Not Today, Maybe Tomorrow

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Sheila gently laid the photo album on her Aunt Mary’s lap. It had been a while since she had visited with the last of her mother’s siblings. Time and distance conspired to keep them apart. But a 100th birthday didn’t happen ever day, so Sheila put everything else aside to be at Riverdale for the celebration.

Frail hands, veins standing out and marked with age spots, caressed one of the photos on the first page of the album.

“That was 1911, the year I was born. That’s my mother.”

Sheila moved closer. Aunt Mary’s hearing wasn’t very good anymore.

“They didn’t smile much for photos, did they?”

Mary harrumphed, as she said, “Mother wasn’t a very happy person at the best of times. Ten children before me and all the farm work too—just about wore her to death.”

She turned the page. The photo of a handsome young lad in a military uniform stared up at them.

“Was that one of your brothers?” Sheila asked, hoping to encourage more memories. “Some of them were in the First World War, weren’t they?

Mary thought for a moment before she answered: “No…at least I don’t think so, though…well, it might have been Charlie…but…oh, I don’t remember…” Her voice trailed off. Mary’s hand stopped over the picture, resting on it as though waiting for an answer to magically flow from the thick cardboard into her mind. Sheila could see the struggle to remember on her aunt’s face.

“It’s okay, Aunt Mary, it’s not important.”

The older woman looked up, meeting Sheila’s gaze and pinioning it with the icy blue of her own. “It IS important,” she retorted, frustration and a touch of anger adding an edge to her usually calm tones. Immediately her eyes went back to the photo.

“It was Charlie, not my brother, but my mother’s younger brother. He went away and never came back,” she said. It was as though that moment of pique had chased the fog away. She turned the page and reached out to stab a more modern photo with a long, boney, arthritic finger.

“That’s Emma, my sister.”

“My mother,” said Sheila.

Mary looked up again as though seeing Sheila for the first time.

“You were away for a long time, weren’t you? Where was it…Africa?”

“Japan, Aunt Mary. I was there for twelve years.”

“Yes, of course,” her aunt replied.

There had been a time when her visits with her aunt had resulted in hours of questions about Sheila’s life and experiences. Mary kept every letter, writing her questions in cramped handwriting in the margins so that she wouldn’t forget what she wanted to ask the next time her niece came. Now the questions wouldn’t come and the answers didn’t matter.

“Have you heard anything from Edith McKay? I haven’t had a letter from her in a long time. Has she called you?”

Sheila smiled to herself. In her latter years Aunt Mary had begun to collapse time in her mind and think of her niece as one of her peer group, another one of the “girls” like Edith, Mary’s best friend from her younger days.

“Edith died several years ago, Aunt Mary,” Sheila said.

The older women looked puzzled for a moment. Then, as her brow cleared, she nodded slowly. “Yes, of course,” she replied.

Sheila decided it might be time to press her aunt a little. What kind of present do you get for a woman about to celebrate 100 years of life?

“What would you like for your birthday, Aunt Mary?”

This time Mary didn’t hesitate. “What I want I think I’m going to have to wait for,” she answered. Sheila knew that her aunt loved to go out for drives through the countryside and, thinking that perhaps the other nieces had some special outing planned, she asked: “And what might that be?”

“I want to go home.”

Her cousins had assured Sheila that their aunt had made the adjustment from her apartment to the seniors’ home with relative ease, so she was surprised that her aunt would be so adamant about leaving Riverdale.

“Don’t you like it here? Don’t they treat you well? It’s almost as good as the apartment and you don’t have to cook, or do your own laundry.”

The older women straightened with an effort. For the first time during the visit, there was a twinkle in her eye, certainty in her voice, and not a wisp of fog to be seen.

“The apartment isn’t the home I was thinking of.”

Living in Two Worlds

Note: This article is a little different than the posts usually assigned to "Daisies..." but here it is, from 2009.

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“Elijah went before the people ad said, ‘How long will you waver between two opinions? If the Lord is God, follow him; but if Baal is God, follow him’” (1 Kings 18:21).

There is nothing worse than not being able to make up your mind—except maybe when you try to avoid making a choice and attempt to live in two worlds at once. If there is anything to be learned from Israel’s example (which is why the Lord left it recorded for us) it is the impossibility of living between worlds or in both worlds, and pleasing God.

God told John to inform the leader of the church in Laodicea of this: “I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth” (Revelation 3:15, 16). Some things in life require compromise—but faith isn’t one of them, commitment to the Lord isn’t one of them, walking in His ways isn’t one of them. When it comes to God, it is all or nothing. The repercussions of halfheartedness are unpleasant. Being spit out of God’s mouth like something spoiled that tastes bad, is not likely to be an enjoyable experience. God goes on with His message through John to point out that these believers were apparently unaware of their condition—they thought they were fine. I shutter because this condemnation so closely parallels the thinking of so many believers and churches today. He writes: “You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing. But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked” (3:17).

The Lord isn’t talking about material things here, but spiritual wealth. North Americans are blessed with a surfeit of “things” provided in our religious world that make us feel good about ourselves. When we feel good, we think we are spiritually well. But the passion for pursuing God, for knowing Him, for seeking His face, for following Him no matter what the sacrifice, for putting Him foremost above everything else, is often strangely absent in the church and among believers. If it were not, the world would be a different place. We look good, but how close do we come to the Lord’s accusation directed at the Pharisees: “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men’s bones and everything unclean. In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness” (Matthew 23:27, 28). The sad part is that this Pharisaical movement began as an effort to correct the spiritual drift away from God. It ended up paralleling the path of the legalists of today who put more stock in looking good than being good, in conforming rather than reforming.

When I examine my own life, I look good. But I know my own heart, at least a little. I know how weak my faith is, how impatient I am, the words that I think and sometimes say out loud that shouldn’t cross my mind let alone my lips. Yes, temptation is an ever present threat and I shouldn’t beat myself over the head when I am exposed to it. But, it is my choice to yield, and I so often do exactly that in spite of “looking” good on the outside. I know that as I pursue God and know Him better, I understand how little I do know Him and how little my heart models His, even when my life seems to do so. I can easily deceive myself into thinking I am rich in spiritual things, only to discover in the light of His Word just how poor I really am.

John goes on to write: “I counsel you to buy from me the gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear, so you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see” (3:18). I am fascinated by this picture. It reminds me that the pursuit of God begins with repentance. This too is a lost value. How many testimonies have a heard of those who have made a profession of faith without mentioning a word about repentance. The two are joined at the hip—you can’t have one without the other. Faith requires an acknowledgment of the reason for its existence and its necessity. And repentance doesn't stop at that first-time visit to the cross. The Lord tells John that repentance is the first step to restoration and renewal. He invites us to come and buy what we need from Him, the price already paid with the coin of the cross, in order to know God as He knows us—intimately. In Him is healing. In Him are the riches of abundant, fruitful, righteous life, and the hope of eternal glory.

Then comes the capstone: “Those who I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest and repent” (3:19). In other words, choose who you will serve. Get off the fence. Stop trying to live in two worlds, or worse yet to live in the other world. Accept the rebuke and the discipline with a humble, repentant heart. God loves us, otherwise He wouldn’t bother to invest so much in us. Isn’t that the essence of love, to work for the benefit of another regardless of the cost to oneself? The Father, through the Son, modeled that love all the way to cross and beyond. From before the beginning of time, God’s desire was to restore the creation He knew would be lost and work in it until it once more bore His image. Romans 8:28 bears this out when Paul says: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose…to be conformed to the likeness of his Son.”

The verse that follows in Revelation 3 is one we often direct at those who do not believe. In this context it is directed at those who have made a profession of faith, to the church, but to a lukewarm one sitting on the fence trying to live in two worlds. “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me” (3:20). The Lord wants to be, in fact not just in name, the Lord of our lives. But as long as we choose to be lukewarm, he remains on the outside, persistently knocking, disciplining us, in an effort to get us to open the door in repentance and commit ourselves to Him. He brings the banquet with Him.

What scares me most is the picture of Jesus knocking at the door of His own church. We have thrown Him out, however inadvertently, in the name of compromise for the sake of being “relevant,” in the mistaken belief that we can live in two worlds and get the best out of both of them, in the delusional state that we don’t really have to choose who we serve. And He, the Head of the church, stands on the outside patiently waiting.

Joshua declared that he and his household had chosen to serve God (Joshua 24:15). Elijah called on Israel to choose who they would follow. Churches need to corporately choose whose light shines from their windows. We choose, and daily renew our vows to the Master we are committed to following.

If anyone hears, open the door. Please open the door and choose wisely.

Kitties Come Home

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January arrived and the bitter winter settled in for the long haul. Night came early and with it a gnawing need.

The male slipped out from under the naked shrubbery and wound his way around the southern end of the garage where the snow wasn’t quite as deep. He paused. The street was asleep but inbred caution demanded that he be sure no threat existed.

Inspection completed, he padded softly across the freshly shoveled driveway. Wide-open spaces made him nervous. A security light flickered on, startling him. He paused for a split second, then skittered away, belly brushing the snow, until he reached the pine trees beside the walkway. The lower branches were weighted down with snow, providing a shelter near the base of the trees. A sudden gust of wind stirred the wind chimes on the porch of the house, breaking the silence.

The tom’s breathing settled as the light switched off. However, he kept his eyes on the route he had just traveled. He uttered a short cry that, despite its softness, seemed loud in the quietness that had once more descended. Though he was keeping watch, he almost missed the smaller, lightly coloured female who sped across the driveway coming to a perfect landing at his side.

“You didn’t even trigger the light,” he said.

“You gotta stay closer to the garage.” She trembled slightly and her companion snuggled closer.

“Cold?”

“Not really,” she lied.

This was their first winter on the outside and it had taken her some time to move from abject terror to just plain fear as she faced this new aspect of life on the streets.

“Do you think that…?” She continued.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” interjected her companion. “We’ve been disappointed before.”

The previous summer, after being left behind, the two cats had stuck close to their home for a while, believing that their humans would soon return to the now empty house. The tom resurrected kitten-hood memories of life in a barn and the old hunting skills soon returned. The she-cat, domesticated and declawed, became his shadow, instinctively understanding that without him she would not survive long.

The arrival of a new family with two enormous and aggressive dogs killed their hopes as surely as water kills fire. The fall was bitter with sad reminiscences of better times. By the time snow fell the only thing on their minds was the next meal and a safe place to sleep.

The house they now watched from under the pine trees was miles from the home they once knew. From the outside this place didn’t seem that much different from its neighbors. But there was something…

The porch light came on suddenly and both cats stiffened, ready to run. The front door opened, then the outer door.

“Not yet,” the tom cautioned.

“What if she’s going to let out a dog?” came a throaty whisper. Without the means to defend herself, the she-cat’s terror began to build.

“No dog,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Dogs make a mess in the snow. There’s no mess in this yard.”

The figure in the doorway stepped onto the porch—a woman in slippers and heavy wool socks, wearing a baggy sweater wrapped around a bulky dressing gown. She looked around the dark yard, then skyward for a few moments as the moon broke through the clouds. The porch gleamed in its pale light. The woman returned to her business. She had been carrying a bowl, which she now carefully put down on the edge of the porch where it met the top step. She then turned, went back into the house, closed the outer door, but left the inner door open just a crack.

“What’s that all about?” said the tom.

“It’s for us—the bowl. She’s waiting for us,” she replied. The tom could feel the tension melting away in his companion.

“You’ve been wrong before. I told you not to hope.”

“There’s always an exception. Watch the moon and hear the wind. You’ll know,” she said.

For once he followed her lead.

The figures of silver cats dancing on silver leashes twinkled and tinkled as moon and wind played tag among the chimes. The moonlight cast a blue shadow, turning the freshly fallen snow into a sea of sparkling diamonds, pristine except for the paw prints of two abandoned felines heading for the bowl on the porch and the sliver of light coming from a partly open door.

In the Eye of A Tiger

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Enough is enough. I’m getting out of here!

She slipped away from the back door of the farmhouse, heading southwest more or less, in the direction of the setting sun.

Captured, then tossed unceremoniously into a potato sack, she’d been torn away from her home just before the cold of winter set in. She’d had no choice but to stay where her captor finally released her. Having been born in a shed, a return to a barn had not been such a huge culture shock. But the world was finally returning to life again and she was anxious to take advantage of the warmer, more amenable breezes. The sodden earth would cushion, and silence, her already quiet steps.

She paused at the edge of the underbrush, took one look back at the house, then disappeared; grey morphing into grey in the dying light of day. There would be no more farm labour forced from her. She was going home.

Impregnated by a wandering feral; who had never returned to see the result of their mutual, and overwhelming, need, she had given birth to three sons — gingers just like their father. They had been noisy and demanding from the moment they had been delivered in the hayloft one cold winter’s eve.

They’re still noisy and demanding, roughhousing all the time, and decidedly ill mannered. I’m not hanging around waiting for the next vagrant to appear and do it to me again.

The next morning found her crouched by a creek at the back corner of the farm. The ice was long gone but the usual trickle of water, swollen by the spring thaw, was now a veritable raging river to her. She hated getting wet, but there didn’t seem to be any other option, unless …

She backed up. Forepaws gripping the ground, she raised her backside off the ground and with an exaggerated wiggle, she sprang into the air — and landed, safe and dry, on the other side of the water. With a bound, she was off again.

Going home — I’ll find it no matter where it is, or how far away. I can, and I will.

The anxiety to go home almost overcame her usual cautious nature. She barreled out of the bush at lightning speed and barely missed being crushed by a four-wheeled monster careening down a side road. Just in the nick of time, she turned in mid-stride and bounced back into the ditch.

Reason prevailed. She waited, listening carefully for the telltale “chug-a-lugs” that signaled the approach of one of the worst enemies of her kind. How often had she warned the kits about the danger? How many dead creatures, victims all, unheedingly sacrificed to the gods of the road, had she pointed out to them?

When the only sounds she could hear were friendly, she crossed to the other side. Something told her that this was the way to go. She would follow, but not too closely, the path the road took. When the monsters passed, she hid in the grasses and reeds. At night she hunted; a task easier now than it had been when she had first come to the farm. At home, she grew up listening for the sound of the can opener and waiting for the currents to carry the scent of meat or milk to her nose. On the farm, she returned to her roots, darting and dashing amongst the grasses and grains, in pursuit of anything smaller and weaker than she was.

Grass yielded slowly to pavement. Houses became more frequent. Monsters to avoid increased. There were more fences to climb, more humans to watch from the shadows of garbage cans. It was necessary to make detours at times, putting distance between herself and others of her kind. Their pungent claim to ownership assailed her frequently as she cut through the heart of town. She confined her travels to nighttime now, passing her days under porches or under the leafy abundance of rhubarb plants.

At last, she recognized streets, yards, and laneways. This was HER territory. She was almost home. The timeless inborn urge strengthened within her, giving wings to tired feet.

She paused under a mock orange bush in her backyard. Carefully, she licked upward from the tip of her tail and washed her face and ears.

Stepping out, she settled herself quietly by the door, waiting.

The door opened, and …

“Mom! Tiger’s come home.”

Meow. Is that a can being opened that I hear?

Mildred's Mouse House

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Synopsis
Millie discovers a unique way of giving Jesus the birthday present He could have used two thousand years ago.

Characters
Mildred, a child of about 7
Robin, Mildred’s 12 year old brother
Mom

Location:
A kitchen with a back door leading to the yard.


Scene One
Mom is in the kitchen cooking. Robin is working on homework at one end of the kitchen table. Mildred is at the other end, elbows on the table, holding up her head with her hands, looking very glum.


Robin (looking up and across at Milly):
"Mr. Henderson paid me yesterday. Now I have enough to do ALL my Christmas shopping."

Mom:
"That’s nice. If you like, we can go to the mall on Saturday. Milly can come with us."

Milly:
"Don’t want to."

Mom:
"Why not?"

Milly:
"Don’t have any money. Can’t buy anything for anybody without money."

Robin:
"I’ll lend you some. Course, I’ll have to charge you interest."

Milly:
"What’s “interest”?"

Mom:
"Don’t pay any attention to your brother. He’s being silly. Maybe you could make some Christmas presents out of things you already have."

Robin:
"I don’t want some of her homemade junk."

Mom (with warning in her voice):
"Robin, that’s enough. With that kind of attitude you don’t deserve any kind of present from Milly. Maybe we could make things easier for all of us this year. How about we write down the names of all the people we are going to give presents to and put them in a hat. Then each of us can draw a name and buy a present for just that one person?"

Robin:
"Hey, then I only get one present."

Mom:
"Robin, Christmas isn’t about how many presents YOU get, remember?"

Robin:
"Okay, okay. Actually it’s not a bad idea. Then I only have to buy one present and I’ll still have money left for me."

Mom (signs and shakes her head):
"Sometimes, I wonder if Scrooge didn’t somehow get trapped in a twelve year old’s body."

Robin:
"What?"

Milly:
"Who’s Scrooge?"

Mom:
"Never mind. It’s not important."

Milly:
"I ALWAYS wonder about Robin. But I don’t even have money for one present. What if I get Grannie’s name?"

Robin:
"That’s easy. Grannie says she’s going to heaven soon and there isn’t a thing that she needs. You wouldn’t have to buy her anything."

Milly & Mom (horrified)
"ROBIN!"

Robin:
"Well, that’s what she said."

Mom:
"You know, I think I have the solution to this problem. How about we don’t buy any presents for anyone this year?"

Robin and Milly:
"Mom!"

Mom:
"No, I’m serious. Whose birthday is it anyway?"

Milly:
"Jesus’ birthday."

Mom:
"Right. So, why are we buying presents for everyone except the person who is celebrating the birthday?"

Robin:
"Cause we have to. We’ve always done it that way. We need to. I NEED Christmas presents."

Mom:
"Look at it this way, Robin. Think of all the money you will have left from your paper route if you don’t have to buy any Christmas presents."

Robin (thinks for a moment):
"Well, there is that."

Milly:
"But, Mom. I still don’t have any money to buy Jesus a Christmas present either."

Robin:
"Jesus is like Grannie. He doesn’t need anything either cause he’s already in heaven."

Milly (throws something at her brother):
"Mom, tell him to stop."

Mom:
"Yes, Robin, please stop being disrespectful. You are right…"

Robin (interrupting):
"See, I told you."

Mom:
"…to a point. How about we think about doing, rather than buying?"

Robin:
"What good stuff doesn’t cost money?"

Mom:
"If we had been around when Jesus was born, we could have done lots of things for him with what we already have. Robin could have given up his bedroom so that Mary could have her baby in a warm and safe place."

Robin:
"Why my room?"

Mom:
"Milly, you could have given him your doll’s bed so that he would have a nice place to sleep. I could have given some of this nice chicken soup to Mary and Joseph and warmed a bottle of milk for the baby".

Milly:
"But Jesus is in heaven, and he doesn’t need me to do anything like that for him now."

Mom:
"Well, you could do something for him, by doing something for someone else, just as if you were doing it for Jesus. He’s like that kind of present. Think about it for a while. Meanwhile son, you and I have a date upstairs with your room. We clean it or we condemn it."

Robin:
"Aw, Mom. You can’t be serious."

(Mom leads Robin off protesting all the way. The lights fade with Mildred still sitting at the table deep in thought.)

Scene Two
The lights come up as Milly closes the door leading out into the back yard. Mom enters with Robin.

Robin (complaining):
"Four hours, I can’t believe it took us four hours to do that room. I’ll never be able to find anything ever again. I’m wiped. I’m starving. When’s dinner?"

Mom:
"Soon. Clear your things off the table. Milly can set it and we’ll be ready to eat."

(The children begin those chores. Mom reaches for her pot holder only to discover that it’s missing.)

Mom:
"Milly, have you seen my pot holder? I thought I left it right here beside the stove when Robin and I went up to clean his room."

Milly:
"I took it."

Robin:
"Well, give it back so we can eat."

Mom:
"You took it? What for?"

Milly (hesitatingly):
"I got thinking about what you said, you know, doing something to help someone else, just as if I was doing it for Baby Jesus. I needed the pot holder."

Robin:
"I knew it. Too much thinking and she’s flipped out."

Mom (in a warning tone of voice):
"Robin. You did want supper, didn’t you?"

Robin:
"Sure. (Pause) Oh, I get it. Zip the lip."

Mom:
"Right. Now, Mildred, explain to me what the pot holder has to do with what we talked about?"

Milly:
"Well, Jesus doesn’t need a bedroom or a blanket or chicken soup or milk, but I found someone else who does. But my blanket didn’t fit in the bed, so I took the pot holder to use as a blanket."

Mom:
"You used the pot holder for a blanket. What person do you know who would need a pot holder for a blanket?"

Mill: (beginning to look a little worried):
"I don’t know any babies like Jesus that I could do something for, so I thought maybe helping other babies might be okay."

Mom:
"Other babies? What other babies?"

Milly:
"Um. Dad plugged the hole going into the basement last week so that the mice couldn’t get in the house."

Mom:
"Yes?"

Milly:
"Well, He took the mice out of the basement before he plugged the hole."

Mom:
"Yes?"

Milly
"It’s cold outside and they can’t come into the basement, or live in the house."

Mom: (slowly)
"Y-e-s?"

Milly:
"The mice had babies. I saw them in the shed."

Mom:
"Okay."

Milly:
"So I took my old doll house out to the shed. I put it down flat and filled all the rooms up with those wood shavings that dad had in the basement. But I didn’t have any blankets to put on top to keep the babies warm. So I took the pot holders."

Mom:
"All of them?"

Milly:
"Mostly. I’m sorry."

(Milly begins to cry.)

Mom:
"Milly, honey, don’t cry."

Milly:
"You’re not mad at me?"

Mom:
"No honey, I’m not angry with you. You did for those mice what you would have done if Jesus had needed a warm place to sleep, didn’t you?"

Milly:
"I wanted to. I thought that if the mice were happy and warm, Jesus would be too. But I am sorry about the pot holders."

Mom:
"I really do want those pot holders back. But don’t worry. I think I can find something that will work just as well to cover up the babies’ beds and keep all of them warm."

Robin:
"Can we eat now?"

Milly:
"Mom?"

Mom:
"Yes, honey."

Milly:
"I did something else too."

Mom:
"What did you do?"

Milly:
"I took the mice some chicken soup."

Robin:
"You did what?"

Mom (laughing):
"Did you leave enough for us?"

Milly:
"I think so."

Mom:
"Good. Put the bowls out and then you can give thanks."

(Milly puts out the bowls and Mom serves the soup.)

Milly:
"Dear Jesus. Thank you for Mom and Dad. And Robin too. Thank you for giving us a warm place to live, and food to eat. I’m sorry no one was there to give you those things when you were a baby but I hope you like your birthday present even if you can’t enjoy it yourself. Amen."

(Pause)

"And, Lord, please make sure the mice are careful with Mom’s pot holders."

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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