, she spun possibilities in her mind, tops of flashing ideas that whirled and wobbled, then crashed on the hard floor of reality. She turned the corner in front of the market, stopped and looked in the window for a moment or two; there was nobody else in there. She mounted the steps, pulled open the door, listened to the bell announce her presence.
The store smelled of fresh meat and despair, the floorboards beneath her creaked as she walked directly to the counter at the back of the store. Jago was there, sorting through the receipts on the spindle next to the cash register, transferring charges into an open ledger. He looked up, seemed surprised to see her. "Hello," he said, capping the fountain pen in his hand, and closing the big book. "I wasn't expecting to see you again, so soon."
"I said I would be here," she reminded him. "Remember, Walter got paid today."
"I know, but --" he opened the ledger, ran a finger down the side of the page, as though to check something, then looked up again. "-- I assumed you knew."
"Knew what?"
He put a hand over the names above hers, turned the book around so she could see it. "Your account -- it was paid off this morning. A gentleman came in and asked about it, but it seemed like he already knew what the tab was. And then he paid it." He stabbed a fingertip at the balance column. "See: zero balance. You're paid in full."
Her heart was racing, wanted to fly out of her chest. "Who -- who --?" she repeated, stumbling, unable to complete the thought.
"I don't know." He shrugged, bumped his glasses with his finger. "He seemed like a nice young man, but never gave his name. He just said maybe you would find him some day -- if you wanted to look for him." He closed the book again, and peered at her with out-sized eyes. "Did you need anything else tonight?"
"No." She shook her head. "No, we're fine. Thank you." She retreated quickly from the store, afraid to linger, lest he discover it was some kind of mistake. As she walked home, steps clicking fast and loud on the sidewalk, she tried to imagine who could have done it, or what might have happened. As she pondered the mystery, and the wonder of what seemed like being born again, she noticed something else: Although Columbus Street was level, the way home seemed downhill...
To fully understand the beauty of sunlight, you must spend some time in the dark. To fully understand -- and appreciate -- the gifts of hope and forgiveness that Jesus shares with us, we must understand how truly desperate and hopeless our situations are without them. We each owe a debt that we can't possibly pay, ourselves -- but if we will just open our hearts to him, offer ourselves to him, believe in the gift that he offers, Jesus will be there to pay it off for us.
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages. 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, and works in the IT Department at a major public safety testing organization.
Set Free
Timothy Smith
John 4:5-42
Ken grew up thinking he was no good at anything. To say he had an inferiority complex would have been an understatement. Deep down he felt he could never do anything right. This attitude affected his entire outlook on life -- the way he did everything. If you were to ask Ken's parents, they would tell you that they were good parents. They never physically abused any of their children, never beat them, never locked them in the closet or anything like that. They had a nice new home in the suburbs, new cars, and the children had an ample amount of toys. Each child received a brand new bicycle one Christmas. To outsiders they seemed like the ideal family.
The problem arose in the way they treated their children. Specifically it was the words they used, their attitudes toward their children that robbed the children of positive self-esteem. "You're stupid" or "Can't you do anything right?" were often heard at the dinner table. When Ken was in his teen years, his parents still treated him like a child, as if he couldn't do anything for himself. Ken would frequently overhear his mother say she didn't know what kind of a job he could ever get since he could not make change from a dollar.
In his twenties Ken still lived at home with his oppressive parents, afraid to step out on his own. His parents continued to discourage him from moving out. Whenever the subject came up, his not-so-loving parents would tell him he did not have enough money to live on his own. What would he do to wash his clothes, never mind the fact that he did not know how. How in the world could he even afford a washing machine, his mother asked him one day. Ken was convinced that if he ever moved out on his own he was bound to fall flat on his face.
Then one day in a fast food restaurant Ken met Lynn. Just joking around he asked Lynn if she would like to go out with him, expecting she would immediately say no. To his great astonishment she said yes and they began dating. An amazing thing happened to both Ken and Lynn. They both changed as a result of feeling loved for the first time in their lives. Friends commented on the change in Ken; he almost seemed like a different person. Ken and Lynn loved and affirmed each other. Two years after they met they were married.
After they were married for a while Lynn asked Ken if he would attend church with her. While growing up the church had played an important role in Lynn's life, while Ken rarely attended. At first Ken only went to church to please his wife. If going to church with her made her happy then he would go -- after all, he told himself, it was only for an hour.
Something unexpected happened. While attending church Ken discovered the living Christ for himself. He listened to the words about abundant life and soon claimed that life for himself. Once he met Christ he could not turn away. He wanted the abundant life that only Christ can offer and it changed his entire life.
(from Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series II, Cycle A [CSS Publishing Co., Inc.: Lima, Ohio], 1998, pp. 49-50.)
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StoryShare, February 24, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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
"Testing One, Two, Three..." by Keith Hewitt
"The Account" by Keith Hewitt
"Set Free" by Timothy Smith
What's Up This Week
Nobody's perfect -- that statement has been used to offer solace to us all at some point or another. It reminds us that we cannot go through life mistake-free. We are going to mess up; we are going to miss the mark. It is in our nature to do so. We have a word for when we miss the mark regarding our relationship with God -- sin. In those times when we do sin, it is so easy for us to think that God has turned his back on us in anger, severing all ties. This week's StoryShare reminds us that nothing could be further from the truth. In "Testing, One, Two, Three..." Keith Hewitt reminds us that even when we may think that God has abandoned us, God is always there, waiting for us to come to him in faith. "The Account" is a parable illustrating how God can take our past, our mistakes, and wipe them away, giving us a fresh start. While we make mistakes, sometimes we endure hardship through no fault of our own. "Set Free" takes us through the journey of one man from the darkness of dejection and self-loathing because of his upbringing to the brightness of joy and new life in Christ.
* * * * * * * * *
Testing, One, Two, Three...
Keith Hewitt
Exodus 17:1-7
Since becoming a teenager, she had taken refuge more often than ever in her room or online. Interaction with her parents seemed doomed to spiral down into some discussion about chores she wasn't doing, or grades, or any one of a number of other topics she had no interest in discussing -- not with them. When they did finally violate her privacy, to force an issue, it usually ended up in an argument -- either the almost-silent kind, where she would only give monosyllabic answers, chipped from ice; or the loud, stormy kind where everyone ended up yelling and nobody heard anything that was said.
It was after one such argument that she retreated to her room, slammed the door, and turned on the stereo, let the music wash over her as though it could scrub away the anger that flared out of nowhere and burned bright inside of her. How would she be able to last another couple of years under the same roof as them? College -- going away to college -- flickered like a lighthouse riding the horizon, unbearably far away. Despair sparked anger, and she struck out, punched her wall, hard, with her right hand.
The wall won.
She looked down at her half-closed fist as the pain swept over her, and wondered why she had done it... and, a moment later, whether she had broken anything. She sat down on her bed, put her arm across her chest, held her hand tightly beneath her other arm and rocked, fighting a groan, choking back expletives... well, most of them. When the worst of the pain had faded, she took her hand out and looked at it -- she could flex her fingers, stiffly, but the knuckles were bright red... and it looked like they were starting to swell.
By the next morning, the swelling was obvious. She took herself out to the kitchen, opened the freezer door, and got out the ice cube tray. Her mother, who was standing at the counter, looked at her. "What are you doing?"
"Getting ice," she answered, and held up her hand, so her mother could see it.
Stepping closer, now, her mother stared at her hand for a moment. "What did you do?" she asked, touching it softly, probing tentatively; her daughter winced.
"I tripped on something in my room and fell against the dresser. I guess I hit it with my hand," the girl explained.
"Wouldn't happen if you picked up your room once in a while," her father contributed from the other room. Then, "Can you move your fingers?"
"Yes," she said, wiggling them a bit, wincing once more. "It's fine."
"Uh-huh. It might help if you could see the floor, at least."
She rolled her eyes and dumped the ice cubes into a bag, then retreated to her room. A little while later, her father opened her door, looked around at the mess, and shook his head. "Come on, let's go," he said, and left. She followed him after a moment, followed him out to the living room and gestured with her hands, holding them apart, palms up, as if to say "What now?"
"Going to the doctor," he said, tossing her coat to her. "He'll see you right away, but we've got to get going." Then he was gone, out the door.
She followed him, pulling on her coat as she walked. She got into the van, pulled the belt across, and clicked it while he started the engine, then pulled out quickly. They rode in silence, for a while; she stared out the window, eyes narrowed, trying to make it all fit. When it just wouldn't, she looked at her father and said, "I thought you were mad at me."
"I was." A mile or so later, "I still am."
"Then what --?" she gestured again, with her good hand, a gesture encompassing her other hand, the car, and everything that was happening.
He shook his head, surprised that she didn't understand after all the years that had gone by. "I love you," he said, matter-of-factly, "Your Mom and I both love you, even when we're mad. You should know that whatever happens, we're always going to take care of you."
"Oh," she said simply, and lay her head back against the headrest. After a while, her hand stopped hurting quite so much.
It's difficult to know, thousands of years later, just what motivated the people of Israel after they came out of Egypt. Had generations of slavery so degraded their sense of self-worth that they felt a constant need to try to force God into showing he loved them, and would take care of them? Or were they just spoiled children, suffering from a bad case of what-have-you-done-for-me-lately?
The answer probably lies somewhere in between, but in retrospect, it's hard to understand how they could have doubted that God would see them through. After all, they had seen the wave of plagues that swept over their masters, yet left them untouched; they had marched out of their ancient ghettos, led by a pillar of smoke and flame; they had stood on the shore of the Red Sea and watched a path of dry land open before them -- and then stood on the far shore, and watched their pursuers perish as the waters rushed back in. In the wilderness, they dined on manna and quail -- bounty provided by a caring God.
And still, when a tight spot came along, when they hit a bump in the road, the first thing they did was complain; when hard times hit, the first thing they wailed was, "Why us?"
It's tempting to look back at them, and feel smug and superior -- but before we dislocate our shoulders, patting ourselves on the back, we ought to look at our own lives.
You don't have to be fleeing Pharaoh's army to feel like the world is closing in on you; you don't have to be wandering in the wilderness to wonder if you have a future; you don't have to be in the desert to be hungry and thirsty, whether it's for physical sustenance, or the nurturing warmth that comes from knowing you're loved.
When those moments come -- and they do, for everyone -- is our reaction to question God? When tragedy strikes, when we realize that the control we thought we had over our lives is nothing but illusion, do we become the Israelites of Exodus, crying, "Why me?"
Or are we at a place in our journey with God where we realize that we are never alone?
Jesus calls for us to trust in God above all else. When we walk with him, when we nurture our faith like a carefully tended garden, we put ourselves into a place of quiet strength -- a strength that is not just ours. When times of turmoil come, we can be strong in the knowledge that God is with us -- and that no matter what happens to us, here, it's just the blink of an eye when compared with the prospect of eternity in the presence of the Lord.
When faith grows, the need for proof fades away.
The Account
Keith Hewitt
Romans 5:1-11
"Will there be anything else?" the shopkeeper asked, as he finished wrapping the meat in white paper, then tied it tightly with white string that came from a spool that hung just overhead, above the top of the cooler.
The woman looked at the groceries gathered there -- flour, check; eggs, check; sausage, check; ground beef, check -- then glanced at her list, mentally scratched off a couple of items that were just too expensive; she had included them on a whim, hoping that they might be on sale at the little corner market. Jago sometimes did that, if he could catch something that was about to turn, but hadn't quite gone bad, yet. She shook her head. "That's it, thanks." Pause. "Can you put this on our account, please?"
"Sure thing," the man answered, almost at once. He wrote up a receipt, showed it to her, then stuck it on a spindle next to the cash register, along with a couple of dozen others. Later, he would go into his books and add the day's groceries to the tab they had running; she looked away, shocked once at how much she had spent, and again at how much she thought would be available to spend.
"Walter gets paid tomorrow, doesn't he?" the shopkeeper asked as he packed the groceries into a plain brown bag. He almost managed to sound casual.
She appeared to think for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yes, yes he does. I'm surprised you remember."
He shrugged, rubbed a finger under his eye, bumping up his glasses. "You kind of have to these days. You've got to know who's not working, and who is -- and when they get paid. You know --" He hesitated, then smiled shyly. "My wife gets nervous about all these accounts, and when they're going to get paid." He shrugged again, bumped his glasses, "I tell her, 'Don't worry so much, it's not good for you. Besides, now that Roosevelt is in, things are going to get better.' "
"I sure hope so," she said, and reached for the bag. "Thanks for your help -- and your understanding."
He held the bag for the barest moment as she started to take it and looked at her through thick lenses that made his eyes seem huge. "We need to have something paid on your account," he said quietly, almost apologetically. "It's up past forty dollars, now."
She nodded again, sliding the bag across the counter, turning her eyes away. "Of course," she said. "Tomorrow, then." She cradled the bag in her arms and walked out the door, listened to the jingling bell that mocked her with its airy cheeriness as she pulled the door open. She walked down the couple of concrete steps to the sidewalk, rounded the corner, and hurried home, feet taking her on her way while her mind struggled with other things. $40? It had to be closer to $45, she calculated, trying to remember her last couple of purchases.
When was the last time they'd been able to pay down the account? She shook her head; the longer they went, the worse it got. They lived at the mercy of her husband's job, and there just hadn't been that many hours, lately. He was a die maker, a good, solid job that a man ought to be able to raise a family on -- but when the factory sat idle, there was no need for his skills.
She fretted about it the rest of the night -- as she had so many other nights before -- in silence that sat like a rock on her chest. She couldn't talk to him about it -- he had other worries -- and there was no talking to the children, of course. Although they must suspect -- they must all suspect something, she thought. How thin could you make a stew, before it became soup -- and how thin could you make the soup, before it became broth? But nobody ever said anything, sitting around the table.
She was waiting for her husband the next day when he came home from work. As he did each payday, he had gone to the Building & Loan to cash his check, and pay on their mortgage, returning with whatever was left over tucked away in a creased white envelope. It had been a better week than others she thought as he took the envelope out of his pocket -- they ought to be able to knock some of the forty-plus dollars down. She thought about what they would do, what they could pay off, what they should keep for expenses....
Across the table, their daughters ate butter and sugar sandwiches, watching as the ritual played out.
He put his thumb under the flap, ripped it down the length of the envelope, and puffed it open, dumped out the contents on the pale yellow linoleum tablecloth. The bill slid out silently, the coins clinked softly, almost drowned out by the noise of the wind in the leaves outside the kitchen window. She stared at what was left of his pay, even as he lowered his head and turned away. Her fingers flashed out to the table, shaking slightly as she sorted through once, then again, to be sure. The answer was the same both times: $1.27.
The hope that had stirred for a moment -- even as a part of her knew it was fantasy -- sank, and sucked her soul down with it, a torpedoed ship that took dreams to the bottom where they would never see the light of day again. After what seemed like a long time, she realized the girls were still there -- she looked at them, forced a smile, and said gently, "It's good. There's something left over this week."
And hated the lie.
Although Columbus Street ran along the crest of a hill, when she walked to the market after dinner it seemed like a steep, uphill journey. For a block, she spun possibilities in her mind, tops of flashing ideas that whirled and wobbled, then crashed on the hard floor of reality. She turned the corner in front of the market, stopped and looked in the window for a moment or two; there was nobody else in there. She mounted the steps, pulled open the door, listened to the bell announce her presence.
The store smelled of fresh meat and despair, the floorboards beneath her creaked as she walked directly to the counter at the back of the store. Jago was there, sorting through the receipts on the spindle next to the cash register, transferring charges into an open ledger. He looked up, seemed surprised to see her. "Hello," he said, capping the fountain pen in his hand, and closing the big book. "I wasn't expecting to see you again, so soon."
"I said I would be here," she reminded him. "Remember, Walter got paid today."
"I know, but --" he opened the ledger, ran a finger down the side of the page, as though to check something, then looked up again. "-- I assumed you knew."
"Knew what?"
He put a hand over the names above hers, turned the book around so she could see it. "Your account -- it was paid off this morning. A gentleman came in and asked about it, but it seemed like he already knew what the tab was. And then he paid it." He stabbed a fingertip at the balance column. "See: zero balance. You're paid in full."
Her heart was racing, wanted to fly out of her chest. "Who -- who --?" she repeated, stumbling, unable to complete the thought.
"I don't know." He shrugged, bumped his glasses with his finger. "He seemed like a nice young man, but never gave his name. He just said maybe you would find him some day -- if you wanted to look for him." He closed the book again, and peered at her with out-sized eyes. "Did you need anything else tonight?"
"No." She shook her head. "No, we're fine. Thank you." She retreated quickly from the store, afraid to linger, lest he discover it was some kind of mistake. As she walked home, steps clicking fast and loud on the sidewalk, she tried to imagine who could have done it, or what might have happened. As she pondered the mystery, and the wonder of what seemed like being born again, she noticed something else: Although Columbus Street was level, the way home seemed downhill...
To fully understand the beauty of sunlight, you must spend some time in the dark. To fully understand -- and appreciate -- the gifts of hope and forgiveness that Jesus shares with us, we must understand how truly desperate and hopeless our situations are without them. We each owe a debt that we can't possibly pay, ourselves -- but if we will just open our hearts to him, offer ourselves to him, believe in the gift that he offers, Jesus will be there to pay it off for us.
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages. 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, and works in the IT Department at a major public safety testing organization.
Set Free
Timothy Smith
John 4:5-42
Ken grew up thinking he was no good at anything. To say he had an inferiority complex would have been an understatement. Deep down he felt he could never do anything right. This attitude affected his entire outlook on life -- the way he did everything. If you were to ask Ken's parents, they would tell you that they were good parents. They never physically abused any of their children, never beat them, never locked them in the closet or anything like that. They had a nice new home in the suburbs, new cars, and the children had an ample amount of toys. Each child received a brand new bicycle one Christmas. To outsiders they seemed like the ideal family.
The problem arose in the way they treated their children. Specifically it was the words they used, their attitudes toward their children that robbed the children of positive self-esteem. "You're stupid" or "Can't you do anything right?" were often heard at the dinner table. When Ken was in his teen years, his parents still treated him like a child, as if he couldn't do anything for himself. Ken would frequently overhear his mother say she didn't know what kind of a job he could ever get since he could not make change from a dollar.
In his twenties Ken still lived at home with his oppressive parents, afraid to step out on his own. His parents continued to discourage him from moving out. Whenever the subject came up, his not-so-loving parents would tell him he did not have enough money to live on his own. What would he do to wash his clothes, never mind the fact that he did not know how. How in the world could he even afford a washing machine, his mother asked him one day. Ken was convinced that if he ever moved out on his own he was bound to fall flat on his face.
Then one day in a fast food restaurant Ken met Lynn. Just joking around he asked Lynn if she would like to go out with him, expecting she would immediately say no. To his great astonishment she said yes and they began dating. An amazing thing happened to both Ken and Lynn. They both changed as a result of feeling loved for the first time in their lives. Friends commented on the change in Ken; he almost seemed like a different person. Ken and Lynn loved and affirmed each other. Two years after they met they were married.
After they were married for a while Lynn asked Ken if he would attend church with her. While growing up the church had played an important role in Lynn's life, while Ken rarely attended. At first Ken only went to church to please his wife. If going to church with her made her happy then he would go -- after all, he told himself, it was only for an hour.
Something unexpected happened. While attending church Ken discovered the living Christ for himself. He listened to the words about abundant life and soon claimed that life for himself. Once he met Christ he could not turn away. He wanted the abundant life that only Christ can offer and it changed his entire life.
(from Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series II, Cycle A [CSS Publishing Co., Inc.: Lima, Ohio], 1998, pp. 49-50.)
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StoryShare, February 24, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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.
