Locked Down

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We find ourselves locked in, locked down, and locked out these days because of the COVID-19 pandemic making its way across the world. Someone posted a photo on FACEBOOK this morning that reminded me of someone else who was also locked in, locked down, and locked out. His story should be an encouragement to us to be "locked onto" God Himself during these days. The short meditation that follows comes from Divine Design for Daily Living. 

“Then the Lord shut him in.” Genesis 7:16b NIV.

         There is a world of security in these wonderful words: “Then the Lord shut him in.” God personally locked Noah and his family in. People who ridiculed Noah for building a boat where there was no water weren’t laughing anymore. They were on the outside — and it was beginning to rain. People who had persecuted him for preaching to them about God’s coming judgment on their sins were beginning to feel the slipping and sliding of wet ground underfoot.   

         “…the Lord shut him in.” Safe. Secure. Splat. Nowhere are we told that either the animals or the humans in the ark ceased to have all the normal needs that animals and humans have. They still had to eat, drink, and exercise their bodily functions. I wonder if Noah ever wished that the Lord hadn’t shut him in? Who fed the animals? Who changed the straw? Who shoveled the manure? On the other hand, short of a marathon swim, Noah didn’t have any other options. But that year of being shut in must have had moments when Noah wondered: “Why me, Lord?” 

         Being “shut in” by God has a wonderful, highly spiritual sounding tone to it. Who hasn’t longed for that perfect quiet time “shut in” with God. But, even such an intimate time can get painful and troublesome. When God speaks in those moments alone with Him, it might just as often be to kick us in the backside as it is to pat us on the back.

         When God shuts us into a particular circumstance, no matter how complicated, fearsome, or wearisome, the journey gets, we can relax in the knowledge that our ark won’t leak, reek or creak, except to bring Him glory and to benefit us. 

         There were challenges to be faced in Noah’s floating water world, but having done “all that the Lord commanded him” (7:5), having had the door locked behind him by the hand of none other than God Himself, Noah could have had nothing but confidence that this unusual, impossible voyage would end well.

Remember:

What God shuts in, He also always lets out.

Thirteen Reasons to Keep the Doors Open

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While fog wept outside the door, the air hung heavy with regret inside the old church building. Of the dozen people gathered around the table, only one was male. However, not even the virtue of gender could make Thomas Stone a leader. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief when Cora Wilson called the meeting to order. As church clerk, Cora was the last, and highest, vestige of authority left. The pastor had departed in disgrace, leaving a decimated congregation in his wake.

Cora carefully explained the situation. She didn’t miss a miserable detail—which was why she was the church clerk. By the time she was done, it was painfully clear that the options were few.

“So, what do we do now?”

Matilda Manheim was 84. Faded blue eyes shifted slowly from one face to another, challenge written in every glance and punctuated by her terse words. She was a charter member of the congregation, had survived two world wars, the Great Depression, been widowed and left destitute at the age of 40, and still raised three fine sons on her own. Tillie wouldn’t give up without a fight—and she still had plenty of fight left in her despite her age.

“Maybe the denomination could help us out?”

This come from Sadie Waters, a quiet, tremulous voice that caused Matilda to crank up her hearing aid so that she could catch every word. Other voices answered.

“Fat help they’ve been. Wasn’t it them that insisted we pay the pastor a year of severance? Darn near broke the bank.”

“Yah, we got to show Christian love, which was more’n he showed us with all his high jinks.”

Cora could tell that the conversation was headed downhill—and quickly. There was still a lot of healing needing to be done. The wounds were still seeping.

“No use us crying over spilt milk. What’s done is done. We have to move on; to think about our future.”

“They could help us find a new pastor,” insisted Sadie.

Jane Stephens sighed, still smarting from the severance issue and her husband’s resignation some months previously from his position as treasurer and church member.

“Who’s going to come to a church with a dozen members left, most of them women, no money, and a rotten reputation in the community?”

Another nail smashed into place in the church’s coffin. In such a small town, news traveled fast. Months of conflict between pastor and people hadn’t stayed a secret for long, especially as members abandoned the battle to find peace in other places.

“Nothin’ wrong with women,” muttered Matilda.

“Nothing at all, Tillie. It’s just that none of us are wage earners, not even Thomas. Pensioners can’t carry the church.”

With great tact, Cora left out mentioning single mothers like Sadie, and women like Jane, who were financially dependent on their husbands.

Now there were lots of voices, all with problems, not a single one with solutions.

“Most of our best workers are gone. We need people, even one person would be an encouragement.”

“Preferably one who doesn’t know all the gory details.”

“Now you are asking for a miracle.”

This time it was Tillie who brought the group back to order.

“Are we saying that we close the doors of the church?” she demanded. “If one person can make the difference, God’ll deliver him. Did we lose our faith along with our pastor?”

The silence provided the answer to the question Tillie had left twisting in the cold wind of despair.

Suddenly the outer door swung open and a blast of moist air swept in, pushing an older man ahead of it. The stranger was decently dressed, but looking a little disheveled.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. My car broke down at the end of the lane. The fog is so thick that I feared getting lost while I went for help. I’m looking for 57 Birch Street.”

He laughed as he removed his hat.

“Imagine not being able to find your own house, but I just moved here. When I saw the light from the cross on your steeple I knew that God hadn’t abandoned this old retired preacher.”

The people seated around the table looked at each other in awe. For the first time, Thomas Stone spoke up:

“Welcome, Pastor. We’re what’s left of Bethlehem* Church.”

He turned towards Tillie.

“It looks to me like God might have just provided us with our baker’s dozen.**”




*Bethlehem means house of bread.
** A baker’s dozen is 13.

Broken Dreams

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Go again to that dark place
where freedom dies and life lies waste.
Consider there that time, now past,
when all alone you gazed aghast
at broken dreams, forlorn and bent
beneath your feet lay, shattered, spent.

Return once more to memory’s cove
where, snug and safe, a treasure trove
of gold and silver, safely hid
from evil’s touch and gambler’s bid.
Protected by a Father’s hand
who caused these dreams to ever stand.

Some will die, and others live.
It is the Father’s grace to give
the best to those who dream, and wait
for Him to choose which one to take
and weave into life’s broken heart
a thread of hope, that missing part.

Let fall behind those painful sparks
of dying dreams that now grow cold.
And look beyond their fading light
toward His promise, pure and bright,
of dreams set free, divinely blessed,
a Father’s gift, as always, best.

That Sinking Feeling

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“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.” (Matthew 14:28 NIV)

You have to admire the audacity of Peter. As for me, I don’t like small boats. I prefer my water in a glass or at least in a form that comes with a tap. If I had been Peter, I probably wouldn’t have even been in the boat, much less trying to walk on water. But sometimes the events of life don’t give us a choice. Unlike Peter, we don’t even get the opportunity to ask permission to take a walk on the wet side—we get tossed out of the boat and seemingly left to sink or swim. A serious illness, a financial setback, a ministry turned misery, a relationship that fails, a past that haunts us, a present that overwhelms us and a future that defies us—who would ask to walk on these turbulent waters?

For Peter there was a lesson in faith to learn. He couldn’t have known that when he stepped out the boat. All he wanted was to get to the Lord. And that is the whole point. To get nearer to the Lord, to know Him better, to trust Him more, to grow in His likeness requires stepping beyond all that means security to us. It means allowing Him, even inviting Him, to push us out of our boat so that we can learn the lessons in trust that only rough seas can teach.

And when events thrust us out of the boat? Don’t look back. The past is done. Don’t look around. There is nothing out there that can save us. Don’t look down. Neither sinking or swimming are options that God would choose for us. He wants us to walk in triumph over the stormy seas of our lives. Not under the circumstances, but above them. How? A successful crossing comes when we keep our eyes, our hearts, our minds, our lives always focused on Him. And keep walking.

No Light, No Tunnel, No End

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I linger in the blackness, seemingly invisible to passersby. My night is cold and lonely, devoid of the warmth of human touch. There is only God, and though He speaks, I do not hear from Him what I desperately want to hear. He begs me to trust His will, but that will lies heavily upon me, like a shroud. His will is solitary. His will is hard. He bids me to be patient, but the fruitless, empty, years pass me by, heaping their rewards on others.

Shared laughter mocks me, as groups of two, three, and four, walk by. Their eyes seem to meet mine, but then slide past unseeing. I follow them, heading toward the open doors ahead that they are passing through. I long to cry out after them: “Look at me. See me. Hear me.” I don’t. They are busy with better, more productive, things. I bless the Lord for all their successes even as I envy them those blessings. Like a swift running current, they flow past my stagnant pool. It seems pointless to call out to them. Even if they saw and heard, there is nothing they can do. My path is beyond their reach. Only God can change the unchangeable.

My present darkness is His will, so I cannot pass through the doors that are open for others. At least I can press up against the windows and watch. The room they have entered is ablaze with light and resounds with music. It is crowded with people, laughing and chatting, making contact, sharing information, planting the seeds of ideas; a mutual admiration society. My aloneness deepens.

I should walk away. Why punish myself by remaining so close, but never close enough? Like the starving child with nose and palms pressed against the bakery window, I still need the crumbs that occasionally are tossed my way, even though they create in me a greater awareness of my deep hunger. So I linger.

How long, O Lord?

God says wait. He is carefully putting all the pieces of my life together. This solitary, shadowy corner is coming together just as He planned. Patience is not my strongest character trait. Sometimes, during the darkest moments of my night, I rail against Him and weep bitter tears. As quickly, I repent of the failure of my frail faith. Trust is, at times, an Everest that defies my best efforts to reach its summit. I know He makes no mistakes. I understand He has reasons—and good ones—for leaving me here. Like Job, I present my case and cry out for God to explain His.

Chattering voices and the chinking of glasses reach my ears. Toasts are being offered in celebration. A persistent voice whispers: “And who celebrates for you?” I push the thought away. I know it will return the next time some small victory comes my way and there is no one to share my happiness.

I shiver. There it is again, that subtle rejection of God’s will and presence. How often I have prayed that He would take away this desire for what isn’t part of His plan for me. He neither takes me from this darkness, nor does He remove my desire to be taken from it. That too is part of the plan.

I am ashamed. I turn back from the lighted window and look out into the darkness. As the Spirit of God adjusts my spiritual night vision, I weep again. The music from inside the room fades, replaced by the hoot of a nearby owl, the chirp of crickets, and the soft rustle of wind through barely visible trees. The air is heavy with the fragrance of lilac and gardenia. A million stars gleam overhead. I missed them in the glare of the light streaming from the windows. There is such beauty in the darkness. My shroud, whose folds hide the arms of God, embraces me. He is always good, and never as good as He is right now. I weep over my sins. Not content with the bounty of my night, I wanted more, even when He has given me so much. Thoughtless and unappreciative, I threw it back at Him.

Someone once said: “Never doubt in the dark what God told you in the light.” Not one promise He has made me has failed. Though they don’t disappear, the voices are muted, overtaken by the sounds of the night. The grass stirs at my feet. God walks here in the dark.

Telegram By Train

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“I’d rather not go, Dad.”

Mr. Thompson turned back from the curtained doorway of the train’s compartment to look, with some distress, at his slightly built teenage daughter.

“But Charlotte, it’s a long trip to your grandmother’s. You have to eat.”

“It’s okay. Really. You and mom go to the dining car. I’ll stay here with Susie. We can get something at the snack bar later.”

At the mention of her name, a pudgy six year old, currently kneeling on the seat, looked away from the window. She had been watching houses and fields rush by at a dizzying pace as the overnight train to Pembroke began to pick up speed. She stuck a thumb in her mouth and looked a little sadly at her parents and sister. She waited, knowing what the theme of the coming discussion was going to be, and how it would end.

“Charlotte, I wish you wouldn’t be so self-conscious. That’s why you don’t want to go, isn’t it?” argued Mrs. Thompson. “It’s been a year since the accident. You’ve got to stop thinking about the scars all the time.”

How do I stop thinking about it, Mom? The space is blank where my picture should be in the 1957 Central School Yearbook. How can I forget the grease fire in the kitchen, the pain, the surgeries, the lost summer. I missed my Junior High Graduation and when all my friends were starting their first year in High School, where was I? Still in rehab.

The train swayed, clicking and clacking around a bend. Susie, already off balance and unable to catch herself in time, bounced off her bigger sister, dislodging Charlotte’s hand, up until now tucked out of sight in her jacket pocket. Even after a year, the sight of the patchwork reddened flesh marked with tucks and puckers where the grafting had taken place, startled her. She shoved the offending hand back into her pocket.

“Please, Mom, I’m really not that hungry. Besides, Susie won’t eat all that they’ll give her anyway.”

It was a lame excuse and didn’t deceive anyone.

Susie had scrambled upright again, and crept over to her sister’s side. She pulled on Charlotte’s sleeve.

“I’ll stay with you, Char,” as though she were the baby-sitter and not Charlotte after all.

Clickety-clackety, clickety-clackety, Heswatchingoverme. The rails began to sing as the train picked up even more speed.

“Okay honey,” conceded her father with something of a sigh. “Stay with Susie. But your mother is right you know. You can’t keep your hand in your pocket forever. I know some people have been mean to you, and insensitive about how you feel. It’s been hard to ignore the stares and the whispers. But the fire and that burn and those scars didn’t suddenly make you less of a person. It’s not your hand that counts; it’s what’s in your head and in your heart.”

She was listening, but Mr. Thompson was sure she wasn’t hearing what he was trying to say. He gave up.

“End of speech. Just so you know how much we love you just the way you are.”

He leaned over and hugged both of the girls.

“We’ll be back soon,” he said, taking his wife’s arm to steady her as they headed down the narrow aisle that led from their bedroom through the coaches to the dining car. It was a long walk. They were at the end of the train.

Clickety-clackety, clickety-clackety, Heswatchingoverme, repeated the rails.

Charlotte sat still and quiet, as the soothing rhythm and swing of the train began to calm her. Her father might not have believed it, but she really had heard what he had said. It sounded right. But it felt so wrong. Then, a sharp tug on her sleeve and an impatient, “Char!”, broke through the wall of her thoughts.

Susie wanted to share the discoveries of her new world. She was fascinated by the buttons and levers that operated the ventilation system, the call button for the steward, the miniature sink, and the midget-sized bathroom. When she ran out of things to push, pull and exclaim about, Susie went back to the window. But it wasn’t long before the little girl grew tired of watching the scenery flash by. Even Charlotte was about to be lulled into thought-less sleep.

“Char, I’m hungry.”

She shook herself back to reality and big sister responsibility.

“Okay, let’s go down to the snack bar.”

“But I’m tired. You go.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I shouldn’t leave you alone, and besides how can you want to eat and sleep at the same time. That’s a contradiction.”

“A what?”

“Never mind, Sooz. It doesn’t matter. Can I trust you to stay here and not move a muscle until I come back. No matter what?”

Clickety-clackety, clickety-clackety, Heswatchingoverme, came the reminder from the tracks below.

The little girl nodded her head up and down slowly, as if she was struggling with a huge decision. She was. Susie wanted to go. It would be exciting to see more of this wonderful train. But all that excitement was just about to put her to sleep.

“You’ll come right back?”

“I’ll be right back. I promise. But you have to stay here, okay?”

Char wagged a finger at Susie, perfectly imitating their mother. Her little sister was already curled up in a corner of the compartment’s red leather seat. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. Charlotte was sure that at least one member of the family wasn’t going to be walking the aisles of the train for a little while.

She tucked a blanket around her sister, and then slipped through the curtain, letting it swish gently behind her. She decided to close the sliding door so that Susie wouldn’t be disturbed. There was no one else in the passageway. The sleeping cars were deserted during first call for supper.

Charlotte straddled the aisle trying to adjust to the swaying of the train. The clickety-clack was less noticeable out here. She’d have to go through this car, then two others, before she arrived at the snack bar. But they were all sleeping cars so she didn’t expect to meet anyone. She would need both hands to hang on while she rambled and rolled through the back end of the train.

It’s so ugly. I’m ugly.

She raised her injured hand to grasp a door handle as she reached the end of the car.

She pulled open the sliding door that separated the cars. The little square box between cars smelled fresh as outside air whistled through the cracks in the metalwork at her feet that marked where one car began and the other left off. As the sliding door glided closed behind her, she looked at the puckered checkerboard of scar tissue that snaked from fingers to wrist, and then disappeared underneath the sleeve of her jacket.

The doctor told me the scars would fade—sort of, someday. It doesn’t save me from the stares and whispers today. That new boy in class took one look and walked away. I was sure he was going to ask me to go to the fair with him. Mom said he wasn’t worth crying over. Dad said he was immature. Truth is, nobody wants to be seen with a cripple.

That morning it had happened again. When the Thompson family boarded the train a man had come hurrying out of the compartment beside theirs. He had almost run Charlotte in a race to get off the train, and then back on, before the trainman called “All aboard” for the last time. In the minor collision that resulted, some ash from his cigarette had fallen on her sleeve. Quickly she tried to brush it off and in doing so, had exposed her scarred hand to the stranger.

“Oh my!”

He had stared for long seconds at the raised welts, then turned away, muttering apologies.

“I hate this!” Suddenly aware that she had spoken out loud, she looked around to see if anyone had heard. She saw no one.

Clickety-clackety, clickety-clackety, Heswatchingoverme. The message from the rails knocked at the wall of self-loathing that barricaded her heart.

Charlotte knew that God had heard her. Since she had burned her hand she hadn’t talked to God much, except to complain. She knew she shouldn’t. But that didn’t seem to keep her from doing it anyway.

Where were you, God, on the day of the fire? I believed in you and you let me down. I hate being different from everyone else. I’m sick of explaining about the accident. I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me. No one sees ME, they just see this ugly hand. Dad keeps telling me that there is a reason even when I can’t see it. But why did you let this happen?

“Can I get you something, Miss?”

Startled, Charlotte looked up into a smiling black face. She had been so caught up in her thoughts that she had passed through the sleeping cars and arrived at the snack bar without even realizing it. The red-coated steward hovered, waiting for her request. She felt very grownup with all this undivided attention. She pretended to be her mother and chose responsibly—an egg salad sandwich to share and two apples. She paid the money, being careful to protect her hand from view as she counted out the right change. With the bag tucked under her arm Charlotte hurried back the way she had come. For the first time all day, there was a faint smile on her face. Eating on the train meant no dishes to do after supper.

Clickety-clackety, clickety-clackety, Heswatchingoverme, the rails called again.

Charlotte had passed through the first two sleepers, and was almost to the end of the second car, when she noticed something odd. There was a smell that hadn’t been there before. It was very faint, just a hint of something… like smoke.

It must be my imagination.

She pulled one set of doors open, crossed through the box that separated the cars and stopped outside the sliding door leading into the last car. She put her hand on the door. She looked around, then sniffed the air like a bloodhound separating scents in the breeze. Maybe the wind was blowing back the smoke from the engine. She peered through the small window in the door. It was black inside. Had it been that dark before? Charlotte slowly pulled on the door. It had only slid open a fraction of an inch, before she knew where the smell was coming from. Thin, wispy smoke trails reached out for her. She could feel heat on her face. She slammed the door shut, petrified.

Fire! There’s a fire in there somewhere. Sooz … Sooz is all alone.

The train raced on unaware, and for an eternity of seconds, the terrified teenager stood rooted to the spot. The song from the rails was blotted out by the jumble of words tumbling through her head.

What do I do? Run for help? Yell? Run to Susie. I can’t. I’ll get burned again. Was there something to pull? Did Sooz show me a cord to pull for emergencies? I’ve got to get to Susie, but how …

Clickety-clackety, clickety-clackety, Heswatchingoverme.

A door in her mind opened even while the sliding one stayed tightly shut. Something entered, and turned every inward thought of Charlotte’s, outward, leaving everything around her clearly focused.

There was a red emergency handle above her head, embedded in the side of the car right beside the door. She didn’t have to read the sign above it to know what it was for. She reached up and yanked the handle as hard as she could.

Clickety-clackety, clickethhhesssssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaavvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeessssss…

She could feel the train slowing, bumping and jerking as though it couldn’t make up its mind whether to stop or go. Somewhere far away someone applied the brakes. The sudden change in forward motion threw Charlotte off balance. She dropped the paper bag, scattering food across the passageway.

It took Charlotte what seemed like a million years to pull herself to her feet.

Somebody will come to help us soon.

She knew Someone was already there and she knew what He had prepared her for.

I can’t wait. I have to go now. I have to get Susie.

She flung open the door, pulled the bottom of her jacket up around her face covering her nose and mouth, and plunged into the deepening darkness of the corridor.

The acrid smoke brought tears to her eyes and temporarily blinded her. She felt her way along the passage desperately trying to remember what lay between her and the compartment where Susie was.

How many doors were there between the beginning of the coach and the end? Why didn’t I pay more attention to things around me instead of thinking so much about myself? If I had, I’d know how far I have to go.

She swayed back and forth, feeling her way, clutching at curtains, stumbling up a little step, not sure whether the train was moving or whether it was the smoke making her dizzy.

The coach seemed to go on forever. It was hot, but she didn’t dare take the jacket away from her face. If she lost it, the smoke would finish her off.

Charlotte reached out to grab a new handhold. A sharp, searing pain shot up her injured arm. She drew back, quickly falling to her knees. That wall was hot—hotter than the rest. The smoke seemed thicker here.

Oh Lord, help me. I have to get to Susie.

With superhuman strength, the teenager pulled herself along the floor. As she reached out, her hand struck a solid object. She slid closer, pulled herself up and realized, even light headed as she was, that she had come to the end of the train. The entrance to their compartment must be just back a little way over to the right.

She stumbled back a few steps, reached out for the door that she had closed when she had left Susie …

Thank you Lord for making me think to close the door.

… and fell through the curtains into the room. It was gray with smoke, but the pale light filtering through the car window revealed the still form of Char’s little sister. Just as she had promised, Susie hadn’t moved from the spot where Charlotte had left her. Char threw herself across the narrow space toward the little girl.

“Sooz, Sooz, wake up. WAKE UP! Please, Sooz, can you hear me? Susie …?

Then, even the little bit of light there had been, faded away.

________________________

“That hand’ll blister, Mr. Thompson. But she’ll be fine.”

Faces swam in front of her eyes, and voices faded in and out as Charlotte tried to focus, pulling herself back from wherever she had been. Four heads became two—one her dad’s, the other, a redheaded man in uniform. The sun was shining. She coughed and the man in uniform pulled a plastic oxygen mask away from her face, allowing her a gasp of real air.

“Susie?” She croaked out the word.

“Your mother has gone with her to the hospital. But she’ll be okay. She inhaled some smoke, but your quick action pulling the handle and alerting the crew made all the difference. And if you hadn’t closed the door to the compartment, well …”

The redheaded man’s admiration was plain. Charlotte pushed herself up.

“And the man next door?”

The trainman shook his head.

“Didn’t make it. He was smoking in his compartment and fell asleep. The cigarette caused the fire.”

The uniformed man moved away, leaving father and daughter alone. Mr. Thompson reached out and pulled Charlotte into his arms.

“Dad, I think I know the reason now.”

“Reason?”

“The reason why God let me burn my hand. He needed me to know what it was like so that I’d go and get Susie.”

“But weren’t you afraid?”

Char thought for a moment.

“A little. But God sent me a message and told me not to be.”

“A message? How did He send you a message?”

Mr. Thompson was sure that Charlotte was about to quote one of the many Bible verses that she had learned by heart in Sunday School. So when she said …

“Oh, He sent it by rail.”

… he didn’t know how to respond.

She looked at her scarred hand, and laughed.

“It’s toasted on both sides now”.

Her father was astonished. What had happened to the self-conscious, fearful, resentful girl of just a few hours ago?

“You won’t be able to use it for a while. Do you mind?

“I wasn’t using it anyway, just hiding it away. I think maybe it’s time it stopped hiding.”

Mr. Thompson squeezed Charlotte a little tighter.

“I’m not sure what happened here but I’m glad you are ready to wear your scars with courage.”

Charlotte rested, secure in the arms of both of her fathers—the human one and the heavenly one. Then …

“I won’t have to do dishes at grandma’s, will I?”


Lynda Schultz©February 2006

Charlie's Escape

A children's story this time, written back in 2006.

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 Willie took good care of all kinds of things. He cut grass, took out garbage, washed cars, went to the store, started supper before his parents came home from work and delivered his papers right to his customer’s doors, instead of throwing them into hedges like some kids did. Willie felt warm all over when people were happy with his work.

It wasn’t often that Willie had trouble taking care of all his jobs. In fact, he never had any problems at all until he agreed to take care of Charlie.

Charlie was Mrs. McFee’s parrot. She thought Charlie was very special, and wouldn’t leave him with just anyone. Actually, Mrs. McFee hardly ever got to go away just because she didn’t have anywhere she thought was safe to leave Charlie.

Willie delivered the paper to Mrs. McFee’s house. She was so happy with how well he did his work, that she asked him to look after Charlie while she went to visit her cousin in Minneapolis.

“I’ll only be gone for a week,” she said. “And, I’m sure that I can trust you to take care of my precious Charlie for me. He’ll be no trouble at all.”

On Friday afternoon, Mrs. McFee drove up to Willie’s and delivered the parrot. Charlie looked very peaceful, sitting quietly in his cage. Willie knew he had to take good care of the bird. Mrs. McFee trusted him.

After supper, Willie changed the water in Charlie’s dish, and gave the parrot a piece of banana. The boy stood beside the cage, just looking. Charlie looked back.

Willie’s dad came into the room. “You know, son, that bird looks mean. You’d better be careful how you handle him.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. He won’t be any trouble.”

Charlie did have an odd look in his eyes. But he seemed quiet enough.

And Charlie was quiet—until six o’clock on Saturday morning.

“F-e-e-e-e-e-e-,” screeched Charlie. Charlie liked to call Mrs. McFee’s name every morning just as the sun was coming up. And he kept hollering for a whole hour.

By the following Friday, Willie’s parents were getting a little upset with Charlie. The early morning screech was bad enough, but that wasn’t all Charlie did to make life difficult. Charlie also knew how to get out of his cage. How he did it was a mystery. He zoomed around the house as if he owned the place. The parrot loved to corner Willie’s dog, and refused to let her escape from under the couch until Willie lured him away with a piece of chocolate bar. Charlie didn’t do anything without expecting a reward, and chocolate was his favourite. During that week with Charlie, Willie used up almost his whole allowance buying chocolate bars for Mrs. McFee’s parrot.

Sometimes Charlie would sit quietly in his cage. But no one was fooled. The whole family knew that he was plotting some mischief. Charlie screeched and whistled. He bit. He upset his water dish, and threw his food all over the floor. There were moments when Willie wanted to wring that parrot’s neck. But he had to take care of the parrot or Mrs. McFee would be disappointed in him.

It was Friday afternoon. Charlie had escaped from his cage once more and Willie had just coaxed him onto the point of an umbrella using a piece of candy as bait. He held it just out of Charlie’s reach until the parrot stepped onto the umbrella. Then Willie slipped him into his cage and hooked the door closed.

“Whew. That should take care of you until Mrs. McFee comes home tonight,” he said to himself.

Willie went out to deliver the rest of his newspapers. The sky was dark. A few drops of rain began to fall, and off in the west he could see lightning flickering. He walked a little faster. Willie didn’t want to get his papers wet. His customers wouldn’t be too happy trying to peel open wet newspaper.

When Willie returned home, the sky was black. The lightning was much closer now. The house was strangely quiet. No screeching or whistling could be heard. Willie went to check the cage and what he found made him shiver. Charlie was gone.

Willie looked everywhere. The dog was sleeping peacefully. There was no mess on the floor to tell Willie where Charlie might have been. Nothing was out of place, except— Willie looked closely at the porch door. The bottom corner of the screen had been pulled away. The hole wasn’t very big, but it was big enough for a parrot to squeeze through.

The boy almost cried. Mrs. McFee would be coming home soon. If he lost Charlie, she’d never trust Willie again to take care of anything for her.

He searched every bush in the yard. He checked under the porch. Then, as he passed underneath the elm tree in the front yard, he heard the familiar cry, “F-e-e-e-e-e-e”. Willie looked up and there was Charlie, perched on the very end of the highest branch. Maybe there was still a chance to catch him.

Willie dug into his back pocket for a piece of chocolate and started up the tree. He didn’t even wait to throw off the big canvass bag he usually carried his newspapers in. He could only hope that Charlie didn’t move. So far, so good. The parrot just sat and stared. By the time he got to the top of the tree, Willie was scared. The limb of the tree bent under his weight. If the branch broke, or if Charlie flew away before Willie reached him, what would he do?

“Lord Jesus, help me not to be afraid. And make Charlie be good for a change,” he prayed.

Suddenly, Willie had a horrible thought. Even if he did catch Charlie, how would he ever get him down? He’d be doing well just to get himself down, much less a miserable, fighting, biting, screeching, flapping parrot.

“And please Jesus, get us back down on the ground okay.”

Charlie spread his wings, and the boy held his breath. The parrot settled back on the branch, watching his pursuer. Willie took a deep gulp of air and held out the piece of mushy chocolate.

“Here Charlie, come on, that’s a good bird”, he said as calmly as he could.

Charlie took a step towards Willie. He wanted that candy, but he was too smart to not know what was waiting if he tried to grab his reward. The parrot backed away.

Staying as close to the safety of the trunk of the elm as he could, Willie slowly slipped out of his jacket. Charlie watched every move, but this time he didn’t even twitch a feather.

There would be only one chance. If Willie missed, Charlie would be gone forever.

By now it was raining hard, and Charlie wasn’t happy about being wet. He ruffled his feathers and pulled his head down as close to his body as he could. For one second he looked away from the boy.

Swis-s-s-s-s-h, and the jacket was over the parrot’s head. Willie gently pulled the whole bundle into his lap. Charlie couldn’t fly away, and he couldn’t bite through the thick cloth. At least Willie hoped he couldn’t.

Willie slipped parrot and jacket into his paper carrier, and began the long climb down the tree. Until Mrs. McFee came, he didn’t let Charlie out of his sight for one second. He wasn’t going to lose the parrot a second time.

Later, as Mrs. McFee loaded Charlie into her car, she praised Willie’s good work until he turned red with embarrassment. He felt warm all over for a long time after Mrs. McFee and Charlie had driven away. Being trusted to do a good job was important to Willie, even when the job hadn’t been easy.

Something brushed his face, and he laughed as he looked up and realized what it was. One of Charlie’s feathers, caught somewhere up in the branches of the elm tree, had shaken loose. Willie tucked it into his pocket. He’d keep it beside his bed to remember Charlie by.

“Thank you, Lord Jesus.” And then he added, “And please, could you make Mrs. McFee’s cousin come here to visit the next time?”

Faith Measured in Bottles of Oil

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No one knows her name. Her story is recorded briefly, tucked away amidst epic battles and personal issues of life and death. Of what importance is a preacher’s widow, living in reduced circumstances, in the light of bigger news events?

But when your creditors are pounding down your door demanding that you turn over your children so that they can work off a debt; when you have nothing to offer in exchange for their servitude except a little oil in the bottom of a jar, it really is of little importance who’s fighting whom in some faraway conflict on a foreign battlefield. The immediate and the urgent take precedence over everything else.

The story is recorded for us in 2 Kings 4:1-7. The woman is the widow of one of God’s prophets. We aren’t told how the family got into debt. It wasn’t unusual for the time. In fact, Leviticus 25 gives the rules to be followed when a member of the community sold himself to another because he couldn’t provide for his family any other way. And whether it was the prophet’s own debt, now to be paid off by his sons, or debts that accumulated after his death as the widow tried to look after her family, we are not told. But she was in a desperate situation.

So the widow went to find the prophet, Elisha. She explained her problem. And she includes the statement: “Your servant my husband is dead, and you know that he revered the Lord” (4:1). Did she wonder if “revering” the Lord was enough, considering that the Lord her husband had revered had not protected her children from the possibility of indentured servitude?

Elisha asks: “what do you have in your house?” What little she may have had to pay off the debt was already gone. She replies: “your servant has nothing there at all...except a little oil” (4:2). The comment reminds me of the answer the disciples gave to Jesus when asked by the Lord to feed the crowd. What do you have? Nothing—a couple of fish and a few loaves of bread, but that’s not enough to feed all these people.

That all depends on who has his hands on the fish, and the bread, and the oil. And what happens to all these “few” depends on just how far the possessors of the “little” are willing to trust God. Elisha instructs the widow to collect all the jars in the neighborhood. He specifically tells her: “Don’t ask for just a few” (vs. 3). How far was this widow willing to go? She and her sons collected all the jars they could find and then shut themselves up in their house and went to work. Elisha’s instructions were to fill all the jars. We don’t know how many jars there were, but she filled them all, and she filled enough. And when the last jar was filled, that “little” bit of oil stopped flowing (vs. 6).

The story goes that the widow was able to sell all the jars of oil, pay off her debts, and still have enough to live on afterwards (vs. 7).

What would have happened if the widow had ignored Elisha’s instructions to collect the jars, thinking him crazy to suggest such a project? What would have happened if she had not collected all the jars, or if she had grown weary and decided not to fill them all?

Her complete faith, her unqualified obedience, her tenacity in not giving up in the face of a humanly impossible situation, provide us with huge lessons that we can learn. When our situation is desperate, when we only have a “little” or a “few”, when the pressure is on us and we don’t know what to do, God leaves a little story, in the middle of “bigger” stories, to remind us that faith exercised in absolute obedience will always be responded to by the Almighty God in whose hands we rest.

Tale of a Missionary Car

It wasn't quite this bad! (Google Images)

(Author's Note: This story came up in a Bible study I was leading this week, so I decided to post it on the blog today.)

A single candle flickered in the room, threatening to leave us in darkness as we prepared for bed. Chilling drafts crept in through cracks in the wall, the roof, and the partially opened door. Rain pounded down outside.

I lay shivering on a straw-filled mattress. What we had come to this community to do was not going to be easy. Fear and superstition in rural Colombia, South America made it difficult to explain the Gospel. How could an inexperienced team of Bible students break through years of deep-seated tradition?

It was during summer vacation in 1978, and I doing children’s ministry with some of my students from our Bible Institute. We had planned to offer the program in six churches—three in Medellin, a highly industrialized city of over a million people, and then three more in our rural churches.

My coworker Maria and I—plus Gustavo, our lone male team member, and two other students, headed out to a farming community about an hour outside of Medellin. Once we got off the main highway, the going got very rough. The path was filled with craters and jagged rocks that seemed destined to rip something vital off the bottom of my small car. We finally decided to get out and walk, leaving Maria to drive, in the hopes of lightening the load and avoiding any major damage.

When the path ran out, we were still some distance from the home where we would hold our program. Maria parked the car by a small schoolhouse on a hill just off the path. The school yard was about 10 feet above where the road ended. The car was out of sight. I was sure it would be safe enough parked away from the embankment with the doors locked and the brake on.

Our hostess Guillermina and her husband Efrain were poor tenant farmers. They entertained us royally with what little they had and they were so excited that we had come to tell their friends and neighbors about God’s love and forgiveness.

That afternoon we rounded up children from the neighboring farms and began our first kid’s meeting. It was late when we escorted them back to their homes. A house meeting was planned for the evening. The church people began to drift in one by one. Some had walked a long way. Because it was beginning to rain, the return trip home promised to be a wet one.

By the light of gas lanterns and with every bed and bench occupied, Gustavo delivered a stirring message from the Bible. Outside, the storm grew worse.

After the meeting, all us girls were glad to climb into our beds to escape the cold. The bedroom door wouldn’t shut, so I propped it closed with a box to keep out the worst of the draft. At last, Maria blew out the flickering candle and we settled in, seeking a little warmth against the dampness of the night.

I could hear someone talking on the porch outside. Suddenly the door flew open, sending the box crashing against the wall.

“Señoritas, señoritas!” Guillermina cried hysterically as she burst into the room and threw herself at the foot of the bed. “Forgive us!” It took some to get her calmed down enough to find out what we were supposed to forgive her for.

On the way back to their homes after the meeting, the Christians had found my car upside down in the middle of the path. Two tires had been slashed. The other two were flat. The gas line had been ripped out and some damage attempted to the motor. Earlier Gustavo had offered to sleep in the car for the sake of security, but it was too late for that now. What will we do? I wondered.

“Señorita,” our hostess continued, “we know who did this. Efrain is going out with his machete to punish them.”

Efrain, a new Christian, had once been notorious for his temper. Once again, anger had taken control. As our avenging angel he was now prepared to do battle.

“No”, I begged, “tell him to stay here. Murder is not God’s way of dealing with this.” Guillermina scurried out of the room after her husband.

Voices rose and fell outside the door. The four of us prayed that somehow God would prevent Efrain from this evil mission. Gustavo talked and prayed with him all through the night and our prayers were answered.

I shook uncontrollably as questions raced through my mind. How bad was the damage? How will we get back to Medellin? Why did this happen on the first night of six weeks of ministry? How will we do all the other clubs without the car? Was there worse to come?

Just hours before, I had congratulated myself that we had gotten the car this far without any damage. Now it was ruined.

As I lay there, God began to minister to me. Verses of His care and protection flashed through my mind. He reminded me that where the Spirit of God is, there is no room for fear, for “the angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them” (Psalm 34:7). There on that prickly mattress, peace returned. The car was His. Hadn’t I given it back to him when He first provided it? It was no longer mine, but HIS to do with as He pleased.

I fell asleep, thanking God and asking His forgiveness for my worry and fear.

The next morning, before we went back up the road to see the car, we had devotions together as a team. We prayed that God would glorify Himself through this situation. By the time we reached the school yard, a small crowd had already gathered. News travels fast, even in the remote, telephone-less hills of Colombia.

We answered the questions of all who passed, telling them about God and explaining to them why we had come here in the first place.

Our efforts at getting the car on its “feet” and back to town, accomplished with the help of La Unión’s battered fire truck, were closely watched and reported. As a team we resolved that we would stay, finish out our week, and not only talk about God’s love and forgiveness but prove it.

The meeting that night gave us the first glimpse of what the Lord was doing with His car. We were invited to hold our service in the home of a neighbor who wasn’t a believer. Strangers appeared at the door and the house was full to the rafters with people who had never heard the Gospel before. Curiosity had overcome fear. This amazing blessing would repeat itself every night during that week.

Colombians are very careful with their cars. Damage is swiftly repaired and keeping the car looking good is a “must”. But even after we returned to the city, I was reluctant to fix the car. Apart from the tires and the damage to the motor, both passenger and driver’s sides were crushed from being rolled down the embankment. This external damage provided us with endless opportunities to witness. At gas stations, stop signs and parking spots, people always asked what had happened. And when they asked, they received far more than just a “tale of a missionary car.”

With my limited understanding, I thought of the car as only a means of transportation from one place to another. But in God’s hands the car was to become an invaluable part of the missionary team, proving once again that He is always creative, always right and always faithful.

A Drawer Full of Crosses

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“I’ll be finished in an hour.”

That was my cousin, Susan. I’d spent every morning all during that week doing my devotions in her little cubbyhole of a home office. This particular morning she invited me to do my “meditating” at Galilee while she completed a couple of small jobs.

Outside of divine intervention, there should be no conceivable reason for Susan to end up at a spiritual retreat centre. She hates being dependent on anyone, even God. Nevertheless, even though she hasn’t admitted to needing to search for Him, God has sent out His posse after her.

Through the local, small town grapevine, Susan discovered that Galilee was looking for a painter. At the time, my cousin needed a job. She paints pastoral scenes, still life and portraits, so was more than qualified to paint walls, doors and woodwork.

The painting job turned into an administrative position. Personally, I think she runs the place: she lives and breathes Galilee.

She delights in telling me about the adventures involved in taking minutes when Galilee’s Board of Directors meets.

“I don’t speak Catholic,” she quips, explaining her difficulty in understanding the discussions buzzing around her.

She doesn’t “speak Catholic.” I am not sure she has ever gone to any church except to the chapel at Galilee when giving the required tour to guests — and to me, her “meditating” cousin. Considering the rather irreverent language in Susan’s vocabulary, I’ve often wondered how she’s managed to keep her job at the retreat centre. I suppose if God can shut the lions’ mouths, He is perfectly capable of shutting the ears of those who do “speak Catholic” so they don’t get offended by her speech patterns.

Before Susan sent me off to “meditate” — Susan doesn’t speak “Baptist” either, preferring a more generic “cover-all-the-possible-expressions-of-spirituality” kind of language — she showed me around the grounds and through the buildings.

Surrounded by stately trees, lush gardens and carefully tended grass, Galilee sits on a hill overlooking the Ottawa River. Since its conversion from a training facility for priests to a retreat centre, the doors have been opened to anyone looking for breathing space in their lives: Baptists, Buddhists, people wanting to get lost and others trying to find themselves. Galilee even welcomes neighbourhood dogs as long as “poop-and-scoop” is observed.

Susan carefully explained to me the effort that went in to painting the spiral staircase in the main hallway and the trouble the leather paneling snaking along the wall, caused her. Yes, you read correctly — leather paneling.

Everywhere there are reminders of religion. I wouldn’t have expected anything else in a place run by the Oblates. However, Susan thinks that non-Catholic people might be uncomfortable surrounded by religious objects. After all, some people try to find peace without connecting intimately with God.

So, she has a little campaign going. Susan’s trying to get rid of the crosses. She doesn’t want to burn them or bury them: nothing so crass. She respects everyone’s right to do religion his own way with his own “stuff.” Every one of the simple bedrooms, each one looking out through huge windows over the grounds toward the river, boasts a crucifix as its single ornament. My cousin believes that statues and crosses in the hallways and public rooms are fine. This is, after all, a Catholic Retreat Centre. However, she also believes that making guests comfortable at Galilee; providing non-Catholics and lapsed Catholics without distractions while they are “retreating,” should include giving everyone a generic bedroom, sans crucifix. She’s trying to convince the people in charge to put all the crosses in the dresser drawers: a sort of “out-of-sight-out-of-mind” theory.

I thought about how I would feel at Galilee if I were to seek to retreat there. Would I, a very serious, life-long Baptist, be offended or distracted by a crucifix in my room? It’s unlikely, though I was certainly impressed by the number of them around. However, the presence of the crosses has more significance for Susan than it does for me.

I wonder how many times in the course of a week she walks through those rooms. Susan holds Christ at arm’s length. She doesn’t know Him personally. Ten, fifteen, twenty times a day she sees a representation of Him, hanging on a cross to provide her with an eternal retreat. Perhaps one day, if she sees those crosses often enough, Susan will actually see beyond the object to the objective.

Lord, don’t let her put those crosses in a drawer.

Broken Dreams

Go again to that dark place
where freedom dies and life lies waste.
Consider there that time, now past,
when all alone you gazed aghast
at broken dreams, forlorn and bent
beneath your feet lay, shattered, spent.

Return once more to memory’s cove
where, snug and safe, a treasure trove
of gold and silver, safely hid
from evil’s touch and gambler’s bid.
Protected by a Father’s hand
who caused these dreams to ever stand.

Some will die, and others live.
It is the Father’s grace to give
the best to those who dream, and wait
for Him to choose which one to take
and weave into life’s broken heart
a thread of hope, that missing part.

Let fall behind those painful sparks
of dying dreams that now grow cold.
And look beyond their fading light
toward His promise, pure and bright,
of dreams set free, divinely blessed,
a Father’s gift, as always, best.

Lynda Schultz, © January 2006

It All Depends On Who's In Charge

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Soon. Too soon. I know you told me that you’d be with us, that we should be courageous and strong. I can hear your words ringing in my ears, reverberating through every sinew and muscle, sticking like Jordan’s muddy banks to my every sense. Nevertheless, it still feels like it’s too soon.

You took Moses too soon. I know, I know — he blew it at the rock, but I’d rather follow him than be the leader. After all, he was your friend, got closer to you than any man ever has. I hear that voice again reminding me about what you said: you’ll be with me just like you were with Moses.

I just feel that I will never be as close to you as he was, obey you as well as he did — the rock notwithstanding! I’ve never had that intimacy with you that he did. That’s my fault, I know. I’m sure not blaming you. I try to meditate day and night on your word, just like you said. It’s not easy to find the time or the energy with all these people at my heels.

When I think of all the things that could go wrong, I get a bad feeling. I told the people what you said, and they promised to do everything they were instructed to do. But, as soon as they said that they would obey me just as well as they obeyed Moses, I could feel the hair rising on the back of my neck. They think they are better than their fathers. You and I both know they aren’t. I know I’m not.

Then there’s the business with the prostitute in Jericho. I hope I didn’t make a mistake there. You told me not to spare anyone and now I have to live up to the promise that Micah and Judah made to that woman — and to whoever ends up sheltered in her house. She did take a lot of risks for them, and showed some strong faith in you. Still, I feel as though I’m already breaking the rules you made. How can you bless me, or these people, if I don’t do exactly what you tell me? I hope there are exceptions.

I’m a military man, not a diplomat, so who knows how many toes I trampled on issuing the orders to get us across the river. That WAS pretty amazing though. I remember the Red Sea parting, but not too many others do. Crossing the Jordan with the waters piled up before us was like déjà-vu for me. I still haven’t gotten over the big hoopla once we crossed. For the first time, I really felt that the people saw me as their leader, not just as a Moses stand-in. Now that I’ve reached that plateau, I’m not sure I want to be here.

I suspect your latest command brought me down a couple of rungs on the leadership ladder. That business with the circumcision took the stuffing out of most of the male population — quite literally! Boy, you sure do ask us to do some scary things. While the men were healing we could have been wiped out, easy pickings for any ten-year-old armed with a pick handle.

Well, here we are, facing Jericho. I sound confident, but my innards are churning. You told me to be strong and take the land you promised, and here I am thinking that the desert is beginning to look pretty good!

Wait, someone’s coming from the Jericho side.

“Who goes there? My men know better than to draw a sword in the presence of their commander, so you’re either suffering a lapse in judgment or, you are an enemy. Which is it?"

“It’s a good thing YOU don’t have your sword drawn then, isn’t it. I’m not one of your men, nor am I one of your enemies. Give your brain and your innards a break, Joshua, I have come as the commander of the Lord’s army.”

Get down, man! Get down. This is a Moses moment.

“My Lord, give me your orders.”

“Moses took his shoes off in my presence once; you do the same. I touched the ground you are standing on and it is now holy."

Forgive me; here I was thinking I was in charge of all this. It’s you; it always has been. Just as I was Moses’ servant, I am more than happy to be yours. Issue your orders, Lord: I’m ready now, whenever you are.

Mr. B

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When I was eight my heroes were Lassie and The Lone Ranger. That was before I met Joe Bonikowsky.

There wasn’t much to do in our little town. During the summer, I tagged along with my brothers doing whatever they did. That usually amounted to hanging around the drug store or the A & W, playing baseball or swimming in the river. In the winter, we donned skates or snowshoes. I tried to imitate Dave, Danny, Frank and Jimmy, but since I was the youngest, there were some activities which earned me the, “wait until you’re older” thing — including joining the local hockey team.

The undersized team bore the oversized name of: “The Temagami Timber Wolves.” Dad and I went to every practice and to all the games to cheer the boys on. Archrivals, Latchford and Haileybury killed us on the ice, but nobody in the crowd yelled as loudly as we did.

I first met Mr. Bonikowsky at the rink. He was an old man then. Of course, everyone is old when you are nine. He’d worked in the bush for most of his life, cutting trees and hauling logs. Now, he did odd jobs at the rink. He must have slept there because no matter what time of the day or night, Joe Bonikowsky was always around; changing light bulbs, repairing the wooden benches we warmed during the practices and games, or picking up Juicy Fruit wrappers and empty root beer cans.

Sometimes Dad couldn’t get away to watch my brothers play. I’d go to the rink by myself, and Mr. B would often come and sit beside me. He never said much. I didn’t either, but he seemed to know how much I wanted to be on the ice playing hockey, not just watching it, or cheering on my team.

Then when I turned ten, I got my big break. The Temagami Timber Wolves ran out of players. Like I said, Temagami is a REALLY small town. The season had just begun and the right-winger recruited from the Reserve took a check into the boards and broke his wrist. The coach didn’t have any choice but to let me try out. He wasn’t happy about it; neither were the rest of the kids, including my brothers. However, faced with the possibility of losing an entire season and the long-awaited chance at revenge against the other teams from the neighbouring towns, they swallowed their objections. Mom was in shock, imagining my broken body carried out on a stretcher. Even Dad was a little worried.

But I made it. All those winters playing street hockey with my brothers was paying off.

Coach called the house with the news. I was to start in Saturday’s game against the Haileybury Hurricanes. I was thrilled — and suddenly terrified.

On Friday afternoon, I walked over to the rink. No one was there except Mr. Bonikowsky. He was throwing sand around the front entrance. The snow there had melted and then frozen and it was slippery.

“Gonna play tomorrow, eh?”

“Yup.”

“Scared?”

Was it that obvious? I had grabbed a star, didn’t know exactly what to do with it, and hoped it wouldn’t show.

“A little.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Everyone thinks I’ll fail.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Gotta have faith.”

“In God?”

I went to Sunday School, but we never talked in class about God’s interest in hockey. I figured He was more concerned with Saturday night baths — you know, “cleanliness is next to godliness” — than Saturday’s Hockey Night In Canada game on television.

“Wouldn’t hurt none. But you gotta have faith in you too.”

“Do you have faith in me?”

“Sure.”

He seemed to sense my doubts so he added:

“You’ll see tomorrow.”

The next night I waddled to the rink behind my brothers. I’d put all my gear on at home. The boards thumped underneath my skates as I made my way down the hall past the home team’s dressing room. Then I saw it. To the left of the dressing room there had been a broom closet. The buckets, brooms, and cleaning cloths were gone, leaving a wooden bench and a peg nailed to the wall. The sign “Cleaning Supplies” was missing from the door. Replacing it, written in crude but large letters was: “Helen’s Dressing Room.”

Mr. B. had proven his faith in me. The first girl to play in the area’s juvenile hockey league was here to stay, and I had a champion.