What More Could I Have Done?
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"What More Could I Have Done?" by Sandra Herrmann
"Difficult Realities" by Peter Andrew Smith
What More Could I Have Done?
by Sandra Herrmann
Isaiah 5:1-7
My brother was the light of my life. I think part of the reason was that I was 14 when he was born, right at that time of life when a girl’s body is becoming a woman, and all of that hormonal stuff is boiling to the surface.
I was one of those people who could sleep through anything. The phone ringing, the T.V. on full blast, I could sleep right through it all. Except for his cry. When he woke in the wee small hours of the morning, I would wake up almost instantly. I often heard him before our mother did, and I would climb out of bed and go get him from his crib and carry him into the kitchen while I warmed a bottle of formula. I would sit on a chair between the table and the stove and talk to him, and he would focus on my face, his brows furrowed, as though he was trying to puzzle something out.
When the bottle was warm, and I had tested its temperature on my wrist as I’d been trained, I would hoist him up and carry him into the living room, where the big blue wicker rocker was, and sit down and arrange the two of us so he and my left arm were supported. His lips would grab it as he sucked greedily. For about two minutes, and then he would let go and sigh. It was time to look around, at least to him. He would watch shadows on the ceiling, until my face came back into view. Then he would smile and belch. Then back to the bottle.
Sometimes Mom would wake up and come into the living room. (“Oh, you got him. Did he cry?” “Not exactly. But I heard him grumbling, so I got him up so you could sleep.” “You OK to change him, too?” “Sure.”) Mom would usually go back to bed. But sometimes, she’d offer to finish giving him his bottle. Usually during that first summer I wanted to keep feeding him, since I didn’t have classes to go to. He loved to cuddle, and I loved it too.
With the start of school in the fall, Mom had to look for a job. The expenses were more than my Dad’s salary could cover. After she left for work in the evening, I would take care of my brother while I waited for Dad to get home. No problem, at first. It was cereal and milk and then maybe strained fruit. Later, I learned what foods he liked and didn’t like: spinach and beets made wonderful patterns on the ceiling, refrigerator, floor, and me. Dad would laugh as he reached up to wipe spots from the ceiling. I took to wearing a plastic apron for feeding times. Dad suggested a rain slicker!
Eventually, I moved away from home, went to work, then to school. Got married, moved even further away. I called home most weeks. But it wasn't the same, of course. I began inviting my family to come and leave my brother for a week when school was out, and most of those times he came. But of course he eventually wanted to spend time with his friends over the holidays, so those visits came further apart.
Not that he was pulling away. He still loved to talk with me. Everybody would get up and aim for bed, and he would say, “Stay. Let’s talk about deep things.” I would laugh, and we would settle in, talking about his prize-winning essay about “Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” or his A+ on a physics exam, and how did I relate to the Big Bang and God at the same time? (“The Big Bang goes along with Genesis pretty well,” I said, “it’s just how God did it.”)
But somewhere along the way, my brother had learned that alcohol could make him feel better when he didn’t feel good about himself. I didn’t see the signs. Neither did Mom. Turns out Dad noticed, because when he would sneak a drink he’d notice that there wasn’t as much in the bottle as the last time. But he never said a word. When my brother went off to college, he learned about pot, and then about pharmaceuticals. He’d go to visit a friend whose dad had severe arthritis, and they would boost some of his Percocet for a weekend high.
Eventually, one of his friends called Mom and Dad and told them what Doug was doing. He had come close to flunking out the semester had a couple of DWIs. I was shocked, tried to get them to hospitalize him, but the doctor said my brother had to sign himself in, since he was over 18. So I took him home with me until Christmas, when our parents took him back home with them. He did finally go into treatment, but not for over a year.
He got a master’s degree and taught, signed into a Ph.D. program, got really addicted to cocaine (“I took it so I could stay up and study!”), went into treatment. Came back before he had completed the program, asked if he could move in with us. I said no. (“It’s your husband who’s saying no, isn’t it?” he demanded. “I need to be with you. You wouldn’t let me drink or get high, I know, so I’d stick to the program.” “I’m not your higher power. Don’t make me responsible for you staying clean and sober. YOU have to be responsible.” The phone goes dead, I sit down and cry.)
He finally lost track of time, forgot to go to school, to work, to the doctor. Wound up in the hospital. (“Can you believe it?” he laughed. “They told me I had no sodium in my blood. How does that happen?” “It’s a direct effect of your drinking.”) Left the hospital against doctor’s advice and was found passed out on the street fifty feet from the door. They dragged him back in, back into detox.
For the next two years, if I heard from him at all, he was slurring his words, forgetting what he wanted to say. Having trouble making sense. I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of months when I got a call. He had nothing to eat, nowhere to stay. Could I send him some money? I knew better than to do that. “No. Go to a church, have the pastor call me, and he’ll get you food. I’ll give him the money.”
Soon, a call from a pastor. He would give my brother food, would get him to detox, if he was willing to go again. Then the long pause. “How long has it been since you’ve seen your brother?” “About four years.” “I hate to tell you this, but your brother is as bad as any street person I’ve ever seen.” This time it was my turn to take a long silent pause. “I don’t know what to do anymore. What more can I do?” “He’s got to do it himself. You know that.” Yeah, I did. “Thanks, Pastor.”
He died that spring, as the dogwoods were in bloom. Alone, in a motel room, several empty bottles on the floor near the bed. Cause of death: alcohol poisoning.
Like God, in Isaiah’s parable of the vineyard, I will never stop asking, “What more could I have done?” And it doesn’t help that the answer from the professionals is “Probably nothing.” But I know this: I learned about the anger and sorrow of God from my brother’s downhill slide.”
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
* * *
Difficult Realities
by Peter Andrew Smith
Luke 12:49-56
Paul stepped out the front doors of the hospital and nodded to the people waiting for the bus. He looked at his watch and realized he had almost an hour before he was supposed to pick up his daughter at school. He turned around and went back inside to the small coffee shop to get a table and catch up on some emails.
“Hey Pastor Paul, how are you?”
Paul looked twice before he recognized the man sitting at a table by himself. “Not bad George. How about yourself?”
“Okay I guess.” George shrugged his shoulders. “You got a few minutes?”
“Sure.” Paul grabbed a coffee and sat across from his parishioner. “What’s up?”
“Not much. I just finished an on call shift.” George took a sip from his coffee. “You knew that I’m doing some lay chaplaincy work here, right?”
“I remember writing you the letter of reference. How’s it going?”
“Best of both worlds actually,” George said. “I like being there for people in their time of need as well as helping out the pastors in town. I think the experience has helped me realize that God is calling me to something deeper in my life.”
Paul drank from his coffee.“That all sounds good to me.”
“It does now that I say it out loud.” George ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not so sure though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I’ve told you that I hate working retail and I know I should be doing something different with my life. Working as a lay chaplain has helped me to see that I have some gifts for being a pastor and I’m starting to believe that God wants me to follow that path.” George took a deep breath. “I think I’d like to go to seminary. Do you think the church would sponsor me?”
“That’s wonderful,” Paul said. “I know the Board will be thrilled by your decision and will support you. You’ll be a great pastor.”
George gave a weak smile. “Thanks.”
“Why do you seem unhappy?” Paul tilted his head to one side. “I thought you wanted to know what you’re supposed to do with your life?”
“I do.” George paused for a moment. “I’m still struggling with my decision. I figured I’d be more certain, that’s all.”
“I’ve been a pastor for almost twenty years. There are days I have doubts and am unsure of myself.”
“I guess.” George let his gaze wander to the window. “Maybe I just need to have faith.”
“Faith is never a bad thing. Neither is honesty.” Paul narrowed his eyes. “You look like you haven’t slept the last few days. What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
Paul shook his head. “You’ve always been a person who’s done lots of thinking and you’ve never looked like this before. What are you worried about?”
“Karen.”
“Ah.” Paul took a sip from his cup of coffee. “Things not going well between you?”
“Things are actually pretty good,” George said. “She likes teaching at the school and we’ve started talking about marriage.”
“Would things be easier if you weren’t talking about marriage?”
“Yes.” George sighed. “You know she’s not a believer and has some issues with the church.”
Paul nodded. “Are you worried about how she’ll feel about you being a pastor?”
“I am.” George looked down. “I’m worried she’ll break up with me when I tell her.”
“Oh.”
“Aren’t things supposed to get easier when you listen to God and follow Jesus in your life?”
“God never calls us to an easy life only a faithful one,” Paul said. “I wish I could tell you otherwise but the truth is sometimes following Jesus tears apart family and friends.”
“Why do I have to choose between the woman I love and the path I believe God is calling me to follow?”
“That’s a hard question.” Paul said nothing else for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“About ministry? Yes, I am. About the fact that Karen will probably leave me? Yes, she has pretty much said so.” George rubbed his hand over his face. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Talk to Karen and be sure. Maybe you’re wrong about her reaction.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then you have to decide what to do with your life.”
“Okay,” George said. “Will you pray for me?”
“I will,” Paul reached out to touch his shoulder. “I pray that God will give you the strength to follow the path you are being called to follow and the peace you need to live with that decision.”
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada currently serving St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things are Ready (CSS) a book of lectionary based communion prayers and a number of stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 14, 2016, issue.
Copyright 2016 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.
"What More Could I Have Done?" by Sandra Herrmann
"Difficult Realities" by Peter Andrew Smith
What More Could I Have Done?
by Sandra Herrmann
Isaiah 5:1-7
My brother was the light of my life. I think part of the reason was that I was 14 when he was born, right at that time of life when a girl’s body is becoming a woman, and all of that hormonal stuff is boiling to the surface.
I was one of those people who could sleep through anything. The phone ringing, the T.V. on full blast, I could sleep right through it all. Except for his cry. When he woke in the wee small hours of the morning, I would wake up almost instantly. I often heard him before our mother did, and I would climb out of bed and go get him from his crib and carry him into the kitchen while I warmed a bottle of formula. I would sit on a chair between the table and the stove and talk to him, and he would focus on my face, his brows furrowed, as though he was trying to puzzle something out.
When the bottle was warm, and I had tested its temperature on my wrist as I’d been trained, I would hoist him up and carry him into the living room, where the big blue wicker rocker was, and sit down and arrange the two of us so he and my left arm were supported. His lips would grab it as he sucked greedily. For about two minutes, and then he would let go and sigh. It was time to look around, at least to him. He would watch shadows on the ceiling, until my face came back into view. Then he would smile and belch. Then back to the bottle.
Sometimes Mom would wake up and come into the living room. (“Oh, you got him. Did he cry?” “Not exactly. But I heard him grumbling, so I got him up so you could sleep.” “You OK to change him, too?” “Sure.”) Mom would usually go back to bed. But sometimes, she’d offer to finish giving him his bottle. Usually during that first summer I wanted to keep feeding him, since I didn’t have classes to go to. He loved to cuddle, and I loved it too.
With the start of school in the fall, Mom had to look for a job. The expenses were more than my Dad’s salary could cover. After she left for work in the evening, I would take care of my brother while I waited for Dad to get home. No problem, at first. It was cereal and milk and then maybe strained fruit. Later, I learned what foods he liked and didn’t like: spinach and beets made wonderful patterns on the ceiling, refrigerator, floor, and me. Dad would laugh as he reached up to wipe spots from the ceiling. I took to wearing a plastic apron for feeding times. Dad suggested a rain slicker!
Eventually, I moved away from home, went to work, then to school. Got married, moved even further away. I called home most weeks. But it wasn't the same, of course. I began inviting my family to come and leave my brother for a week when school was out, and most of those times he came. But of course he eventually wanted to spend time with his friends over the holidays, so those visits came further apart.
Not that he was pulling away. He still loved to talk with me. Everybody would get up and aim for bed, and he would say, “Stay. Let’s talk about deep things.” I would laugh, and we would settle in, talking about his prize-winning essay about “Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” or his A+ on a physics exam, and how did I relate to the Big Bang and God at the same time? (“The Big Bang goes along with Genesis pretty well,” I said, “it’s just how God did it.”)
But somewhere along the way, my brother had learned that alcohol could make him feel better when he didn’t feel good about himself. I didn’t see the signs. Neither did Mom. Turns out Dad noticed, because when he would sneak a drink he’d notice that there wasn’t as much in the bottle as the last time. But he never said a word. When my brother went off to college, he learned about pot, and then about pharmaceuticals. He’d go to visit a friend whose dad had severe arthritis, and they would boost some of his Percocet for a weekend high.
Eventually, one of his friends called Mom and Dad and told them what Doug was doing. He had come close to flunking out the semester had a couple of DWIs. I was shocked, tried to get them to hospitalize him, but the doctor said my brother had to sign himself in, since he was over 18. So I took him home with me until Christmas, when our parents took him back home with them. He did finally go into treatment, but not for over a year.
He got a master’s degree and taught, signed into a Ph.D. program, got really addicted to cocaine (“I took it so I could stay up and study!”), went into treatment. Came back before he had completed the program, asked if he could move in with us. I said no. (“It’s your husband who’s saying no, isn’t it?” he demanded. “I need to be with you. You wouldn’t let me drink or get high, I know, so I’d stick to the program.” “I’m not your higher power. Don’t make me responsible for you staying clean and sober. YOU have to be responsible.” The phone goes dead, I sit down and cry.)
He finally lost track of time, forgot to go to school, to work, to the doctor. Wound up in the hospital. (“Can you believe it?” he laughed. “They told me I had no sodium in my blood. How does that happen?” “It’s a direct effect of your drinking.”) Left the hospital against doctor’s advice and was found passed out on the street fifty feet from the door. They dragged him back in, back into detox.
For the next two years, if I heard from him at all, he was slurring his words, forgetting what he wanted to say. Having trouble making sense. I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of months when I got a call. He had nothing to eat, nowhere to stay. Could I send him some money? I knew better than to do that. “No. Go to a church, have the pastor call me, and he’ll get you food. I’ll give him the money.”
Soon, a call from a pastor. He would give my brother food, would get him to detox, if he was willing to go again. Then the long pause. “How long has it been since you’ve seen your brother?” “About four years.” “I hate to tell you this, but your brother is as bad as any street person I’ve ever seen.” This time it was my turn to take a long silent pause. “I don’t know what to do anymore. What more can I do?” “He’s got to do it himself. You know that.” Yeah, I did. “Thanks, Pastor.”
He died that spring, as the dogwoods were in bloom. Alone, in a motel room, several empty bottles on the floor near the bed. Cause of death: alcohol poisoning.
Like God, in Isaiah’s parable of the vineyard, I will never stop asking, “What more could I have done?” And it doesn’t help that the answer from the professionals is “Probably nothing.” But I know this: I learned about the anger and sorrow of God from my brother’s downhill slide.”
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
* * *
Difficult Realities
by Peter Andrew Smith
Luke 12:49-56
Paul stepped out the front doors of the hospital and nodded to the people waiting for the bus. He looked at his watch and realized he had almost an hour before he was supposed to pick up his daughter at school. He turned around and went back inside to the small coffee shop to get a table and catch up on some emails.
“Hey Pastor Paul, how are you?”
Paul looked twice before he recognized the man sitting at a table by himself. “Not bad George. How about yourself?”
“Okay I guess.” George shrugged his shoulders. “You got a few minutes?”
“Sure.” Paul grabbed a coffee and sat across from his parishioner. “What’s up?”
“Not much. I just finished an on call shift.” George took a sip from his coffee. “You knew that I’m doing some lay chaplaincy work here, right?”
“I remember writing you the letter of reference. How’s it going?”
“Best of both worlds actually,” George said. “I like being there for people in their time of need as well as helping out the pastors in town. I think the experience has helped me realize that God is calling me to something deeper in my life.”
Paul drank from his coffee.“That all sounds good to me.”
“It does now that I say it out loud.” George ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not so sure though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I’ve told you that I hate working retail and I know I should be doing something different with my life. Working as a lay chaplain has helped me to see that I have some gifts for being a pastor and I’m starting to believe that God wants me to follow that path.” George took a deep breath. “I think I’d like to go to seminary. Do you think the church would sponsor me?”
“That’s wonderful,” Paul said. “I know the Board will be thrilled by your decision and will support you. You’ll be a great pastor.”
George gave a weak smile. “Thanks.”
“Why do you seem unhappy?” Paul tilted his head to one side. “I thought you wanted to know what you’re supposed to do with your life?”
“I do.” George paused for a moment. “I’m still struggling with my decision. I figured I’d be more certain, that’s all.”
“I’ve been a pastor for almost twenty years. There are days I have doubts and am unsure of myself.”
“I guess.” George let his gaze wander to the window. “Maybe I just need to have faith.”
“Faith is never a bad thing. Neither is honesty.” Paul narrowed his eyes. “You look like you haven’t slept the last few days. What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
Paul shook his head. “You’ve always been a person who’s done lots of thinking and you’ve never looked like this before. What are you worried about?”
“Karen.”
“Ah.” Paul took a sip from his cup of coffee. “Things not going well between you?”
“Things are actually pretty good,” George said. “She likes teaching at the school and we’ve started talking about marriage.”
“Would things be easier if you weren’t talking about marriage?”
“Yes.” George sighed. “You know she’s not a believer and has some issues with the church.”
Paul nodded. “Are you worried about how she’ll feel about you being a pastor?”
“I am.” George looked down. “I’m worried she’ll break up with me when I tell her.”
“Oh.”
“Aren’t things supposed to get easier when you listen to God and follow Jesus in your life?”
“God never calls us to an easy life only a faithful one,” Paul said. “I wish I could tell you otherwise but the truth is sometimes following Jesus tears apart family and friends.”
“Why do I have to choose between the woman I love and the path I believe God is calling me to follow?”
“That’s a hard question.” Paul said nothing else for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“About ministry? Yes, I am. About the fact that Karen will probably leave me? Yes, she has pretty much said so.” George rubbed his hand over his face. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Talk to Karen and be sure. Maybe you’re wrong about her reaction.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then you have to decide what to do with your life.”
“Okay,” George said. “Will you pray for me?”
“I will,” Paul reached out to touch his shoulder. “I pray that God will give you the strength to follow the path you are being called to follow and the peace you need to live with that decision.”
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada currently serving St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things are Ready (CSS) a book of lectionary based communion prayers and a number of stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 14, 2016, issue.
Copyright 2016 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.
