Forever Beginning

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“Grandpa? Grandpa? You okay?”

Joey peered around the corner of the doorway. The groans that had called him away from his play had also sent a tingle of fear up his young spine. The sun had climbed down from its midday heights and now streamed through the windows that looked west across the garden.

“Grandpa?” Once more came the question, this time as a plea.

The boy used to play in the sunroom where his grandfather now lay, stretched out on the daybed. However, since his last heart attack, the old man now occupied the room. The stairs to the bedrooms on the upper floor just took too much effort.

The boy eased into the room. Finally, love overcame fear, drawing Joey closer to the prone figure. He reached out a tentative hand. His parents had told him that his grandfather might not be with them much longer. The family visits had become more frequent. The adults meant to reassure him with such frank talk, but every grunt and groan now filled him with terror.

At Joey’s touch, the old man seemed to rouse himself. He rolled over, squinting at the bright light forming a halo around his grandson’s figure.

“Joey? That you, laddie?”

“Yah, grandpa. I heard you groan, and I thought, well, I thought, …” The boy’s voice trailed away. How could he mention death to a man he wanted to live forever.

The old man chuckled, pushing himself to a sitting position. He took a moment to catch his breath after the effort, then pulled the boy into the sheltered gap between his knees.

“You thought I was dying when you heard the groaning. No, I was just complaining to the good Lord.”

At the boy’s puzzled look, the old man laughed again. “Guess I’d better explain. You go to Sunday School so you know about creation, don’t you?”

Joey nodded.

“Well, things were good back then at the start. Everything was just the way God wanted it. And then…”

Now into the story, Joey was eager to show what he knew.

“Then Adam and Eve ate the apple.”

His grandfather smiled. “Well, it might not have been an apple, but you got the rest right. When those two sinned, the whole world started to die, and it’s been dying by bits and pieces ever since. But just like me, it’s not going quietly.”

By this time, Joey had climbed up on his grandfather’s knees, and then thought better of it as the old man winced. He began to wiggle his way down.

“No, stay. It’s okay. Remember you were telling me about earthquakes and all them plates rubbing together and causing the ground to shake?”

Grandpa’s ears provided fertile soil for the seeds of learning that Joey was accumulating. He was pleased that his grandfather remembered, and smiled in acknowledgment.

“Well,” continued the old man, “those plates bumping, grinding, and rubbing each other are like my knees—they’re telling anyone who’ll listen that the pieces don’t fit right anymore. And when things don’t work like they’re supposed to, they complain.”

“You sure complain a lot,” observed Joey.

His grandfather looked at him in mock surprise. “Who, me?” He laughed, then said, “What does your mommy do when you complain about being sick?”

“She does stuff to make me feel better,” replied the boy.

“Sure. She lets you stay home from school, gives you medicine, and fills you full of red Jell-O®. Well, God’s doing stuff to make me, and the earth, feel better too.

“But, you’re gonna …” Joey’s voice trailed off again.

“Die? Sure.” He hugged the boy close, feeling his anxiety. “At the start everything was good. Now it’s all coming to an end, dying from sin. To get back to the beginning we have to get past the end. The end is where the beginning starts all over again. Dying is an end God planned so that He could fix things, to give us a new beginning, to make us like we once were.”

“Can’t I come with you?” protested the boy, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Not now But, I’ll tell you what; I do know how you can get ready to come, not just for a visit, but to live a beginning that never ends with me and Jesus. Do you want to know how?”

Joey gravely nodded his head.

As the gathering darkness seeped across the tiles of the sunroom, Grandpa’s forever beginning dawned in a little boy’s heart.

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The Quiz

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When we entered the classroom, our New Testament professor was sitting, perched on the edge of the desk like a falcon anticipating lunch. The slight smile did not bode well for us—he never smiled, at least not in class. There was a piece of paper, face down, on each desk. The dreaded surprise quiz waited like irresistible bait.

“Start now,” he instructed, after we had all taken our seats.

I turned my paper over. After a quick scan, I realized that the questions were based on quotes from the Gospels. We were to decide whether Jesus’ demands on His listeners were too hard, or too soft.

Come follow me…and I will make you fishers of men.

Sounds easy, except these guys and their families survived on real fish. How did they imagine they would support their families? I’d be more than a little concerned under the same circumstances.

I checked the square that read “too hard.”

Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.

The Jews must have loved this one, considering the Romans were walking all over them. I’ll bet the fellow the Good Samaritan helped didn’t take his robbery lying down—well, not at first anyway. I might let someone hit me once, but twice. No way.

I marked another “too hard.”

Whoever wants to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be the slave of all.

They probably thought that was a good deal—for the other guy. I don’t mind helping out but I don’t do “door mat.”

Another “too hard.”

My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations.

Well, the whip might have been a little excessive. Maybe prayer meetings in Jesus’ day weren’t down to a few little old ladies like they are today. Prayer is kinda passé. Okay, so cheating the visitors wasn’t exactly kosher, but I mean, what’s wrong with a few bake sales and bingos? Gotta get money into the church somehow.

I checked the fourth “too hard.”

Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; a man’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.

I wonder if He was talking to Judas? He couldn’t have meant the others ‘cause they didn’t have anything anyway. After all a little nest egg, and a nice house in the burbs isn’t bad, is it? A car, and maybe … Nah, the normal stuff wouldn’t lead to greed.

I nibbled on the end of my pencil. The quiz was simple. So far, everything was too hard. Jesus must have been exaggerating for emphasis, overstating His case to get the attention of His listeners.

I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.

The guy was a thief, and he started out by insulting Jesus, just like his buddy. Nope, I’d make him work a little harder, maybe sweat a little, before I’d give him paradise.

I put a heavy, emphatic mark beside “too soft.”

The work of God is this: to believe in the one he has sent.

Believing isn’t work. It’s easy—sort of. You gotta do stuff too.

I checked a second “too easy” though I wasn’t quite so sure on this one.

As I have loved you, so you must love one another.

Okay, there’s love and there’s love. He wouldn’t expect us all to die for Him, would He? Not literally. Mind you, just about all the disciples did. But that was then, and this is now.

I put down a definite “too hard.”

“Put your pencils down,” instructed the professor. “I know I usually ask you to pass your papers to the person next to you before we go over the correct answers. But I’m not going to do that this time. I want you to take your papers home, read through the quotes again carefully.”

He began to pass out copies of the same quiz as he continued speaking.

“Reconsider your answers and pray over them. Then do the quiz again. Tomorrow I want you to come back to class prepared to tell us what you discovered. What adjustments in your thinking have to be made in order for you to bring your life more into line with Jesus’ words and example?”

Something told me the homework would be the real test.





Matthew 4:19
Matthew 5:39
Mark 10:43, 44
Mark 11:17
Luke 12:15
Luke 23:43
John 6:29
John 13:34

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Looking For Mittens

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I raced up the stairs, took a sharp left turn at the landing, and flung myself on the bed. The springs creaked. The little bounce was reassuring as the bed reacted to my slight weight. It was time for a few hours of uninterrupted reading on a Sunday afternoon.

Was it spring, or fall? Memory fails after all these years. It was cold; that much I do remember. The window was closed and a light rain spattered against the glass. I settled in for my read.

Normally anyone’s adventures would be enough to hold my attention against all other time snatchers. This afternoon was different.

A sound, foreign to the creaks of the springs, the squeaks of the stairs and the occasional clicking on and off of the furnace, niggled at the back of my mind. I tore myself away from a hero pursuing a heroine across the seven seas and listened more intently to the real world.

It sounded like scratching. That’s it, I thought, a tree branch making friendly with the window, egged on by a matchmaking wind. I went back to my book. A half a paragraph later, I stopped reading.

Can’t be a branch. There isn’t any tree outside my window.

Logical. I got up from the bed and took the one-and-a-half steps to the window.

It must be a wire from the line that runs to the top of the house from the street.

I studied the situation with all the wisdom of an almost teenager. The wires looked fine and nothing seemed to be rubbing. In fact, I couldn’t hear the sound anymore. I went back to my book.

Just moments later the scratching returned. I stopped to listen, trying to determine where the sound was coming from. It stopped. I read. It started. I stopped reading. I got up from the bed to hunt for the sound. It stopped. I went back to the bed and to my book. The scratching started up. We led each other a merry dance for a good while.

Be quiet and just stay still and listen. Don’t move. It’s not outside, it’s inside, and it’s in this room.

The room was small and I knew that eventually I’d find the source of the scratching. It stopped when I made noise, so if I was quiet I could follow the sound to that source—I hoped.

It’s not coming from under the bed, from the night table or the bookshelf. The dresser is the only other place. Can’t be that. What would be making a noise in the dresser?

I tiptoed over to the dresser. No scratching. However, this time I stood still, frozen in place, and waited.

There!

The sound was coming from the second drawer of my dresser. I was the coward who never came up the stairs without switching on the light first. I was the wimp who checked behind the doors and under the bed for bogeymen. I cautiously eased the drawer open inch by inch; afraid of what monsters might be hiding there.

This “monster” was fat and had stripes—Tiger.

Three little kittens, They lost their mittens …*

I might have been willing to sacrifice my mittens, but I wasn’t prepared to let Tiger use my sweaters as receiving blankets. I still haven’t discovered how a pregnant cat found a big enough hole in the back of my dresser to crawl through. There was no way she could have gotten in the front way without me seeing her. However she did it, Tiger was now happily snuggled into my sweaters in preparation for impending motherhood.

“Mom!” I yelled, as I grabbed the cat.

We had carefully prepared a comfortable maternity suite for Tiger in the basement. Of course, that wasn’t her choice. For being a feral cat brought up in a barn, she still recognized the luxury of life in my sweater drawer.

The next morning, I went down to see how nature was taking its course. Tiger was hard at work.

I raced up the basement steps.

“Mom, there’s one.”

I ran down the basement steps, then yelled again from the bottom: “Mom, there’s two.”

Finally, all the kittens were safely delivered. I think I was more exhausted than the new mother. After all, I was the one running up and down the stairs.

Now I remember; it was Easter, the obvious time to celebrate new life. Tiger and I certainly did.



*Mother Goose Nursery Rhyme, Author Unknown

From Where I Sit...

MMS (Google Images)

A timeless sea calls my name.
The bow of a great ship cuts through the waves
As distant shores recede.
A plume of smoke
Heralds the appearance of a cutter,
Her Majesty’s royal navy approaches
To relieve me of my gain,
Ill-gotten though it may be.

The swelling tide resolves into clear blue sky
And I take to the air,
The controls of the biplane jammed between my knees.
The Baron hovers at my left
Ready to blow my wooden craft to splinters.
His mirthless smile fades
As I barrel roll right
To live, and to conquer, some other day.

I gently land upon a grassy field
Where timeworn hovels circle round.
The steed is now with mane and hoof possessed
And calmly waits outside a door.
Inside, a gentle damsel, in clean though tattered dress,
Receives a heartfelt plea.
The lord of the manor woos a peasant girl,
Love knows no class, no man-made boundary.

Then, transported once again,
I stand before a stern-faced judge
To plead a case.
Life or death is his to command, and mine to stay.
Words flow like molten glass:
Suggesting, explaining, convincing,
As twelve solemn souls reflect
On my eloquent logic and undeniable wisdom.

The roof opens, revealing starry heavens,
As I soar away to strange planets and distant moons.
A universe invites my curiosity, challenges my understanding,
And stretches my imagination.
Who could invent such creatures? Or such creations?
Nevertheless, I will follow,
Willing crew in an improbable starship
On an impossible voyage.

The Milky Way becomes a human tide
Of people broken and in pain.
Masked and gowned, I
Bend to their needs, bow to their grief,
And batter at the gates of disease and death.
They do not relent
But defeat me in the end:
Though not forever.

For at last, not limited by human imagination,
I am liberated by Divine Truth,
And see myself as I truly am;
The “before” and “after,” sovereignly crafted,
Still in the state of becoming
The completed work upon which He writes.
Here, I am the true heroine and he, my Knight.
The sequel is yet to come, the end already revealed.

From where I sit
There are no limitations, boundaries, or walls.
Only here is it possible to become
A pirate sailing in the Spanish Main,
Or a pilot facing some mortal foe in a brutal war.
From where I sit, I am transformed,
Becoming that gentle lass
With her noble lover on bended knee.

From prosecutor at the bar, to pursuer of the heavens,
Changing to healing hands with noble cause,
Then, wonderfully, renewed by Grace’s words.
Hear me now, and see my joy.
Feel my satisfaction and sense within me,
The delight which is only found
Here, where I sit, as I read
From the pages of a book.

---

From Rags to Raikes

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“Wretched urchin. Move for your betters!”

Sam pulled his cap down far enough to hide his eyes as he stepped into the gutter to let the elegantly dressed gentleman pass by. He didn’t want the man to see his disgust.

I ain’t no urchin. I’ll wager I works mor’an you do.

The boy-man clutched his lunch bucket with a tighter grip. He was coming into Covenant Garden Market. Even a poor boy like him was a target for the snatchers. The tightly packed crowds made it impossible to tell whether a strange hand was in his pocket or if he was just being jostled by the mob filling the streets. Sam noted that there was a copper on the corner looking to catch a hapless soul in the act of relieving some innocent of his wallet or watch fob while he was stopped to watch the Punch and Judy show. Justice in 18th century England was harsh. Newgate Prison was an ever-present reality. Sam knew children who had been transported to the colonies for stealing a loaf of bread. He’d hung around in the gallery of the courthouse and heard the ominous words:

“The law is, that thou shalt return from hence, to the place where thou camest, and from thence to the place of execution, where thou shalt hang by the neck till the body be dead! dead! dead! and the Lord have mercy upon thy soul”.

Sam’s father had been the condemned.

He sidestepped around a mercer’s sign swaying drunkenly above him as the famous London winds picked up.

Fallin’ soon that’un is.

He dismissed an errant though. The gentleman who had just shoved him aside would be well served to have the rotten wood fall on his head the next time he ventured here. The market was ripe with diverse smells fighting for supremacy. Fresh bread battled rotting fruit. The fragrance of violets occupying the flower stalls competed with the pungent offal covering the cobblestones.

A carriage rattled by, its wheels spattering passers-by with something brown, wet, and unpleasant. A washerwoman shook her fist at it, railing at its occupants as she rubbed in vain at the spots on the sheets she was delivering to a client.

It was getting late. The vendors were packing up their wares. Sam’s mother was waiting at home. He hoped for some black bread and a bit of soup. The meagre wage he earned at the factory barely put food on the table.

Six days a week, 12 hours a day, Sam worked. The market, so noisy to the rich folk from St James, seemed quiet to him even at the height of its busiest day. The pounding and clanging of the machines in the yarn factory would literally deafen him someday. Every bone rattled in its socket, every nerve jumped to the beat, making awful music on his mind as he laboured for enough to keep him and his mother alive.

Sam entered a narrow alley. He walked, his body hugging the crumbling walls, watching his step so as not to fall into the rancidity of the gutters. The unwitting walked in the middle, often getting the contents of someone’s chamber pot dumped on them from an upper level window for their trouble. He headed toward a narrow staircase at the end of the street. Wearily, he climbed it, greeting neighbours as he went. He reached the third floor. At his push, the door opened into a small room, lit only by a stub of a candle on a wooden table. The smell of turnip and potato greeted him. There was soup tonight. The end of a loaf sat beside his plate and the kettle whistled on the hob.

He shared his day with his mother.

“Be you goin’ tomorry, Sam?”

Sam barely knew the name of Robert Raikes. He only knew that some rich toff thought that educating the poor and teaching them moral values would help keep them out of jail. History would dub this philanthropist and publisher, the father of the modern Sunday School. Each Sunday morning Sam went to Mrs. Peachtree’s house, one of “Raikes’ Ragged Schools”, where he learned to read and write with the Bible as his textbook. In the afternoon, after reading his lesson, he went to church. He learned more about the God his mother often named, but whose nature and purposes were so foreign to a boy from the slums of London.

Sam remembered his father.

“Sure, Ma, I be goin’”.

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

Mala Praxis

This story is true. 

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Some animals, like their human counterparts, are born to trouble.

Patches came to us under difficult circumstances. I was spending the summer overseas working with a team of young people who had come to do youth work in the city. My plan was to return permanently after raising sufficient financial support.

A couple of days before the team left, a group of the teens went down to the common area of the apartment where I was living to spend some time with the local kids. When they returned they brought with them a muddy coloured kitten, small enough to fit in my hand. They had rescued the poor creature from some kids who were tossing it back and forth as though it were a ball.

What was I to do? They were leaving and couldn’t take the kitten with them. No one had any idea where its mother was. Certainly we couldn’t return it to the plaza for the kids to further abuse. I offered to take the kitten if one of my colleagues would look after it until I returned.

A year later, I was back. The kitten, now called Patches because the “mud” colour had eventually developed into a very pretty combination of black, orange, and white, became mine.

Patches was not a friendly cat. Who could blame her considering her start in life. She disliked people, tolerating their presence—barely. She wouldn’t sit on my lap, or purr. She refused to allow anyone to pick her up.

When the time came for her to be spayed, I took her to a nearby vet. After all these years, I can’t remember who recommended this particular doctor but Patch was destined to suffer once more at the hands of a human.

I picked her up at the doctor’s the day after the surgery. The vet sternly told me that I would have to change the cat’s bandage twice a day. The wound had to be washed and sterilized with an antibacterial agent. She handed Patch back to me. The cat’s body was wrapped in a huge white bandage.

When I was a kid we had a family cat—a feral that came and went as she pleased. We never took her to a vet and never had her spayed. Lacking any experience with vets, I had no idea that this one probably got her license to practice out of a cereal box.

Later that first day, I tried to catch Patch. The bandage had to be changed. The cat was not planning on cooperating. To my horror, I realized that the bandage was sticky. It was stuck to Patch’s hair—all the way around her body. There was no way it was going to come off.

I called in a couple of friends. Would they be willing to hold Patch down while I tried to get the bandage off? They agreed. I’m sure they repented of that madness soon after we began what was to be not only traumatic for all concerned, but downright dangerous.

Patch fought tooth and claw. She wiggled like an eel, refusing to allow us to cover her eyes (they say it works for a frightened horse) and there was no way to explain to her how necessary the process was.

The bandage would not come off. It was stuck for life.

Scratched, bitten, and bleeding, we finally concluded that the only thing we could do was to cut it off. That meant cutting Patch’s hair off all the way around her body. She wasn’t going to lay still for that either. How do you tell a cat that lying still is a smart move when a stupid human is using a sharp object to cut Elastoplast® off her body?

Eons seem to pass before the bandage was removed. Patch looked like she had been the loser in a run-in with a lawnmower with a dull blade. If looks really could kill, I’d have been dead ten times over. She wouldn’t come near me for days.

Antibiotics? Another bandage? Not a chance. I tried making a cloth diaper to cover the incision, a dumb idea, which quickly went out the window with the roll of Elastoplast®.

The body healed exactly as the Divine Creator of cats had planned it to do since before the beginning of time—without my “help.” Patch eventually learned to purr and in her last weeks of life, she sought out my lap.

And I never went back to the cereal box vet.


Note: Mala Praxis means malpractice.