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.

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?”

Desk Dirge

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I cleared my desk,
I did, you’ve seen—
The wood was shiny,
Bright and clean.

All projects done,
All deadlines met,
All papers filed,
With room to let.

But, while asleep—
It must have been,
Disaster struck my little desk
Destroying all that had been clean.

A flare-up of an awful sort,
An upsurge came, tsunami-size.
My quiet reverie all forgot,
Vacation not to be my prize.

The work appeared,
Paper scattered all around;
A flood of lists, to do, to don’t,
Now unhappily abound.

The wood is covered on my desk
As suddenly objectives change.
Who knew last night the wave would come
And take control as though a mange?

The lamp is lit, there is no choice,
Work must be done, no matter what.
This rash of chores still face me here,
No end in sight to this great glut.

In vain I cry, “oh mercy, please,”
I’m overwhelmed by this great wave
And long for that once sweet, clean desk
And all the promise that it gave.

A pill, a prod, a puncture won’t
Relieve the problem now at hand.
The onset of some long, hard days
My future now for me is planned.

I make this desperate last appeal,
Oh clean desk, once so pristine,
So virtuous, so neat and nice—
How could you do this, why so mean?

Hostility has broken out
Between we two
Your outburst has me quite confused
I thought our friendship was like glue!

Together we would plan ahead,
I’d do my part then sleep in peace
With the assurance that as I slept
Work wouldn’t procreate, increase.

What’s that you say?
Do my ears hear right—
That it’s not your fault that
The flood of projects came to light?

You’re telling me that I’m to blame—
That this explosion on the wood
Lies squarely on my silly head
And means to me not bad, but good?

Now that I think upon the cause
You have a point, I must confess.
If I don’t work, bills don’t get paid
And I don’t eat, then more is less.

Sad, but true, the story tell,
That nice, clean wood is deadly thus.
It needs to suffer the disease
Of work, of challenges, of muss.

Beside the need of worldly blunt
There is another story to be told;
My idle hands and mind would be
No mine of silver or of gold,

But rather hay and stubble grow
And idle time produce no good,
But devil’s playground surely be.
So break out work, oh blessed wood—

That Godly glory shine in me.

God's Gardener

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Mary Moffat stood in silence in the doorway to her home. The baby, her namesake,* whimpered in her arms, aware of a tension she was too young to understand. Mary jiggled her gently and the child fell silent, calmed by the familiar gesture.

The barren landscape shimmered under a blazing sun, heat radiating from the hard baked ground. It hadn’t rained for a very long time—too long. Like mirages in the desert, the scrub and stunted trees seemed to wave and roll in the rising heat, but the delegation of Bechwana warriors confronting her was all too real.

They were not happy.

“You must leave. Because of you, there is no rain. The cattle are dying, the springs are dry, and there are no crops to harvest. If you do not leave our land right now, we will kill you where you stand,” threatened the leader of the group, his spear pointed at her husband’s chest.

Mary shifted the baby to her left side, out of sight of the men now threatening them. Robert stood just in front of her, facing their visitors and partially blocking her from their view.

He had urged her to go inside when the intentions of the Bechwanas had become obvious, to which Mary had replied: “Robert, God made us one, and as one we will face whatever happens.”

She and her husband had been at Bechwana station at Lattakoo in the interior for several years. Robert, along with several co-workers, had arrived in South Africa in 1817, under the auspices of the London Missionary Society. Mary had followed in 1819 when her parents had finally relented, given her their blessing, and allowed her to travel to Cape Town to marry her fiancé.

Robert slowly began to unbutton his waistcoat. Throwing it open, he said: “If you will, drive your spear to my heart.”

For a moment, time stood still. In that brief space, as the implications of her husband’s solemn words settled, Mary remembered her father’s nursery garden near Manchester, where she had first met Robert Moffat. Even then he had been preparing himself for missionary work, convinced that God wanted him to nurture a spiritual garden rather than the physical ones that he first put his hand to at the age of fourteen.

From behind the relative safety of her husband’s body, Mary heard the shuffling of feet and murmuring.

“Robert?”

Anticipating the question, Moffat turned slightly. Keeping his eyes on the warriors now huddled in conference, he spoke softly to his wife.

“I don’t know. I think they were startled by my answer.”

Mary allowed herself a small smile.

“Or your state of undress?”

The threat of death had often hung over Robert Moffat’s head. As a youth he’d gone to sea, causing his mother great anxiety. On his first trip across South Africa, he’d been stranded in the desert without water. In one of his letters to her after that experience he had commented: “I feared that my first trip would be my last; that my dream of planting a garden for God in Africa would end before it had begun.”

Later, Robert had terrified his friends when he mentioned that he was going to move to the kraal of the infamous Afrikaner, a man whose name was hated and feared across the countryside. Not only had God protected Moffat but Africaner, his brothers, and others, became ardent believers under his ministry.

However, the Bechwanas had not been such easy ground to work. They laughed at the concept of salvation. Love didn’t exist in their vocabulary. The only softening they had shown was some moderation in how they went about stealing cattle. They had also gone without the services of their rainmaker—the results of which they now blamed on the missionaries.

Robert had despaired at the lack of response, only to be gently reminded by his wife that the Bechwanas needed to hear God’s Word in their own language before they would be convinced. Robert immediately dedicated himself to that task.

“Mary, look.”

She left the shelter of the doorway to stand beside her husband. The warriors had finished their discussion. As one man, they lowered their spears and turned away. As they moved off, the Moffats heard their leader say to his companions: “This man must have ten lives, since he is so fearless when he is faced with losing this one.”

Once more faith and courage watered a corner of Africa’s garden.

*Baby Mary would grow up to marry David Livingstone

Who Killed Felix Ortega?

It seems like ions ago when the events happened that are fictionalized below. However, we know that people continue to disappear, to be made to disappear, in the interests of political and corporate ambition. God will judge.

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 In the house hugging the foot of the Avila,* the conversation was subdued. The walls had ears.

“Felix has got to go. There are 400 names on his list and ours are among them.” The man slouched on the sofa looked worried.

“Be reasonable,” said another. “Montero got away—jogged away from his secret service minders right into an embassy where he could be sure of being granted asylum. We could easily do the same.”

“They will be more careful now. The leader of our movement walking away from house arrest in the plain light of day embarrassed them,” added a third conspirator.

“It’s only temporary. They will get someone to replace him,” suggested a fourth companion, adding: “We can only hope he’ll be less diligent.”

The subject of the clandestine meeting was state prosecutor, Felix Ortega.** Two years after what many considered a failed coup d’etat, Ortega was working his way through the list of supposed participants. At 38, he was a rising star on the political scene. His success and his public profile had become a threat to many.

Not far away, in an opulent reception room of the official residence of the president of the republic, others were having a similar conversation for different reasons.

“He’s got to go. He knows too much,” insisted the Minister of Justice.

“He’s fair,” said another.

“That’s the problem. Being fair means he is not necessarily going to be loyal to the revolution.”

“So, replace him.”

“No good. To fire him will throw him, and all he knows, into the arms of the opposition.”

Ortega had arrested members of the Metropolitan police, who had been accused of shooting and killing civilians during the march on the presidential palace that began the failed attempt to overthrow the government. He was also investigating the popular mayor of one of capitol’s satellite cities, implicated in the bombing of several embassies. Felix Ortega was tightening the noose around several necks.

In the house, plans were made.

“He has bodyguards. It will be hard to get to him.”

“If we were talking about a gunman, maybe. But a bomb is another thing. He’s taking a graduate course at night. They will guard him, but perhaps not his SUV.”

“Remote controlled?”

“Yes. He is most vulnerable on his way home from the university.”

In the presidential palace, other reasons for Ortega’s demise came to the forefront.

“The commandant wants it done,” said the president’s right hand man. “You know how he hates anyone to get more press than he does …”

“…or be more popular…,” interjected another.

A sharp glance from his companions silenced him. Even here, the walls had ears. They all looked around somewhat nervously as if expecting the Presidential Guard to rush in upon them.

“C-4 will do the job. There will be plenty of opportunity. He’s told us himself that he always dismisses his bodyguards when he goes to class,” said a minister.

One of the men chuckled. “We can always blame it on the opposition—or the CIA. He’ll make a handsome martyr for the revolution.”

On the night of November 18, 2004, a yellow Toyota SUV cruised through the darkened streets of the city. Just five minutes after the vehicle had left the university parking lot, two explosions ripped through the thin black fabric of the night. The car, consumed by flames, continued its forward momentum until it eventually crashed into a store.

Felix Ortega’s death is fact, as are some of the details in this story. The names and faces behind his death remain a controversy. Arrests were quickly made, but few are convinced that the real killers were found. The truth is that jealousy, fear, and lust for power killed Ortega. His death represents only one of many that God will charge to the account of the ambitious men behind the political turmoil that has marked this South American nation over the last ten years.

Paul’s admonition to Timothy is a constant reminder that unless those who rule come to faith, there will be no peace for anyone—including believers.

“I urge, then, first of all, that requests, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for everyone—for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness. This is good, and pleases God our Savior, who wants all men to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth.” 1 Timothy 2:1-4


*Part of the Andes mountain range
**Names have been changed.

Bide a Wee, Bully

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From between two of the steel rails in the gate, a rich brown orb placidly observed the crowd. The animal was tightly wedged in the box, but even if he had had more room, he wouldn’t have moved.

“Bide a wee, bully,” his Scottish ancestors would have said. So he’d waited. There was no use wasting his energy at this point. He contented himself with looking, listening, and feeling.

The stands were full of Stetsons, blue jeans, checkered shirts, and leather vests adorned with glitter and glitz—an eclectic mix of real cowboys and wannabes.

He knew the spectators were watching him. He looked back at the crowd with the one eye at his disposal. From somewhere beyond him and above them, he heard the voice of an announcer, made raucous by the public address system in the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, cowgirls and cowboys, next up we have Scooter Martin. Scooter is a three-time champion bull rider, so he’s no stranger to us here on the circuit. Scoot hails from Edson, Alberta, Canada, and so far has earned himself fifty-seven thousand, sixty-nine dollars, and change on this pro tour. He’s a winner, folks and so far, he’s the cowboy to beat.”

The crowd roared its approval.

“Scoot has drawn himself a new bull, a Red Angus that we haven’t seen on the circuit before. Goes by the name of Butterscotch, and comes to us from the Samuel Jackson farm out near Horsehead Lake in North Dakota. Butterscotch seems to be taking his first appearance mighty calmly as he waits for Scooter to get himself ready.”

The announcer seemed to take delight in pronouncing Butterscotch’s name with more than just a hint of derision. The crowd got the message, and laughed. What kind of bull was a Butterscotch? The bull flicked an ear in mild annoyance.

Bide a wee, bully, bide a wee.

Butterscotch felt the weight of the rider on his back. It was slightly bothersome and Butterscotch wiggled, banging his back end against the rails. He also felt the chaffing of the bull rope around his middle, and the weight of the bell that hung underneath him and kept the rope in place.

Bide a wee, bully, dinna fash yersel.

He settled himself once more, allowing the cowboy to tighten his grip on the leather handle braided into the rope and double-wrap the loose end around his gloved hand. The pulling and pounding on the glove, to make sure the hand was well anchored, furthered annoyed Butterscotch and he tossed his head. The blunted tip of one horn tagged a cowboy sitting on the rails beside the rider. The man drew back quickly.

“Looks like Butterscotch is getting anxious for the show to start, folks,” chortled the announcer, to the delight of a crowd too far away to see the action in the box. The bull relaxed again, conscious that he needed to wait, to be patient.

Guid lad, bully, bide a wee.

“Get ready for what could be the championship ride, folks. Scoot’s settled, and my money’s on the veteran rider over the novice bull. It only takes eight seconds, friends, and Scooter Martin will be collecting another cheque.”

Butterscotch saw, and heard, hand meeting hand as the crowd clapped and roared its agreement. He felt the digging in of the rider’s knees. His time was coming.

If a bull could smile, this one would have done exactly that.

Puir foolish creatures, they give tae ye a name o’ their choosing—‘Butterscotch’— for the colour o’ yoor hide; but they’ve seen naithin’ o’ the colour o’ yoor heart.

The gate swung open and Butterscotch launched himself out of the box with a brutal hind-end swivel followed by a wicked mid-air twist. It only took four seconds to send a shocked and frustrated Scooter scrambling for the protection of the rails as the novice bull took his victory lap around the ring to the howls of the disappointed crowd.

He heard his ancestors, voices ripe with approval:

Bide a wee, Bully—till next time. ‘Tis the heart no the hide that’ll be markin’ the difference twixt guid an bad—be it bairn o’ beastie.*




With apologies to all Scots out there, and any Red Angus bulls who might read this.

Bide a wee = rest/stay a little
Dinna fash yerself = don’t worry yourself
Guid = good
Puir = poor
Tae = too
Ye = you
Yoor = your
Naithin’ = nothing
No = not
Twixt = between
Bairn = child