Category: Prose

When in the course of a human life one becomes aware of the bondage and servitude to which his or her inner nature has become ensnared, and it becomes necessary to dissolve these bonds and to reorient them from what is bad towards what is good, and to assume the natural use of the powers granted them by the God of nature, to which His image and likeness entitle them, then for the benefit of this person, and for that of all mankind, it shall be declared, the causes for which this reorientation is required, and for which this new independence is sought.

These truths remain self-evident—that all people are created free; endowed by God with powers of mind, desire and strength, for the purpose of growing in love, peace and joy.—That by using these powers in the way intended by nature and by God, every person can achieve these ends.—That by the misuse of these powers mankind falls into every kind of difficulty, suffering, pain, deception and entrapment. —That the ruler of this world has used deception, trickery, seduction and malice to corrupt these natural powers to turn humanity from what is good towards what is evil. —That because mankind has fallen into enslavement to this evil, by improper use of our freedom, so that we desire what we shouldn’t, and hate others whom we should love, it is clear that we have become self-destructive and it is our necessity, and our duty to abolish this rule of evil within us, and to lay a new foundation upon Christ, Who’s power will reorganize the powers within us, so as to attain liberty once again.

By a long train of abuses and temptations, the current ruler of this world has reduced mankind under an absolute Despotism, so that it is now our duty, by the right of our Creator, for each to throw off this tyranny, and shelter under God’ grace for his or her future security. The history of the present ruler is a history of diabolical malefactions and malicious deceptions, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over mankind. To prove this, let facts be submitted to an honest and straightforward world:

…he has rejected, and causes mankind to reject, the law and commandments given us for the public and private good.

…he has confused and confounded mankind into becoming lovers of ourselves, instead of lovers of one another; seeking self-gain first, and then what is good for others only to the degree it benefits us.

…he has manipulated our natural desires, causing us to turn them towards superficial, transient or forbidden things which don’t satisfy our needs and which, after fleeting pleasure, yield greater sorrow.

…he has caused murders, wars and every kind of violence, by turning our natural anger away from evil as its only proper object, and towards our brothers and sisters, and has deluded us into justifying our misdirected anger and our atrocities.

…he has caused us to lose our self-control, so that we are no longer masters of our appetites or our emotions; but have become slaves to the caprice and whim of our emotions, and easily manipulated by our desires.

…for entrapping us in despondency and hopelessness.

…for enticing us with money and fame, which never satisfy our inner longings.

…for mesmerizing us with possessions which we expect should give us joy, but only create a deepening emptiness within us.

…for isolating and dividing us from one another, under every pretext and justification, but yielding only more anger and misery.

…for causing us to see one another as objects, tools, or means for satisfying our own desires, rather than each as unique and precious images of God, with vast inherent worth.

…for using every kind of material deception to draw us out of ourselves, and away from God, so that we become lost and unable to perceive God any longer, so that we lose our relationship with the only One that can heal us and save us.

…he has bewildered us with entertainments, dulled our minds and hearts, and caused us to grow lazy and indifferent towards our spiritual realities.

…he has plundered us, ravaged us, burnt us, murdered us, raped us, and in every way destroyed the lives of mankind, all while hiding in the shadows so that mankind even doubts his very existence.

…he has made himself, thus, our perfect enemy, and turned each of us into unwitting accomplices to our own destruction.

We, therefore, each of us who desire to be truly free, appealing to the Lord of all, do, in His name, solemnly publish and declare, that we are by nature and by right afforded through His mercy and grace, independent and free from all allegiance to the ruler of this world, and that all spiritual connection between us and Satan, is and ought to be totally dissolved, and that as free and independent beings, we have full power, by God’s grace, to live virtuously and in accord with the commandments given for our peace, in control of ourselves, making proper use of all the faculties of our soul which have been given us for our fulfillment and blessing, and to do all things right and proper to those living in spiritual freedom.—And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm and total reliance on the protection of the Triune God, we pledge to God our complete and enduring love, issuing forth from our mind, our heart, our soul and our strength, and we pledge to one another, a love that equals the love we have for our very selves.

~FS

 

 

 

 

Before, when I lived in a darkness of my own conceit, I was as one dead to life, but sadly too numb to know it. I spent my days, content and at peace with myself—happily engaged in trivialities, self-assured by my inner virtues, which I measured, conveniently, against anyone clearly worse than myself. This satisfied my conscience, superficially, and was approved and encouraged by the lazy elements slumbering within me. I was wrapped inside a blanket of darkness, though which appeared as light, to my night-accustomed vision; for there was a hazy twilight, as from a far-off sun over the horizon, by which I could see. I called murkiness, daylight, and convinced myself that it was enough. What need had I of pure light, when dim light suited my darkened soul much better? And though I lived for the future sunrise, I could wait until a future time to see it.

Then, a revelatory light punctuated my darkness—unsought, only partially welcomed—inexorable, omnipresent, and casting my comfortable malaise in high-contrast, starkly before my eyes. There was nowhere to turn, to close my eyes, to pretend not to see, for it was clear to me that living in the semi-darkness, as I had, was actually a fatal luxury, afforded only to those with little hope…and little faith. I understood then, that we were made for brighter things—to be called out from the stupor that our negligence and complacency has wrought for us, made to turn from this numbing darkness which bathes us in self-satisfaction, or remorse—and created for the freedom which can be found only in perfect love.

Now, instead of a life of constant propping, of human effort, of dwelling in the shadows while seeking the limelight, or of hiding from shame; I see before me a life of repentance—the life that is resplendent and shining, and ever open to love’s pure light. Clothed in humility—repentance, is a life which transcends the sickly morass of remorse or shame, and will not bind us like these human chains will do, but rather, repentance allows our soul to take flight and to soar upward, even as we bow ourselves downward. This is the life of genuine courage and unfeigned joy. Not a one-time turning, but rather a life-turning, a never-ending turning, from the past towards the future, from our darkness towards His light. It is a shower of silver waters cleansing us perpetually, from out of a clear and golden sky; a snowfall that covers our soul in purest-white, forgiveness for all that has come between ourselves and God. Repentance is the parting of the clouds forevermore, and the shining forth of God’s love and grace, out, from within our hearts. This is the true life for which we were made.

~FS

I.

When I allow my mind to wander back to those times, when we were very young, just beginning our journeys here, bringing forth our fresh lives together, within the soft arms of those ancient hills, I cannot help but feel embraced, even now, by the gentle joy and warm comfort that was our childhood in the valley of the moon.

Ours, actually, was a little valley, Rincon Valley, at the northern tip of the Sonoma Valley, which stretches from San Pablo Bay in the south, up through the town of Sonoma, past Glen Ellen (the home of Jack London) and into Santa Rosa, our home. More specifically, we lived in several neighborhoods set among the oak trees, at the base of the hillsides making up this small valley, made golden by flowing grasses in the summertime, and green in the winter, as the flush of new growth covered their rolling slopes.

Each of us occupied some special spot within these neighborhoods, in homes smaller or larger—neither so opulent as to be a danger of losing ourselves, nor so tiny as to despair—but we lived here with our families in these places, nestled together, side-by-side, sharing our lives, almost as if we were one large organism, knowing one another, familiar, and at peace.

As is true with any organism there is a variety within a unity, and this was true for us. We were so many unique individuals with distinct attributes, strengths and weaknesses—we were a variety of characters. Our common life revolved around our school, this is where we met and made our friendships, where we enjoyed our victories and setbacks, where so many of life’s lessons were experienced, for better and for worse.

Sequoia Elementary School was situated nearly at the heart of our world, geographically as well as spiritually. It was our world within the world. Of course, our homes were this as well for each of us, so perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Sequoia sat at one pole of our world, and our home resided at the other, and our lives consisted of travelling from one pole to the other, and back again.

Life at Sequoia, for most of us, began when we were five. At that age, though it was only a half-mile journey, I remember the walk from my doorstep to the kindergarten classroom seemed so very long, as I passed through a labyrinth of streets: San Luis Avenue, San Juan Street, Yerba Buena Drive, then cut across someone’s pasture, climbing through the old barbed-wire fences and down the narrow dirt path which kids had made from time immemorial, and finally arriving on the other side, climbing across the drainage swale that ran alongside Monte Verde Drive, and then finally the long walk down Calistoga Road, through the schoolyard, or around the block to the far corner of the school, where the Kindergarten class was located.

Mrs Moresi was our kindergarten teacher, and Adrien was the school custodian. She was kind and wonderful, but he was intimidating (more about him in a moment). For the most part kindergarten was a pleasure: lots of art and crafts, learning the alphabet and numbers, and plenty of time to play outside in the small fenced-in yard. The smell of wet cedar chips drying in the heat of the sun is a pleasure I still carry with me from that time. In the midst of this cedar chip play area was a steel slide which became so hot in the afternoon sun that it actually felt cold at first when one slid down it. This was a surprising discovery which didn’t stop us from sliding down it over and over again, even while wearing shorts or dresses.

One afternoon, just after lunch we were told that we would be having a visit from Adrien and he wanted to talk to just the boys in the class. When he arrived, he lined us up side-by side in a long row. It was all very intriguing and curious. Adrien walked up and down the row looking us over with a scowl. He didn’t seem pleased or happy at all. There were around twelve of us in line and we looked at each other nervously, but giggling and smirking at the same time. We could barely hold our line, truth be told, since fidgeting and moving about in constant motion was more our forte. But we did our best as he looked us over and then he began his speech. It was more of a scolding actually.

The kindergarten classroom had two small designated bathrooms in the corner, one for the girls and one for the boys. Adrien had no problem at all with cleaning the girl’s bathroom, but he had had all he could take cleaning the boy’s, and he wanted to let us all know about it. “Someone!” Apparently. “Keeps missing the toilet!”

“I don’t know who it is, and I don’t care, but you all need to learn how to aim better because I am sick and tired of cleaning up the floor and the seat!” It was terrifying. I looked at my collaborators lined up beside me, and none of us were smiling or giggling anymore, well perhaps a few of us here and there were, but a seriousness had descended upon us. I suspected others had done this dirty deed as well, but I knew for a fact that I had done it, and I was almost certain that it was obvious to Adrien, somehow, that it was me. I’m not sure how he could know, but I felt certain he did.

After he left us, the boys of the classroom were quiet for a while, until we forgot about it, and went back to having a good time. Collectively we may have been peeing on the floor but nobody admitted it to the others. For my part however, I determined not to take any further chances; so this is when I left standing behind, and took the extra precaution of sitting down for the remainder of my kindergarten career.

II.

In the 1970’s Sequoia Elementary was a humble school, but I would contend, a quietly spectacular one. What it lacked in sophistication, it made up for with heart and soul. This was before the time of trumpeting accomplishments on school signage, where every school today claims its fame as a distinguished institution. Today, it is a fancy place by comparison, and while probably just as fine a home to this generation of children, I lament the loss of its former understated simplicity.

Currently, a charter school has been added to its grounds, and where once occupied a dirt and gravel parking area, this has been replaced with an asphalt parking lot and raised veggie beds. And many of the sacred sites, which formerly witnessed our amazing feats of sporting prowess, our innocent amorous adventures, and our budding human dramas, have now been covered over by numerous new clusters of additional classrooms, and sparkling playgrounds with elaborate structures, burying the physical testimony to our former glories and tribulations.

Nevertheless, these triumphs and trials still exist in memory, and can be unearthed again through the telling of the tales; and as these stories are brought forth, I suspect others will corroborate their authenticity, shining new light upon my imperfect remembrance, yet adding to the veracity of their core truth.

There are many tales to tell, but allow me to first set the scene. Sequoia Elementary occupies roughly five acres at the corner of Calistoga Road and Dupont Drive, in eastern Santa Rosa. A rectangular property, oriented more or less in a northerly direction, with Calistoga Rd. on the western edge, Dupont Dr. to the south, and residential properties lining the northern and eastern edges. It is a fairly flat property with a slight rise to the south, where the first row of buildings resides. Centered, and running parallel to the southern edge of the property is this first row of buildings, which are home to the administrative offices, teacher’s lounge and kindergarten classroom to the right, and the cafeteria to the left (when looking at it from Dupont Drive).

A rounded driveway approaches the front of the building from the far right, stops at the midpoint, and continues to the left to rejoin Dupont Drive. Apart from a grove of Redwood trees to the left of this driveway, and some shrubs lining the front of the building, and a few small trees along Calistoga Road, there was virtually no other foliage on the property back in the 70’s, save the perennial weeds that made up the playfield in the back, and which lined the surroundings of the school buildings and asphalt playground.

The structure of the school consisted of three rows of buildings, connected by a central covered walkway. This walkway began at the midpoint of the first row, essentially dividing the cafeteria to the left, from the offices to the right. The second row, to the east of the corridor, was home to the first and second grade classrooms, and the fourth and fifth grades to the west (although these could change somewhat from year to year). The final row was home to the third and fourth grades to the east, and more fifth and sixth grade classrooms to the west. Where the central corridor cut through each of these buildings, along their inner walls, you’d find bathrooms, the custodian’s workshop, and a supply room or two. To the west of the fourth and fifth grade wing were three additional portable buildings which housed the school library, and two additional classrooms.

Around all of these structures stretched the hallowed grounds, the playground and the playfield further to the north, all of which were the stage for so many of our comic exploits and epic adventures, as well as our mundane misadventures—our plans to jump the fences and break out of this prison, or our trips to distant planets, our Superbowl victories, as well as errant balls kicked into yard-duty faces which landed us in the principal’s office for hours of interrogation and cross-examinations, the four-square, the dodge-ball, basketball, football and soccer and other games with names you could never say in our current times, such as ‘butts-up’ and ‘smear-the-queer’, which upon reflection, is probably a good thing.

This was the place you’d ask a girl to ‘go with you’, and what they meant is you’d walk around the track together, holding hands. Or, on the other hand, if she was a faster runner than you, instead, you’d challenge her to a race, to prove that you could beat her.

By the time each of us had spent our seven years in this place, or fewer if we had joined part-way through or left early, I imagine that every square inch of it could provide us with a unique and lasting memory, something that remains with us, and shapes us, in conscious or unconscious ways. Each room has a story—some were dangerous yet magical, some were off-limits, others were strange and maybe repulsive, or even secret with hidden surprises and treasures; or places of boredom and tedium, discovery and anticipation.

Time was measured by the big, round, white clocks at the front of every class-room, but the schoolyear was measured by anticipation. Each school-year began weeks before classes actually started, when teachers posted the names of their students for the coming year on a simple sheet of paper posted on the door of each classroom. Each of us made our way down to the school, with a mix of dread and excitement, hoping we’d get the teacher we like, avoid the one we didn’t, and get our best friends in the same class with us. Then we looked forward to Halloween and the parade of costumes, the parties and the candy. After that, the beginning of holiday crafts, practicing Christmas songs for the annual Christmas show, and then the long winter break.

For our birthday, Mr Wilson, our principal, would invite each of us into his office, that dangerous place of discipline and remorse, but this time we could enter, in order to pick out a polished rock from his interesting and extensive collection. Who wouldn’t love a polished rock? A magical, colorful, shiny object that reflected the kindness of the man who gave it to us, and who watched over us all, students and teachers alike, with gentleness and benevolence.

After the New Year, we might look forward to the annual book sale. For this, we were given a small catalog which contained a myriad of wonderful books, art supplies and games which we could choose from, place an order, and then anticipate their delivery several weeks later. The library was transformed at this time into a marketplace of these books for sale, where we could see, touch and smell the offerings, samples laid out on tables, the real-life versions of the amazing things found in the catalog. And then there was the annual carnival, with games of all kinds, tickets bought to try to dunk a teacher in a tank of water, or smash an old car with a sledge-hammer, or win a cake at the cake-walk.

And finally the events at the conclusion of the year: first, the big track meet which we hosted, inviting rivals Binkley Elementary, and Rincon (now Whited Elementary) to compete against us in all sorts of track and field events, and finally giving us the opportunity to try out the clever nick-names we thought up, calling our opponents ‘Binkley-Stinkly’ and ‘Rincon-Stinkin’; and second, the annual watermelon-feed, when Adrien, or Mr Wilson, would pull a huge flat-bed trailer filled with watermelon out onto the playground, using the old, ancient, rusty tractor that must have come from the Romans, and they would cut the watermelons into huge wedges, and hand them out to the entire school, crowded around the trailer, and everyone got their piece, and then another, and another, and then we all chucked the rinds at each other, littering the playground with greenish-white and pink slop. Those were the days!

~FS

To remember God is to forget ourselves, in every good way. Remembering God is the end of sadness, when we put to rest our attachment to everything fleeting and passing, and find eternal life within our Source. It is the end of striving, and we find our ambitions satisfied, and our desires fulfilled. It is the death of melancholy and boredom, when His life fills us with purpose and vitality. Remembering God causes courage to blossom, and fear to wilt; it is the revelation of unity and the vanishing of division. Anger towards our brother and sister, or towards the world in general, dissipates, as our eyes are fixed only on our destination in God. Remembering God deflates our ego, and the false belief in our own autonomy and power, as we come to our senses and recognize our true source of existence, from which every power and gift flows. Remembering God is the beginning of self-control in all things, as His peace fills our soul, and the ragings of our appetites are weaned. Remembering God is the life’s work of our soul; it is the occupation of our mind, our body, and our heart every moment of every day. It is the fulfilling of His commandments and the beginning of love. Remembering God is our beginning and our ending; it is our life and it is our salvation.

~FS

Marcus Trent had a wild weekend—again—just the way he liked it; with barely time to catch his breath. He was a busy man, knew a lot of people, knew how to have a fun, and had plenty of money, and health, to pursue happiness. He had an easy smile, his life was easy, and he knew that he mattered—because he was young and ambitious and connected.

But he was just a regular guy (he’d say), no different than most of his friends (not really), and no…he was not a hedonist…whatever that means. Besides, even if he was, what’s wrong with that? Man has been pursuing pleasure, in one form or another, for as long as he’s walked the Earth, hasn’t he, and it’s only natural to keep up the pursuit…besides, what else is there to do?

His weekend began Friday after work, meeting friends for dinner at a place downtown. He had a nice steak and some wine. Afterwards, they drove to a party uptown, and later, to another out in the country. Saturday he slept in, and then went to the gym for a pick-up game of basketball. After that, he returned home, took a quick shower and got dressed in time to make it to a friend’s wedding mid-afternoon—taking in the reception—and then off to dinner with some other friends, and then out to a movie. Later that night, he and a buddy went to a club, danced a bit, had a few drinks and then he returned home and turned in a bit early, since he was planning to meet a girl the next morning, one that he had hooked up with the previous weekend.

Sunday morning they had breakfast together, and then a nice, long walk around the lake. He had spent a little more time with her than he had intended, causing him to miss the kick-off of the early afternoon game. His buddies gave him a hard time as he walked in the front door, mid-way through the first quarter, but after a beer or two everything was good. His team lost, so they went out to dinner to forget about it.  He had wings and a beer or two, and then went home.

He didn’t have anything planned for the night, so he paced the room restlessly until he remembered that he had that girl’s number. He called her up and she came over a little while later. She stayed a few hours and they did what people do, and then she had to get going. He took a shower, then pulled out the X-Box and played until a little after midnight, and then went to bed so he’d be ready for work in the morning.

It had been a good weekend—nothing extraordinary—but not too boring. Monday morning was a little rough, his head didn’t feel great. Maybe he should have had one less beer last night, or more water. He poured himself a coffee, sat down at his desk, and took a look at his calendar: a few meetings, one or two solid leads for easy sales, and closing on a house Thursday.

“That’s a good one,” he thought to himself. “I should bag about $8,000 commission on that one alone. It’s going to be a good weekend,” he smiled.

Then he frowned; the weekend was so far away. He looked at the clock: 8:45am Monday morning.

“Man, how am I going to get through this week?” he asked himself.

He glanced around the room, searching for a distraction. He spotted a colleague at the far end of the office and yelled out to him, “Hey, Steve, how was your weekend?!”

“Not bad. Just a little of this and a little of that,” came the reply from across the room. “How about you?”

“The same,” replied Marcus.

He looked out the window. It was raining.

“Rain goes perfectly with boredom,” he muttered. “Why is life so boring?”

He looked back at Steve, who had taken his seat at his own desk now and was typing something on the computer. Steven Bennis was a good friend, though they rarely did anything together. He wasn’t the kind of person that you’d go to a party with, or catch a movie together. It didn’t seem like he’d enjoy these types of things, so Marcus never thought to invite him. But he was good to talk with, very good actually, and Marcus always felt that Steve really listened, and actually heard him, when they talked. Almost nobody made him feel that way, everyone else was always too busy, and moving too fast for that.

Steve never moved too fast, but he didn’t move too slowly either. Rather, he always seemed to match his speed appropriately to the present situation, and his temperament to the needs of the moment—never stressed, never bored, just steady. He seemed to glide through life, or float a little above it, living somehow unaffected by the things that provoked everyone else. Sometimes this annoyed Marcus, but it was difficult to be upset with Steve for very long because he was always on your side. Even when he was against you, so to speak, if he disagreed with you, or disapproved of something, he could somehow manage to express this in such a delicate and gentle way that it was disarming, and difficult to resist. If the world were a sea in constant motion, Steve was a rock, irresistible and resolute.

At the end of the day, Marcus and Steve left the office. As Steve walked downtown towards the park, Marcus decided to follow him at a distance, since he didn’t have anything else to do, and needed to kill some time.

“Let’s see what Steve gets up to in the evening. What secrets he’s hiding.” He laughed at the thought of this.

The park was situated near the corner of a large intersection. Flanked by apartments and businesses, it was the only spot of nature in the vicinity, and was a favorite destination for everyone living and working nearby, and also for many visitors just passing through town. It wasn’t extremely large, but it was beautifully planted, and had been designed by someone with an experienced eye. It wasn’t a small park either however, with a central fountain shaded by large American Sycamores, which dominated the perimeter of the main square; and tangent to this were several paths leading off in various directions, through densely planted borders, and alongside colorful copses of birches, maples and hornbeams, revealing hidden rooms with floral and foliated walls, and small glades of lawns opening up to the sun or the clouds above. The park snaked its way between the neighboring high-rises and back to the true gem of the park, which was an old brick and stone church hidden beneath the trees, and a collection of outbuildings organized in a tight formation to the side of the church, which comprised a small but functioning monastery of Orthodox Christian monks.

The church was Steve’s destination. On most weeknight evenings the monks offered a vespers service at 6pm, which the public was allowed to attend, and he rarely missed it. Actually, he rarely missed any of the services offered by the monks throughout the year, including the weekly Sunday liturgies, special feasts and vigils. In fact, it was the routine of these services year by year, along with his steady participation in the mysteries of the Church, more commonly known as sacraments—Confession and the Eucharist in particular—that he attributed for his even-temperament and serene manner of life. He would say that it was all of these things which had refined and polished him over time, and had somehow softened him, working away his rough edges.

On his way through the park Steve stopped at the fountain, and sat on its edge, next to another man. From where Marcus was standing, partially hidden behind the furthest sycamore, at the edge of the park, he couldn’t recognize the other man but his appearance made Marcus uncomfortable.

“Why the heck is Steve sitting with that guy?” he wondered, as he peered more intently at the two men, craning his neck a bit further around the mottled girth of the old tree to get a better view.

Steve had sat down next to Willie Bobson, a homeless man, who had been living in the park for the past week. They had struck up a conversation and the beginnings of a friendship at the fountain several days earlier, when Steve had stopped to admire the little ripples on the surface of the water, and the way they refracted the sunlight, casting patterns across the bottom of the pool.

“It looks completely random and irregular doesn’t it?” Willie had interjected that afternoon into Steve’s silent soliloquy.

“Why, yes it does,” Steve had replied, startled and bemused.

“It ain’t though. There’s a regular pattern there if you look hard enough…and maybe squint your eyes…can’t see it? Maybe take a step back, try that…No? Well, then,” Willy shrugged.

They both looked silently for a few moments down into the water.

“Sure is pretty though,” Willy said slowly.

“That it is,” Steve agreed.

They smiled at each other, and recognized something familiar in the eyes of the other—and in the ways common to most children everywhere—they knew instantly they’d be friends for life.

“They’re talking about something,” Marcus thought to himself. “Man, if I could just get a little closer. Wonder what they’re saying?”

The two stood up just then, and began walking together slowly down one of the paths leading to the back of the park towards the church. The church was their destination, but Marcus had no idea of this, because he had no knowledge that there was even a church at the back of the park. He had never been to it, and, apart from a party or two that may have taken place here back in high-school, he couldn’t actually remember ever being in this park before. He liked it though, something about it comforted him.

He considered following the two men down the path, but suddenly realized he was hungry. It was almost 6pm and he needed some dinner.  So instead, he turned around and walked back to the office, got in his car, and drove home to eat.

It was about 6:45pm when a small group entered the park. They were jovial and in a good mood. One of them carried a red balloon in his hand and talked loudly and animatedly. He was obviously the center of attention, and all eyes were watching him adoringly, although some also with a little sadness.

“I’m five!” he yelled out to anyone in the park that might be interested. “I’m five!” he yelled again to everyone interested or not. He claimed to be five, but he certainly was not. By all appearances he was closer to twenty-five, standing close to six-feet tall although severely hunched over, and he had what amounted to a slight beard scattered here and there across his face.

“It’s my birthday!” he exclaimed with joy, and then smiled from ear to ear.

The elderly couple that was walking with him directed him to a nearby bench and the three sat down together, while the little white dog that accompanied them jumped up onto the birthday boy’s lap, and curled up contentedly. He pet the little animal lovingly, and anyone watching the two of them would have had a difficult time telling who loved who more, but perhaps they adorned each other equally.

This little band of four were waiting for the next bus, and while they waited, Steve and Willie came back up the path from the church. It was beginning to get dark now, which made the crispness in the air feel colder. The rain that had fallen earlier in the day had stopped now, but water covered the ground, and gave every flat surface a sparkly incandescent glow, reflecting the streetlamps, the lamps in the park which had just come on, and the light from passing vehicles.

What happened next, all occurred so quickly, that nobody is quite sure how it all transpired. Those who observed the events each had somewhat different accounts, and nobody could completely agree on the details. Most people seemed to agree however, that it really wasn’t the bus driver’s fault, and that he shouldn’t be held responsible.

As the bus was driving north, just after it had passed Fourth Street, with about a block remaining before arriving at the bus stop in front of the park, an altercation broke out at the front of the bus, and it escalated rapidly. Before the driver was able to react, he found himself in the middle of the fight. As he explained to the police later that evening, he had meant to hit the brakes, but somehow in the confusion, he must have pumped the accelerator by accident. He doesn’t remember how this happened, or why, and he is so very sorry.

As he later told the police his account, the paramedics finished wrapping his head to stop the bleeding and were applying pressure to slow the swelling. This probably explained a lot, Sergeant Brixt surmised, and wrote as much in his report, stating that the driver most likely had suffered a concussion during the melee, and this was the cause of his error.

Meanwhile, as the bus approached the park, the little dog saw something that either scared him or excited him, so he leaped off the young man’s lap and darted out into the boulevard. Fortunately, there wasn’t a lot of traffic, and he made it safely to the raised median in the middle of the road. But then, he must have become frightened, and began barking desperately for help. The boy, whose birthday it was, screamed hysterically and floundered out into the street after the little dog. But the young man couldn’t run, in fact, he even had trouble walking, so as he stumbled along, he tripped and collapsed on the asphalt in a heap, crying out in pain and probably a great deal of fear.

Steve and Willie had just sat at the fountain when all this took place. In Steve’s heart he just wanted to go home, it had been a long day, and he was tired. He preferred to ignore this situation but instead, he got up and ran out into the street to help the boy. It was instinct, not thought, that caused him to run out to the boy’s aid, and it must have been adrenaline that enabled him to lift the little-boy-in-a-man’s-body with relative ease and get him out of the road. He had just pulled him to the sidewalk, and was returning to get the little dog, when the bus driver mistakenly hit the accelerator rather than the brake. Steve disappeared beneath the bus.

Onlookers, horrified and distraught, later consoled one another with words like, “It happened so fast, he probably didn’t even know what happened” and “I’m sure he didn’t feel much pain” or “He was a hero.”

The elderly couple, after giving their report to the officers, held their little boy in their arms and kissed him, and they hugged him, and he smiled again. By now the little white dog had been returned to his family, and the boy kissed him, and hugged him, and as he did this he clutched his red balloon happily.

Willie had just lost his new friend, so he cried. But he had also noticed something unusual at the moment Steve was hit, something that none of the other onlookers had seen, and he kept this in his heart, and it consoled him.

Willie Bobson was always on the move, never spending much time in any one place, not letting the dust accumulate on his shoes, he’d say. He hadn’t ever wanted a steady job, or a stable home, though he had also never tried for any of these things, and didn’t really know what they’d be like if he had them. His was a life of the mind, ideas intrigued him, and he found that he could think better while on the move. The wind in his hair, and the air in his face stimulated good thinking, he liked to say, and a little of it blowing through the ears was good for clearing away the cobwebs inside, he joked.

But he was getting older now, and he was tired. He was tired of moving, always looking for a place to sleep each night, always on edge, never at rest, never at peace. This park had provided some welcome comfort, and had gotten him to start thinking of a change of pace.

Even more, he had begun to think about a change of state, a change more significant and essential to his being than a mere change in the number of places he slept, or how often he hit the road, or how many meals he missed.

The past few days meeting and talking with Steve had opened a new door in Willie’s mind, and a new consideration, of a new kind of stability that transcends place and time, yet dwells inside of us. He began to consider for the first time the reality of God, but more than just a mental consideration of the fact of God, he had spent time with these types of thoughts since he was a child. No, this felt more like a confrontation, in the sense of an experience or meeting with someone beyond time and space. It was as if he had felt eternity for a moment, and it felt very good.

His life appeared anything but stable, and his choices, throughout his entire life, gave the appearance of utter randomness and confusion. Nevertheless, upon further reflection he could see that there had been a certain flow of ups and downs in his life, an even oscillation over its span, although comprised of multitudinal smaller oscillations if one were to take the time to look closely. But he felt trapped, for all of the freedom he had sought in this transient existence, he couldn’t get free of himself. The amplitude of his existence operated within finite limits that he couldn’t transcend and this vexed him. So he ran, he always ran, driven to get free, struggling to get free, but never truly free.

But then the moment finally came, in the most unlikely way, at the most paradoxical time, as his friend ran into the street, and at the exact moment Steve was hit by the bus. Willie felt a surprising surge of energy within him, saw a bewildering deluge of memories and images from his past, and knew a certainty about his future. His life had flashed before his eyes: past, present and future. He saw how he had tried and failed to find freedom throughout his entire life, he saw the constant limits pressing in on him, and the sorrow and pain of this existence. And then he saw his past few days living in the park, talking with Steve, visiting the church and the monks. And then he knew, with a certainty beyond any doubt, that this park also would be his final resting place. He knew that he would never leave this park, and he felt a thrill of peace and freedom in recognizing this truth.

It was as if he had died along with Steve, or rather, as if he had been given new life through Steve’s death. Somehow, the moment of death and life, seemed inextricably intertwined, and for Willie he now understood something no one had taught him. He understood empirically that his life, his freedom, would be born now out of this death.

The monks that had been feeding him the past few days, and whom he had curiously watched during services he attended with Steve, now took on a new appearance in Willie’s mind. They were his future. That little old brick and stone church at the back of the park would be his new home, and he would live out his days learning and growing in the knowledge of God—and he would depart this world someday from within the walls of that church, or from under a birch, or maple tree, or perhaps even from here, beside this very fountain.

By now the accident scene had been cleared, and traffic was moving normally again. Willie sat up and walked deeper into the park, found a quiet little place, and went to sleep.

The next morning at the office, Marcus was told about Steve’s passing. He was stunned, and spent most of the morning staring out his office window, but seeing nothing. As the day wore on however, he grew more agitated and restless. Whereas Steve’s death had brought peace to Willie, for Marcus it brought war. Life no longer made as much sense to him, and it suddenly no longer appeared to be the game he thought it was—and that he had been winning with such ease. Steve wasn’t that much older than he was, and he’s dead; Marcus considered this hideous reality for a moment, and shuddered slightly.

Death suddenly seemed behind every corner ready to jump out and take him next. This disturbed him, but something Steve had said to him just a few days earlier was disturbing him even more. It struck at the core of his entire existence, and now seemed even more poignant. He couldn’t remember the context of their conversation, or what exactly brought it up, but he remembered Steve had looked him in the eyes in an odd way, like he was about to say something to Marcus that he wanted to sink in very deeply.

“Marcus, you do realize, I hope, that there aren’t any pleasures in this world that come for free. Every pleasure in this world has hidden within it the seeds of pain and sorrow.”

“Well, thanks for that uplifting sentiment,” he remembered replying. “Rather macabre. Are you a pessimist, Steve?” he had asked.

“No. This isn’t defeat or despair talking, Marcus. Every worldly joy ends, every happy moment or excitement has its conclusion, it’s just the nature of it—even our loved ones, our children, our friends, everything ends, sometimes sooner and sometimes later. But always, no matter when it happens, it happens right now…I’m trying to tell you that your pleasure, your money, everything you are putting your desires into, it is all transitory, and has no true existence. You don’t have to keep chasing these illusions your entire life.”

Marcus remembered that he had wanted to make a joke at that moment, because he was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, but he couldn’t think of anything funny to say, so he grimaced instead.

“Something to think about,” Steve had said, and then slapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Give it a lot of thought, if you can. But consider this also, there is a way out, there is a lasting joy to be had in this place, and you can find it if you want it.” Then he had smiled and walked away.

Marcus had kind of wanted to punch Steve at that moment. This conversation annoyed him, but of course he didn’t. And since then, the idea of it had been eating away at him. Every pleasure is infused with latent pain and sorrow waiting to burst forth. What an idea! Who could live with such an idea?! Who would want to?!? It made him feel like slitting his wrists right then and there. What was the point then of this life? If not for pleasure and personal satisfaction, why live?!

And now Steve was gone, just like he had said. And though the memory of him brought some happiness, he was also right, the loss of him brought more sorrow and pain. So what was the point of this life then? And what did he mean, that there is a way out, a lasting happiness, and one that can be found…if we want it?

Marcus spent the next few days wrestling with these thoughts, and also with his emotions, as he tried to come to grips with the death of his good friend, especially with Steve’s sudden and permanent absence from his life.

As people often do, he went over the events of that evening in his mind, wondering what would have happened if he had only followed Steve and the other man down the path, or had invited Steve out to dinner with him, couldn’t he have prevented his death? And who was that other man Steve was talking with anyway? He was obviously homeless, probably crazy, and most likely just trying to scam his friend out of some money. But then, why did they look like they were having so much fun together…and Steve didn’t look bothered by the man at all, in fact, he looked pleased to be with him…It didn’t make any sense. But maybe that man held the key to his friend’s death, maybe he knew something…or maybe even, he was responsible and should be charged. Marcus decided it was time to find the man in the park and ask him a few questions.

It was Friday and Marcus decided to take the day off so he could find the man and get some answers. He found him at the fountain, as he expected, and approached the man with determination mixed with caution. He was prepared to get to the bottom of this, and he wasn’t going to let this thief, and possibly murderer, get away. But he also had to be on his toes in case the man attacked him, he had to be ready for a fight, and maybe the guy had a knife…he had to be prepared for that as well.

The man was dirty and wore too many layers of clothes, which they always do, Marcus thought to himself, slightly repulsed. He hoped the guy didn’t smell bad, and hopefully he didn’t have anything contagious either. The man looked up, as Marcus approached him, and he smiled. This smile, along with the sincere kindness that Marcus saw in the man’s eyes, caught him off-guard, and confused him momentarily.

“You must be Steve’s friend,” Willie said as he stood up.

This stunned Marcus. His eyes widened a little, as he asked, “How do you know that?!”

“We saw you watching us the other night from behind the tree over there,” Willie replied. “I expected I might see you again, and I’m glad. My name is Willie Bobson, good to know you.”

“Good to know you too,” Marcus stammered. Then he remembered that this guy was likely a con-artist, and this was probably part of his con. He reminded himself that he needed to be careful here.

“You want to know about your friend. You think I might know something, or might even be responsible, don’t you?”

This exposed Marcus and he didn’t like it, but it also, strangely, made him like Willie a little bit. Clearly the man was sharper than he expected, and also way more insightful than he ever would have thought. He also seemed normal, apart from his clothing and lack of hygiene. But even that was understandable, given his living conditions and circumstances. Marcus decided that maybe he was wrong about this guy, and maybe he should give him a little more respect.

“Yes, the thought crossed my mind that you might have had something to do with it,” Marcus replied.

“Well, you’re right. I did. Not in the way you are imagining though.” Willie sat back down on the fountain’s edge. “When Steve ran out into the road to save that handicapped boy, and then tried to save his little dog, he was also showing me something. He was showing me a different way to live.”

Marcus sat down beside Willie. “He died trying to save a dog?”

“No. He died trying to save me…We had just been talking, right before it happened. We were actually talking about eternal life. Well, no, in a way it was more about eternal stability; he was talking about what it is that can make a human being stop running, stop constantly chasing or hiding…or fighting.”

“And what’s that?” Marcus asked.

“Knowledge of God. Simply that—no, not simple at all. A simple concept maybe, but meaningless as just a concept, and not very helpful to me…but the deepest thing possible as a genuine event. And then…transformative of everything that we think we are; and the stabilization, or maybe healing, if you will call it that, of every turmoil within us—if lived out as our life’s purpose and goal. At least that is what I now believe. I believe our life purpose is to know God in every moment, in every action and thought. Always remembering Him, always calling upon Him.”

“I’m sorry, that’s just not possible,” Marcus interjected.

“Says the man who never tried. Have you kept God in your thoughts all the time? Every minute? Do that, and then let’s talk.”

“There isn’t time to do that,” Marcus complained.

“What else are you doing, Marcus, that is really all that important? Besides, it isn’t hard to think about something every moment, you’re doing that anyway. Just change what it is you are thinking about,” Willie replied. “Anyway, this is what Steve and I were talking about. He was trying to impress this upon me before he ran out into the street. And I think that final gesture of his was the ultimate expression, and proof, of his argument. Love—sacrificial love—saves, and gives birth, like nothing else in our world has, or ever can.”

They sat in silence for a while. A tall figure approached them from the direction of the church, emerging on the narrow path from beneath the canopy of a large birch tree. The Abbot of the monastery called out to Willie.

“Come, Willie, we have a place for you—it’s ready now. Come…let me show you.” He smiled and gestured to join him.

“I’m ready,” Willie called out to him. “I’m coming!”

He turned to Marcus and smiled. “Visit me sometime. I’ll be at the church, in the back of the park.”

He got up, and walked to meet the Abbot; they turned, and walked down the path together and out of sight.

The End.

~FS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I say Glorify God!

I have sometimes meant, glorify me, instead.

Though you wouldn’t know it by my words.

 

Turn me back to You, oh Lord.

 

I’ve read the beautiful words of John Chrysostom, been inspired,

and tried to emulate them.

But rather than expressing pure words from a golden mouth,

like he did,

I’ve uttered deceit, more befitting the one with a forked tongue.

Words may sound fragrant, though the motive for saying them can still stink.

 

Reorient me, oh Lord.

 

I know of the beatific attitudes, and that they lead to You,

to the summation and summit of all being.

But I’ve gone my own way, with attitudes that lead to nothingness,

to non-being.

 

I’ve turned purity of heart to corruption,

mourning into self-exaltation,

meekness and peace into warfare,

attempting to overcome my brothers and sisters.

 

Turn me back to You.

Turn me away from evil.

Turn me back to life.

Reorient me, oh Lord of the eternal morning!

 

Sometimes I am so tired of asking,

embarrassed, and weary for all of my incessant sins.

But who else can I turn to for help?

We all are turned in a myriad of wrong directions,

so how can my brother, who is currently walking into a ditch,

save me, who am presently walking off a cliff?

 

You are our only help.

Reorient us all, oh Lord.

Turn us back to You, in all we say and do.

And turn us back to You, in spirit and in truth!

 

~FS

Here’s the challenge—

Our forefather in Eden could not be obedient to God in the Spirit.

Can we now be obedient to God in the flesh?

 

Emmanuel, God is with us.

Do you believe?

 

Can you believe in the incarnate God—

born of flesh and Spirit: a man and God?

Will you obey the God-man, Jesus Christ?

 

Be obedient, not to yourself,

to not merely a Spirit,

to not an inhabitant of a heavenly realm,

but to This Human who walked among us.

 

Man loves a challenge,

especially when it builds his pride and self-esteem,

but how will you do, with a greater challenge—

a challenge that tramples your pride underfoot,

the challenge that is poison to your ambition?

 

Can you find the narrow gate,

and once found,

will you enter therein;

dying to all that you were,

and following the One who is greater than you?

 

Would you follow the man that is God?

Would you obey He that is and will be,

and was from before the beginning of time?

 

He was born in the flesh as one among us,

yet was perfect man.

He commands us to be perfect too—

 

Can you face this challenge?

Will you obey Him,

and will you be victorious?

 

~FS

Andrew David was not new to Orthodox Christianity but neither had he been born into it. To some, this second fact was a pity and a shame, while to others they considered this a blessing. He didn’t think much about it one way or the other, viewing his past as neither much of an asset nor as a liability.

Every morning and every night he lit the lampada lamps, which cast a warm and comfortable glow upon the icons hanging on the walls in the corner of his bedroom, and then he began to pray. He looked forward to the return of Christ; knowing full well the anachronism that his life, and this expectation, had become to the world around him. But this didn’t matter much to him. “Let the world go where it wishes”, he thought to himself, “I haven’t time to argue the matter.”

The time was early December, about three weeks into the advent fast, with another three weeks to go until the Nativity of Christ. He had been feeling under the weather for a while now, but not badly enough to see the doctor. He had seen his priest however, a few days earlier when he confessed his sins of the previous week; and he reflected on this as he stood before the icons for his evening prayers.

So many little annoyances had been nettling him recently. Silly things really, hardly worth mentioning: one person had walked too slowly in front of him, another had wandered carelessly back and forth across his path as he tried to pass them on the sidewalk—they then abruptly stopped, oblivious to his presence, to look at their cell-phone, causing him to stumble and careen in order to avoid walking into their back—and then there were the two ladies on the ferry, who spoke too loudly every morning about their shopping victories and their latest purchases. This last irritation particularly vexed him, anthropologically speaking, because he believed that mankind was slowly, but certainly, being transformed and reduced into mere shoppers, losing touch with any higher calling than basic consumption, and placing smart deal-making among the noblest of virtues.

As these thoughts flitted across his mind he suddenly felt impatient—impatient with the shoppers, impatient with the slow walkers and impatient with himself for reacting to these things, and finally impatient for Christ’s return. He felt his heart begin to race within his chest and knew he was letting this passion get the better of him again.  He said to himself, “No, this is certainly the wrong direction to go, I am wrong for thinking this way, come to my help Lord Jesus and help me find peace again, I am sorry for my impatience and my irritation.” Remorse arose within him in place of impatience, and he felt his equilibrium returning, as he lit the lampadas and prepared to pray.

He remembered what his priest had told him; “Bring these things to Christ in prayer, and as you fast physically, focus spiritually on fasting from these passions as well. This is the purpose of the fast, it isn’t a diet.” Yes, of course, he had heard this many times before, but when would he be done with these things once and for all? He knew that he was zealous for the Lord, and his zeal fired his determination, but in times of clarity he also saw how impatience can masquerade as zeal, and carry us mistakenly into a carnal fire, as opposed to a spiritual one. He had burnt himself this way enough times in the past to understand the danger, yet still he found himself making the same mistakes over again.

As he took a breath he began to pray, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.” Typically he began his prayers saying this short little prayer, often aloud at first, as it helped to corral his wandering mind, but then eventually silently, so that his deepening peace would not be disturbed by the sound of his voice. He felt his heart grow warm and joy rose in his breast. How sweet was this time alone in silence with God.

After concluding his prayers for the night he got into bed and eventually fell asleep. At first sleep eluded him. For some time he lay awake in bed and felt the illness creep upon him. It was easy to ignore during the activity of the day, but when laying here, without any distractions, he could feel the burn and ache in his extremities, the scratchy soreness in his neck, and the drip, drip, dripping as his sinuses drained onto the back of his throat. He battled to keep from coughing, catching the cough with a gasp of breath, only to be overcome by it with his next breath. In a spasm of hacking and coughing he rose from his bed and dragged himself to the bathroom where he kept a bottle of medicine that would sooth his throat and make him drowsy. It did the job and within the hour he was asleep.

He awoke suddenly, only a few hours later, with a burning pain piercing his left ear, sending sharp jolts of fire shooting down into his neck, and up into his head. Bewildered, he stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen and found his phone, quickly rattling off an email to his doctor with an urgent message to meet as soon as possible. He couldn’t imagine enduring this for very long, and though he knew it would be hours before she would get his message, it gave him comfort knowing that help would be on its way. After taking a few aspirin, drinking a glass of water and spending some time in prayer, the pain subsided and he returned to bed and slept until morning.

The next morning the pain had somewhat abated, and was more manageable, however, as it waned, it left in its wake a dull throbbing pressure which permeated the left side of his face, stretched through the back of his head, and across to his right ear. His left ear was nearly completely plugged, and he could discern only the slightest sound entering from beyond the pressure there. While his right ear was better off, it too felt as if it had been plunged below water, and his hearing was muffled. In fact, it felt as if someone had dropped his entire head into the ocean, and it had sunk to a depth of several hundred feet, such was the pressure he felt, and the new limits of his hearing.

The visit to the doctor didn’t turn up anything unexpected. She described the view inside his left ear as a bloody and angry mess. She prescribed antibiotics and explained that the pain he had felt earlier shouldn’t be a problem within a day or two. The pressure and the blockage to his ears however, could take weeks or even months to go away.

“Life can change on a dime,” he thought to himself, as he made his way back home from the doctor’s office, “one moment we are as we have always been, and the next moment we are forever changed.” He was thinking about his hearing, and how it had been perfectly fine when he went to bed last night, but now he could barely hear anything at all. “Isn’t that how age, and life proceeds for all of us?” He continued his train of thought, “moment by moment we are changed, for good or for bad. Of course, some changes are so much worse than this earache: sudden paralysis, a debilitating disease…death. But essentially it is the same problem we all face—can we make peace with the facts of what we have lost, and can we create a new life based on these facts?” Yes, this seemed true to him.

Two weeks passed, with little change to his hearing or to the strange pressure inside his head. However, he had begun to grow accustomed to these things; he would say that he had found some measure of peace with the facts of his new situation, though this peace hadn’t come easily. But he would also confide that his prayer life had suffered some strain during this period, and was still in a state of disturbance even now, as advent was drawing towards its glorious conclusion—the celebration of the coming of Jesus in the flesh, and the revelation of his earthly ministry.

Andrew David had developed a stable and rewarding prayer life over the years through diligence and dedication, not to mention, he would add, the grace of God. So it was with some surprise, and even more despair, that now he found himself unable to dive deeply into his heart, or to dwell in peace and joy therein. Instead, whenever he began to pray he felt anxiety and fear as he left the world behind him, and as he entered the silence of his inner being.

Upon reflection, he remembered the very night, some ten days earlier, when he developed this unfortunate fear and trembling—a dark night within his soul, in which God seemed to vanish and he was left alone with only the terror of himself, and perhaps the torment of a demon or two. That particular night he took a shower before going to bed, and as the water rained down upon his head, he could feel it as he normally would, but could only barely hear it, as if from afar, as one might hear the rain pounding down upon the rooftops while they sat nestled deep inside the house. This sensation made him dizzy, this strange incongruity and shifting perspective, and he found it unnerving. After his shower he made his way to the bed and lay there for a while. The sound of his breathing, as it rose up from his lungs, was trapped within his ears, or someplace inside his neck, and this made him anxious so that he couldn’t sleep. His breathing was too loud inside his head! He tried to shake it, to clear his ears, but of course this didn’t work. He had tried this numerous times before, but it never worked; it only made him more agitated. He turned on the exhaust fan in the bathroom in hopes of giving himself something to listen to beyond the confines of his own head, in hopes of giving his mind an audible waypoint to focus upon, that could distract him from the sound of his own breathing. It was a very small, dim sound, barely discernable, but this worked well and he fell asleep.

Around three o’clock in the morning the pressure within his ears woke him and he was unable to fall asleep again. He got up, lit his lampada lamps, and began to pray. Within a few moments he abruptly stopped; the pounding in his ears, and the sound of his breath trapped strangely within his neck, and the dim light from the lamps, all conspired to close in upon him, and he felt a sudden panic of claustrophobia. After a few moments he regained his composure and tried to pray again. “I will just pray the Jesus prayer for a while,” he thought to himself, “and I will call upon Christ to come to my help and to dwell within me.” He remembered reading the writings of one of the church fathers, which stated that saying the prayer in silence can sometimes lead to an unstable mind, however, saying it aloud can help maintain sanity. He decided to say the prayer aloud tonight.

As the prayer drew him down into his heart—something which would normally be a pleasant experience—instead, he abruptly encountered terror here, as the images of darkened clouds filled his mind and obscured everything else. His breathing was as the wind blowing these clouds in circles, and the pressure within his head was like the wind buffeting the windows and doors of his house—a mental house which he couldn’t escape. “Who can help me in here?” he thought, “if not God? Who could come to my help, or understand this terror, if God will not save me?! Oh how dreadful, how can we live in our minds, so alone and beyond the help of others? Nobody else can clamber into this head of mine and find the source of my suffering, and heal me.”

He continued to pray to the Lord, and to try to sense His presence. He remembered how his prayers had seemed before—like a bright and golden sun, shining in a glorious blue sky, wide open and airy. But this memory, remembered visually in this way, only made the current torrent of clouds more terrible, as he felt this cloud-cover so palpably within him, and saw how totally it obscured any lightness or beauty that he might otherwise have known.

He suddenly felt very hot, so he loosened the top of his robe, and pulled at the collar of his shirt. He stopped praying and stared blankly at the flame in front of him. He glanced about the darkened room—it had become very small. In fact, his entire house seemed too small now, and he thought perhaps he should get up and run outside. And he was far, far too hot. “I must take this robe and this shirt off,” he decided. “But if I run outside now, at four in the morning, in the dark, in the pouring rain and the cold of winter, then what?” He pictured himself running down the street and possibly huddling under the large apple tree at the side of the road, not far from his home. “But then what? Will I stay there until someone finds me in the morning? No, this is crazy…I’m not mad…I’ll be fine.” He reassured himself. “I shall stay here, and it will be okay.”

He returned to praying and immediately the whirlwind of darkened clouds filled his mind once again. He began to panic as he called out, “Lord Jesus come to my help, hurry to my rescue!” He could feel everything pressing in on him again, causing him to gasp. He couldn’t breathe. “Where is God?!” He searched frantically within himself for a way out, some mental distance that he could occupy, to observe his situation with objectivity and find a solution, but it couldn’t be found. Then he recalled the story of the whirlwind and Elijah, and the small, still voice of God in the whirlwind. “Perhaps God is in this whirlwind too.” He had become certain that he was alone within these darkened clouds, or worse, that they were the cover and creation of demons. But this new thought, the idea that perhaps God could be occupying them instead, had a calming and a soothing effect on him. He began to pray with greater confidence, and he imagined God’s presence within the clouds. Soon they faded and disappeared and he felt like himself again. He felt his breathing return to normal and he realized he was very tired. Relieved that this experience was over, he climbed back into bed and fell asleep.

The next morning he recalled the story of Elijah more clearly and how God was not in the whirlwind, but came as a still, small voice after the wind. He smiled, “well, maybe I was wrong about that, theologically speaking, but practically speaking I was right.” Remembering that scriptural story, though incorrectly, had certainly helped him gain victory over panic, fear and despair.

The Nativity of Jesus Christ was now only days away, which meant that the advent fast was nearly complete. His earache was still a constant presence; evoking anxiety and despair only on occasion now, while inspiring patience and endurance much more frequently. He had almost come to appreciate his earache, which surprised him, for what it was giving him, which was a material example of his spiritual struggles; and he also had almost begun to consider it as a friend, which amused him, for what it had taken from him, which included not only his irritation and impatience, but also his hearing, which made sitting on the ferry next to the two loud shoppers far more pleasant for the silence he enjoyed.

The End.

~FS

Come, look and see all the magnificent things God has done for us.

He has given us minds capable of comprehending.

This alone is astounding, and not to be taken lightly, but is reason to be awestruck.

You have been given millions upon millions of neurons, networks, synapses capable of complexities of thought; a brain of startling depth and intricacy.

A heart capable of fathomless intimacy.

 

Come, remember who you are, a being made in the image and likeness of God Himself.

The very essence of divinity is woven into your structure.

Wisdom made you a substance of light and spirit.

How wonderful is He who made you and gave you potential to live and know and have your being—able to seek your Maker, and act within His grace, to do His commandments, and to share in His unending Love.

 

Come and arise, and wake up to your calling to love as He loves, to do as He does, to be holy even as He is holy.

 

Come and be perfect, be whole, as you were intended to be from the beginning.

 

Come and be enslaved to the Master of All, casting your lot with His.

Be courageous, and come alive in the pure life of holy freedom.

 

Come out and away from your enslavement to sin.

Cast away the works of the enemy and run into the arms of Christ, your salvation and your hope.

 

Do we have reason to be overwhelmed by God’s Love?

Do we, rather, have any reason to fail to be so moved?

 

Come now to your senses once again!

Come back to yourself.

Remember and repent and return!

Come back!

 

And when you have returned.

Come Lord Jesus, come, and abide with us!

Amen.

 

~FS

I know a man in town who’s habit it is to carry in his wallet, money which he gives to those he meets that are in need. He rarely leaves his home without checking a special pocket in the back of his leather billfold to ensure that there is some assortment of ones, fives, tens and twenties available for those who ask.

When asked how he determines who is worthy of these special dispensations he will reply that anyone who asks him is worthy. It makes no difference their appearance, or circumstance, for who is he to judge another human being? If they are in need and he can help he sees this simply as his obligation, his opportunity, and, he would add, his benefit and blessing. “For what gift can we give that we don’t receive as much in return, to our own benefit, in the way of spiritual rewards: joy, peace, goodwill…”

It had been some time since he had crossed paths with anyone in need on the street corners or parking lot exits where one typically finds them, and he was feeling sorrow because of this, and a great need to find someone to help. So on this particular day he drove north to the Trader Joes parking lot where there is usually a man, or a woman or even a whole family waiting for someone to help them. Today he found a young man, bundled in blankets, sitting on the sidewalk in the rain, rocking back and forth and muttering unknown things to himself. He was clutching in his hands a pipe and lighter and looking up at the sky. When the man approached him and offered him the money, he barely took notice but just continued rocking back and forth and staring into the distance. He wished the young man a peaceful day and hopes for a warm bed tonight, gave him the money, and returned to his truck.

As he told it to me later, while approaching the young man, he considered how much of his money to give him, and while he doesn’t withhold money from anyone in need, he also doesn’t want his contributions to be used by others to hurt themselves. This young man clearly looked like he could choose to use the money for drugs rather than food. Perhaps he should have bought the boy food instead, as he sometimes does, but in this case he thought it better to give eleven dollars, enough for a warm meal, but not so much that it could be too harmful should the child choose to go that route. He prayed that the young man would make a wise choice with the money he had been given.

I asked him if this was the end of his adventures for the day and he replied that no, in fact there was a second part of his calculation when deciding what to give the young man: how much to hold back, to have ready to give the next person who he felt certain he would find that day. The next person would need quite a bit more, he believed, so he kept closer to eighty dollars ready in his wallet after leaving the young man.

“This is very generous,” I exclaimed.

“Don’t get the wrong impression. I am a selfish man,” he replied. “I really am, my wife has reminded me of this many times and it is true. For all the good you seem to think you see me doing here, there are plenty more occasions where I display complete disregard for anyone but myself. In fact, in truth, this is how I live most of my life. But hopefully I will change.”

He continued his story, “the next person I found a bit farther south, standing on the corner near Costco, holding a sign and clutching a crutch under each arm. His legs were badly deformed and he had trouble maneuvering in the rain, as his crutches slipped on the concrete.  As I approached him I could see he had a fighting spirit and also a gentle spirit. I was immediately impressed with him, and wanted to know more about him. I introduced myself and suggested he might have better luck up the street on the corner near the Seventy-Six gas station because there was a pull-out there where cars could get out of traffic and more easily give him money. He didn’t know the area well, and hadn’t stood asking for money in quite a while but he had sudden expenses and not enough for rent and he was in danger of losing his home. His roommate was too afraid to stand asking for money because of bad experiences with others yelling at him and throwing things at him in the past. But he didn’t mind these things, one just does what they have to do. I gave him the handful of money and he pocketed it gratefully.”

“What was the matter with his legs, did you ever find out?” I asked.

“Yes. He has cerebral palsy. His eyes are also very crossed and as he explained to me he has troubles with incontinence and therefore has to wear ‘Depends’ all the time.  And I must tell you when he confessed this I almost wept. He said it so plainly, without shame and also without any self-consciousness whatsoever. He might as well have been telling me what he had for breakfast. I can’t explain it but the simplicity of that humbled me tremendously and my admiration for him grew. ‘The body does what the body does, you just have to take care of it’ he said to me. I wish I could have conveyed the naturalness of this statement in the way he said it. It was truly tremendous, no artifice, no mannerism that would suggest any of the issues I might have, were I the one needing the diapers. I’ve heard it said that humility is just being who we are honestly, naturally. I have rarely, if ever seen a clearer example of genuine humility and it was beautiful. He then commented that in fact he had used his diaper there and needed to find a bathroom soon where he could change it for a new pair and this is why, he explained, that he kept an extra pair of pants with him and additional ‘Depends’ in the bag he carried while he asked for money on the street corner.”

“How horrible,” I exclaimed, “I feel so badly for him.”

“That’s just it. He didn’t need my pity. And he didn’t feel badly for himself either. He seemed to take all of this in stride, with a calm and peace I have only seen in animals. Have you noticed your pet, or a deer for instance when it has been injured, they don’t complain, in fact you hardly will know if your puppy has an ailment, he doesn’t tell you and he takes it all patiently. Have you noticed that? I have, and it always impresses me. Of course this man is not an animal, and I don’t want this comparison to be taken the wrong way. I mean it as high praise. He seemed to transcend the common man’s turmoils and complaints about his daily life, and bear them all, including great insult, with amazing patience and endurance. But what I wanted to tell you is that while we stood there together on the corner, I told him that I hoped he’d be able to get enough money for his rent, so that he could keep his home. And do you know what he said? He said, ‘Oh, I will. God will provide for me.’ Well, that in itself isn’t surprising, you hear that often enough, but he said it with a faith unfeigned, and as a simple statement of fact, as I was beginning to understand was his custom. Now, I hear this statement fairly often, and, in fact, I’ve said it myself many times, but he said it in a different way than I usually hear it said, not in order to convince himself, or to convince his audience at all, in fact there was absolutely no convincing needed at all. He merely said what was so, and what would happen. That’s it. He would get the money and God would provide, and there wasn’t any reason for concern. Bravo! Oh, how I admired him in almost every way! And, I envied him, unfortunately. I’m ashamed to say it, but I did envy him his faith. I wish I could have only admired him, and found inspiration by him, because envy is a nasty thing, isn’t it? I say it is a nasty sand-trap on the golf course of life, you don’t want to hit yourself into that. No, it is more like quicksand, envy is; before you know it you’re in over your head and you can lose yourself.”

“Was that it then? Did you both go your own ways? You must have had to get back to work by this time, and you had already spent quite a bit of time with this man and also the young man in the blanket,” I said.

“Well he asked to be pointed to a nearby restaurant if I knew one, as he was getting hungry and needed to sit and rest his legs. And he also asked if I knew where he could get new rubber points for the ends of his crutches as he went through those every few days and the current ones he had were worn through. I happily offered him a ride to a medical supply store I knew of just a couple miles up the road, so we drove off together.”

“Did you feel like he was using you a little by this time?” I asked.

“Not at all! And so what if he was. But no I didn’t.”

“I might have felt uncomfortable having him in my car, and also taking so much time now out of my day.”

“Yes, well, he said he trusted me, so he was comfortable getting in the truck with me. I was looking at the time though and raced through, in my mind, all of the things I still needed to do for the day, and how far behind I had already become. Could I afford to take him to get these supplies? Oh how dreadful I am sometimes. This man could barely walk, hardly had a dime to his name, has to suffer the ignominy of wearing diapers, and is clearly socially outcast in most of life’s social settings, and I’m worried about my errands. I became nauseous then, literally sick to my stomach, because I saw myself and how narrow and small I was…contrasts are terrible aren’t they, helping us to see and understand; I mean, a light is brighter at night, isn’t it, and sound travels so well through silence. Well, performing this act of caring for him was highlighting how little I do for others, most of the time. And the worst thing is even with this realization, I hardly wanted to change. I still wanted to focus on my espressos, enjoying lunch with friends, surrounding myself with luxuries and beautiful things. I didn’t want to enter into his life for very long. It scared me, and depressed me, and overwhelmed me actually.”

“That is understandable.”

“Yes, well, so we went to the medical supply store and I bought him the new rubber tips he needed for his crutches, and also new rubber handles that went over the metal posts where he gripped the crutches and a packet of ‘Depends’. And he used the bathroom at the store to change himself and then I took him to the hamburger place across the street and dropped him off so he could get a meal and then he called and arranged for a friend to come pick him up there so I could go on my way. As he got out of my truck and we said our farewells I thanked him. This seemed to take him aback and he asked why I was thanking him. I couldn’t really explain to him why, but you understand.”

“And so that was it then? A good day I’d say by any measure. You helped two people in need and had quite an adventure at the same time.”

With that, we finished our espressos, the man and I, and we agreed to meet again soon, perhaps next week, to share another coffee and maybe a new adventure or two. He paid our tab and walked out the door into the rainy evening and I also began my walk home. Thinking over the story the man had just shared with me, I hoped to find someone myself to help. I had a few bucks in my pocket. But the streets were empty as I made my way, with nobody huddled under the streetlamps hoping for change, just the falling rain flickering under the golden lamplight. As the raindrops pattered overhead, onto my umbrella, I vowed to myself that if I had the good fortune to find someone in need tomorrow, I wouldn’t overlook or pass by my opportunity to help them.

The End.

~FS