House of Spirits (Part IV) Heart of the Matter & What the eyes can't See.

The Heart of the Matter

“Peter, you can’t spend the rest of your life being angry with God and venting on society. You have a calling that’s never been revoked, and you still have a chance to fulfill your purpose.”
     I felt the rage coming on and raised my voice, “I don’t believe you!” Then slapped the table and exploded, “You’re just another drunk working an angle! But, if you were legit, and if I did believe you, I would say, “Forget the calling! Look where it got me!”
       I looked around the room and saw people were staring, even the bartender looked on while holding a drying cloth and shaking his head. I quickly considered my options, of which there were only two. Either I could walk away from the delusional misfit, or sit back down and continue the game of cat and mouse.
      I figured the night was shot, and there was nowhere I had to be, nor anyone to go home to, so I decided to continue with the cat and mouse and see how far he was willing to take it. I mean, how often you meet someone that was present at creation.

What the eyes can’t see.

 I sat back down and asked, “Are the drinks still on you?”  To which he responded, “Bartender!”  When the drinks were poured he continued, “Peter, this is a world where evil is present and active. It’s a place where bad things happen to good people and God gets blamed.”
      My mind begin to drift and I remembered in the book of Job, Gods integrity was called into question, and thought it quite a contrast that while Job defended himself, this man was sitting in a bar making a case for God. It was disarming and though I did not believe he was a celestial being, I no longer thought he was out to get anything from me.   
    I suddenly had a hunch that he may have been hooked up in a group that done bar room ministry, so I asked, “Methuselah, where do you attend church?”
 He didn’t miss a beat when he responded, “It depends on where I’m at the time. Last week I was with those who gather in China’s underground network. Before that I was in Iraq, hanging out in a house church. I go where I’m sent and pour myself out to the one in need, then move on to the next assignment. That’s why I’m called a ministering spirit. And, since you inquired, tonight I’m ministering to The Body of Christ, as we speak.”
     He raised one eyebrow, then leaned his chair back on two legs and crossed his arms. It felt as if we were sitting in a court room and I had just been called on to testify against myself. Though he did not say a word, there was some innate impression that told me what he was thinking.
     So, I dropped my head and said, “I’ve not been in a while. A very long while. In fact, I even wonder if God….well, I just wonder.”
       “I know—that’s why I’ve come.”
And just like that, he penetrated my exterior and broke through a defense mechanism that had been holding people at bay for years.
   “I still don’t believe you’re and angel, but I’m sure your intentions are good.”
    “Peter, you know what they say about the road to hell?”
  “Yes. I’ve heard it’s paved with good intentions.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
     “So, you think I’ve come to take you to hell?”
   “No, I just think you are a well-intentioned self-proclaimed street minister. I’m sure you have helped lots of people, but my story reads a little different. It’s not your typical church narrative.”
   “It may be more typical than you think.  Just look around the room.”
      “What?”
    “ Look around the room and tell me what you see.”
     “Is this some kind of exercise?”
     “Trust me. Look around the room and tell me what you see.”
I thought he was taking the cat and mouse thing a little far and wondered if it was time to bid my new acquaintance good night, but to appease him, I looked up and around the room.
     “Peter, you’re looking, but not seeing. Give it another shot, only this time, take it a little slower and pay attention to the details.”
     “What do you mean?”
   “Ever heard of Bob Timberlake?”
     “The artist?”
   “That’s right. And how about Norman Rockwell?”
     “What is this? What are you getting at?”
    “Details, Peter. Artist give attention to detail. Go ahead, try it. Look around again, see if
     you notice any of the details.”
I was growing frustrated with the back and forth, but conceded and reluctantly lifted my head and looked around the room.
     There was a man at the bar looking all business—dressed nice, sporting a button down collar and wearing a neck tie. He was sitting alone drinking from a long neck and watching a football game.
     There was a lady at the end of the bar smoking a cigarette and sipping whatever was in her glass, while looking into a smartphone.
    On the dance floor two couples were swaying to the music as The Juke box belted out the old Temptations classic, I Wish It Would Rain.
     Then I noticed a man and woman sitting at a table. They were obviously into each other’s company. He was leading the conversation while she laughed and occasionally leaned into him, running her hand up and down his arm.
     It was getting late, which explains why most of the regulars had already left. Those who remained were content until the place closed for the night. After which, some would move on to the Waffle House, or some other eating joint, while the rest retreated to the lonely corridors of an isolated existence.   
     After giving the patrons a second once over, I looked to Methuselah and asked, “Okay, was that good enough for you?”
     “It was better. Now let me show you what I see.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “Take my hand and let me show you.”
     “Huh?”
      “Come on, reach under the table and take my hand.”
      “Uh, no. Don’t think so. I’m good and I think I’ve already seen plenty.”
 I placed my hands on the table to slide my chair back and excuse myself when Methuselah placed his left hand over my right said, “Please Peter, let me show you something.”
     I looked into the old man’s eyes and saw a look that could only be described as genuine concern. I felt the warmth of his touch and instinctively withdrew my hand.
     “Come on, let me show you a few more details.”
   On any other occasion, I would never have engaged in such a conversation. Especially for the length of time I had already invested in a man I did not know, not to mention coming back, after having walked out once, but Methuselah had magnetism.
     “Give me a chance, and if you’re not convinced, then you can leave. If you chose to do so, we’ll probably never see each other again, and you can move on with your life.” 
     I could not believe what I was doing as I placed my right hand back on the table. The old man smiled and placed his hand over mine and said, take a deep breath and hold it, then close your eyes.  I inhaled deeply as I closed both eyes. Then, Methuselah leaned forward and whispered, “Now exhale and open your eyes, but do not pull your hand away from mine and please don’t be afraid.”
    And with that, I exhaled then opened my eyes and was not prepared for the things I saw. When I gasped, and recoiled he responded with a firm grip and soft voice, “It’s okay, don’t be afraid. Nothing here is going to hurt you.”
     I saw shadow like figures—dark spiritual beings—levitating and drifting around the room. It was like something out of a horror movie, or John Hartness Novella, but only worse, because it was real.  When the spirits realized I was aware of their presence, they began to snarl, sigh and hiss.
      Methuselah leaned toward me and asked, “Are you okay?”
   I trembled, and grew sick to my stomach, then tried to withdraw my hand, but he held a firm grasp. I began to stutter, “Wha, wha, what is this? What am I seeing?
  “You’re looking into the spiritual realm. It’s another dimension.”
     “I thought you were going to say that.”
   “Peter, these are only a very few of those who rebelled and were cast out of Heaven.”
      “Were you there, did you see the rebellion?”
   “Yes, I watched as Lucifer deceived and manipulated a third of The Angelic Host.”
Looking around the room it felt like something out of the Twilight Zone. I was seeing, but not wanting to believe; hearing, but finding it hard to understand. And, unlike the Hartness novella’s I knew there would be no Bubba to save the day. The bartender shouted, “Last call for alcohol!” That meant it was 1:30 am and the bar would close in half an hour.  
     Methuselah said, “Brace yourself, what you’re about to see may be a bit unsettling.”

(House of Spirits Part III)

Second Chances

     It was only a short walk back and as I approached the Bar I heard the jukebox and recognized an old Bob Segar tune—Against the Wind. I closed my eyes and listened to the opening lines, “Seems like yesterday, but it was long ago……..” The song tells a story and that night it was speaking to my own narrative. Because it seemed like only yesterday, when I was happy and fulfilled; living with a sense of purpose. But, as the lyrics read, “It was long ago.” I felt the emotion welling up from somewhere deep and opened my eyes. Tears ran down both cheeks.
     Time had not healed the wound. The pain was just as real, and just as present, as it was on the day we laid them in the ground. The same day I retreated into a cave of disconnection, questioning everything I once believed and thought was true. Simply put, I was disappointed with God and no longer wanted to be around his people.
     Standing in front of the bar, on the corner of Elm and Main, I looked to a blue neon sign that read, House of Spirits, and walked through the door. A quick survey of the room revealed a few people had left, while others had come in. Two couples were on the dance floor swaying to the music, and Methuselah was still sitting at the same table in the corner; as if, he knew I would return.   
     When he looked my direction, a smile broke across face as he gestured an invitation with another wave of his hand. I hesitated for a moment, still unsure of what I was getting into, but fully aware this night, and our meeting had nothing to do with coincidence.
     Walking toward his table I noticed he had traded whiskey for what appeared to be water, which explained the second thing—he did not seem as boisterous.  As I pulled out a chair and sat down he said, “I’m glad you came back Peter. Sometimes I get a little belligerent. If I offended you, I apologize.”
     I responded, “It’s okay, but I’m a little surprised you’re still here.”
“The place doesn’t close until two. I was prepared to stay until then, but tell me, what brought you back?”
    “Something you said.”
“Which was?”
“That thing about story. You said everybody has one.”
     “That’s right, everyone does, and before you can know, or even attempt understand someone, you’ve got to read a few chapters from their life. There’s a reason people are the way they are. Some of it has to do with environmental grooming and some of it has to do with the hard wiring of DNA. Then, there’s individual choice that affects the quality of one’s life, and at times, the choices others make.”
    His response left me a little confused and wondering how the drunk had suddenly become an intellectual. Then I came a thought that triggered a question.
     “So, you said you’ve been around for a long time. I’m curious, how do the early chapters of your own story read?” You seem to have read a few chapters from my life, let’s hear a little of yours.”
  Like two poker players siting at a table, we held our cards close and looked into each other’s eyes. The momentary silence led me to believe I had called his bluff. I thought I had him on the ropes as he reached for his glass and turned it up. But then he sat it back on the table, nodded his head and said, “Fair enough.”
     “I have already told you, I’m not a stalker, or a scam. I did not come seeking you out in hopes of getting anything. I have come to help you find something.”
     I responded “Uh, it’s your life we’re talking about now.”
     “ I get it, but to prep you for what’s coming you need to understand that I’m here for your benefit, not mine, and what I am about to share is going to rock your world.”
     “Try me.”
          “Peter, I have no earthly father, or mother.”
      “So, you’re a figment of my imagination?”
          “No.”
        “You were artificially inseminated?”
            “No.”
          “You’ve escaped from Area 13 and the government is secretly looking for you?
            “No, I’m not a weird alien on the run.”
 I was growing frustrated because I thought he had something to share, but it seemed like, the more he talked the less he had to say. I was disappointed and starting to believe he was either half cracked, or else on something—beginning to wonder from which institution he had escaped.
     “I’m neither crazy, nor missing in action from any institution.”
 And just like that I was the one on the ropes. It was like he was reading my mind.
     “How did you do that?”
        “If you would let me finish….”
I had heard enough and was ready to leave again, but before I could push my chair back from the table he dropped the bomb, “Peter, I was present at the dawning of creation.”
     “What?”
       “Yes, and I listened as He spoke the words, ‘Let there be light’, and watched the stars explode into existence. I saw Him set the furnace of the Sun on fire, and place the moon in orbit. I was there when He scooped out the valleys and pulled up the mountains; and on the sixth day, when Elohim said, “Let us make man in Our Image,” I looked on as He reached into the dust of the earth and fashioned man in the likeness of Himself, then watched Him breath into that man the breath of life, and saw Adam become a living soul.”
    I looked into his eyes and he reciprocated with a piercing focus that penetrated the very core of my being and brought an awareness unlike anything I had ever experienced. Discernment informed me he was not inebriated, nor was he making vain gestures.
      It was a diatribe that paralyzed my thought process. I sat there speechless, as he leaned a little closer and whispered, “I told you I’ve been around for a while. Do you get what I’m saying, or do I need to spell it out a little more?”
     “Uh, uh…well, uh, wha, wha, what are you saying?”
         “I’m not of this world.”
    “Then you’re—?”
        “What does theology suggest?”
    “Forget theology. Psychology says you’re delusional.”
       “But, what is your heart telling you?”
  “Are you trying to tell me you’re an angel?”
        “Yes, that’s exactly what I telling you and as you know, we’re also called ministering spirits.”
   I wanted to believe he was just another drunk drinking his blues away, or some schizophrenic off his meds. However, the feeling in my gut, and the cold chills running down my arms informed me he was neither, so I leaned forward and whispered, “Suppose, just for a minute, that I believed you.”
    “Yes?”   
      “I would have to ask a question.”
He responded, “Sure. Ask me anything.”
       “Where have you been and what has taken Him so long!”
“Peter, the timing was not up to me. But, that’s not the only question you have.”
      I felt the anger begin to rise because he was right. I did have another question. In fact, I had been haunted by a question ever since I awoke in a hospital room to learn my wife and child were both dead. I had begged God for an answer, but one never came.
      Methuselah looked me in the eye and said, “You want to know why.”
    “Yes! I want to know why God forsook me and my family! I want to know why I was left and they were taken! We had given all we had and in the end, it meant nothing!”

(House of Spirits Part II)

Faded Memories

 Walking out of the bar, his words, "Everyone has a story..." echoed in my head and resonated with my heart and as much as I wanted to write the old guy off, had to agree, the last few chapters of my life had been a complete disaster. It was too painful to think about, much less discuss with a Barfly.
   I had left my car in a small parking lot a couple blocks off Elm Street, by the trainstation, near an old Barber Shop my father and I frequented when I was a still in single digits. The walk was giving me a chance to unwind from the previous scene, and time to process things. When I approached the Barber Shop I stopped and took a moment.
  I had not been there in years, so I stepped up to the window, pressed both hands against the glass, and leaned forward to look inside. The shop was lit by a small light mounted over a mirror that hung behind two Barber Chairs. When I looked through the window, a flood gate opened as I remembered walking into that same shop every other Saturday with my dad.
     I recalled climbing up into the chair and the sound of the Barber’s cutting cape popping in the air. I was always intrigued with how in one fluid motion, he could wrap it around my upper body as it fell across my lap and remembered the tickling sensation on the back of my neck when he clipped it together.
     I saw the chairs that lined the wall and from my mind’s eye could see my father sitting and reading from the latest issue of sports illustrated. I could smell the fragrance of different hair tonics from the Barber’s stash.  I heard the chatter of men talking about the weather and other things that didn’t matter, such as politics and small town gossip. My father was the local minister of a small country church, so the conversation was G rated, for the most part. Life was simple then and the memories left me longing for the innocence of youth again.
     But, the nostalgia quickly faded, with a haunting reality of yesterday being gone while the complications of my life were grew more difficult. And with that realization I heard the echo of Methuselah’s words, “Everyone has a story,” and understood the Barber Shop represented something more significant than a haircut. It was a rite of passage—written into the early chapters of my life. It was my dad’s way of bringing me into the fellowship of men.
     After the haircuts were finished and the gossip had run its course, my father and I would leave the shop and stop by Guilford Dairy for a Banana Split. He called it a “Sneaky,” and informed me I was to never tell my mother. It was his way of taking the ordinary and making it special. Creating memories that have lasted a life time.
     I had looked forward to a time when I would return the favor by doing the same kind of things with my own son, but that was no longer a possibility.  And with that understanding I stepped back from the window, and looked to the parking lot where I had left my car, then tuned my head toward bar, where I had left Methuselah and knew I had to go back and hoped he was still there.

House of Spirits

(Introduction)

Methuselah

 “I’m serving a life sentence with no chance of parole,” said the man next me. We were sitting at a bar with an empty stool between us. I was hesitant to respond because I did not want to get involved. Experience had already taught me, in this world there are only three kind of drunks—happy, crying and mean.
    Happy drunks are loud, uninhibited and the life of every party. Crying drunks are shedding tears in all the beers.  Mean drunks—well, they're looking for a fight. And, as far as drunks go, the alcohol doesn't make them what they are, it just emboldens and embellishes who they are. It has a way of breaking down walls of resistance and releasing the demons. Manifesting wounds through chaos and confusion, holding prisoners captive. Often, for generations.
   In all fairness, I did not know if he was a drunk and I did not care to find out. Believing a quick exit was the best strategy to avoid meaningless conversation, I tipped the Bar Tender, and stood to my feet, as he turned up a drink, and sat his glass back on the bar with a thump!
   I looked down on him about the time he looked up to me, and as our eyes met he smiled and said, "If you'll stick around, the next few are on me.”
   I was momentarily disarmed by the invitation and thought it another example of how people long for connection. It's like we're hard wired for fellowship. Some find it in church, many look to Social[CD1]  Media, and others seek it out in Bars & Honky Tonks. I realize this leaves me sounding like a preacher, but don't be alarmed, that was in a previous life. One where I thought I had it all together, until my world fell apart and everything I believed was seriously challenged.
    On any other day, I would have responded, "Thanks, but no thanks," then offered an excuse as to why I had to leave, but something about the look in his eyes resonated. So, I broke with habit and returned to my seat.
    He reciprocated by sliding over onto the empty stool and asked, “What’ll it be?” To which I responded, “I’m not too picky.” Then he raised his voice a couple of octaves, and said, "Bar Tender! Two more Seagram’s please!" I was already wrestling with regret and questioning, "Why am I doing this?”  But, that thought was interrupted when he reached forward to shake my hand and said, “Thanks for the company. My name is Methuselah.” Leaning in a little closer, he whispered, “I’ve been around for a long time,” then goosed me in the side with his elbow, as he threw back his head and broke into a belly laugh.
    And while he laughed, I was thinking, “His name may be Biblical, but this happy drunk is going to light the place up before the night is done and become everyone’s friend in the process.”
 I had seen it before. The bar scene seldom changes. I had sworn it off, but kept drifting back, though I wasn’t sure why. Probably out of sheer loneliness, or just for the atmosphere. In the background I noticed Hotel California playing on the  Jukebox.
   The Bartender sat two glasses in front of us and poured the drinks. Methuselah reached for one with his left hand while pushing the other to me with his right. I wondered if he was ambidextrous, or just really experienced. I was opting for the later when he said, “Here you go Pete. Bottoms up!”
    I looked into my glass, then slowly turned my head toward my new acquaintance and asked, “How did you know my name?”
    “Oh, just a lucky guess. And, you look like a guy I’ve known for ages.  He name is Peter also, and there was an occasion when he felt as low as your feeling tonight. And, like you, he spent a little time beating himself up. But, in the end, I was able to help him out. I could do the same for you, if you’d let me.”
 I was caught off guard and didn’t know how to respond, so I asked, “You helped him out with what?” He leaned forward and whispered, “Jail.”
     I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, so I chuckled and asked, “What?”
He nodded his head and responded, “Yeah, that’s right. I busted him out,” then broke into another belly laugh.
     “No way!”
     “Oh, there was a way. In fact, chances are, you’ve probably read about it.”
     “I don’t think so, but what does your lie have to do with my life?”           
    “Well my new friend, you shall soon learn I’m not lying. A number of years ago, I did bust a       guy named Peter out of jail. Secondly, everyone has a story and the last few chapters of yours make for a rough read.”
    His demeanor was offensive, so I stood to my feet, then asked, “Who do you think you are, and again, what does my story have to do with anything!”
     “It has a lot to do with everything. I’m sorry if I offended you. Sometimes I come across a little brash. Sit down and let me buy another. What else is there to do, but go home, channel surf and hope the Detroit Lions make it to the playoffs again this year?”
     I stood over the old man bewildered, unsure if I was being manipulated, or if in some mysterious way, he actually knew me. So far he had me pegged. Because since the accident, I had spent most nights alone and at home, channel surfing; vegging out until sleep found me, usually in the wee hours of most mornings. And, for the record, the Detroit Lions had been disappointing me for years. The anger had not yet developed into full blown rage, so I held it together. 
    My assessment of the situation was interrupted when he asked, “Are you going to hit me and walk out, or sit back down and be a gentleman? I mean, after all, there’s no reason to be rude.”
     While I entertained no thoughts of getting physical, I did consider walking out. I looked around the bar, hoping I had not created a scene and was relieved to find no one was watching. Some were too inebriated to notice, while others were preoccupied with their own issues. So, I returned to my seat, looked him in the eye and asked, “What’s your dig?”
     He responded, “What do you mean?”
“How did you know my name, and what were you suggesting with all the innuendo about my siting home, channel surfing and pulling for the Lions? Have you been stalking me, or is there something you’re after?”
     “Pete, I’m not a stalker, and I’m not here do get anything from you. In fact, I’d like to help you find something.”
     I sarcastically asked, “What? A night in the drunk tank?”
“No. I was thinking a little peace of mind would be nice.”
    “Who’s to say I don’t already have it?”    
“Actions speak louder than words and you’re life is screaming, “I’m out of control! Someone tackle me!”
     “And how would you know that?”
He hesitated for a second, then said, “Bar Tender! We’re moving to that table in the corner.”  Then looked at me and said, “Follow me. This could get a little awkward.”
     I sat and watched him slide of the barstool and walk over to a table in the corner of the room and pull out two chairs, then sat down in one and wave me over. I stood up, looked in his direction, then headed for the door. I had heard enough, and thought the best thing to do was leave. For all I knew he was some sort of con man, or psycho path and I didn’t need any of that.  My life was already complicated enough.
   I was stuck in the anger phase of the mourning process— still avoiding family and friends, because I did not want to talk about things.

---

 [CD1]

Christmas in May

The following represents a storyline I've been developing for a while. I have never uploaded it to Amazon and have hopes of doing so in November.

I would welcome your comments and critique.

 

 

A Christmas Chronicle  

It happened long ago, four nights before the grandest of all celebrations. While snow was falling softly in the deepest wood, creatures of the forest gathered—representing a fellowship no human eye had ever looked upon.
     Chipmunks and squirrels listened with quiet anticipation to muffled conversations of those present.  Rabbits had come, fox were present and from his perch, an owl observed the moment.  It was by every appearance, the most unusual and unlikely assembly. But each year, on the 21^st Eve of the Twelfth month, the Woodlanders blended into a union of kindred spirits, as they waited for the reading to begin.
     A fire crackled and smoke ascend high above the trees as a mouse named Samuel navigated his way through the assembly. Dressed like a character from your favorite Dickens story, he walked across the crust of the snow commanding the attention of everyone present. For he was very old and wise, and his kind had observed the mystery for many generations.
     Under his arm he carried an ancient book. It was leather bound and worn, but from its pages both kings and paupers have found hope and encouragement. Silence fell upon the group as he climbed up on a stump.
     He brushed the snow from his garments, then holding the book in one hand and adjusting his glasses with the other, the old mouse cleared his throat, then opened to a familiar text and read:
    “The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them. For unto us a Child is born and unto us a Son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulders. And His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…of the increase of His government and peace there will be no end.”
     Like a melody, phrases danced off the pages, while the fellowship nodded their heads in rhythm with the cadence of Samuel’s voice. Though they had gathered and listened to these words on several occasions, there was a renewed sense of expectancy in the air.
     Closing the book and tucking it back under his arm, the mouse adjusted his glasses once more, then addressed the fellowship.
     “The King has made a promise which cannot be broken. One day peace will come and the curse shall be broken.”
     Scanning the perimeter Owl noticed a collective look on every face. The snow stopped falling and the clouds dissipated revealing a brilliance of the moon’s shadows falling across winter’s fresh blanket. While Samuel was warmed by the fire, it was reading from the ancient text that warmed the hearts of the fellowship. Reminiscent of a time when angelic the host declared, “Peace on earth good will to men.”
     Only the pop and crack of the fire could be heard as they stood in reverence, and together reflected on a promise made long ago. Since that time, kingdoms had come and gone and the world had changed in ways too numerous to count, but the longing and groaning of the human condition remained.
     “But Samuel, it has been so long and once again these are such trying times. It is just four days before Christmas and people are discouraged. We know the promise is for mankind, but all creation is included. How long must the world wait? How long must we wait.”
     And with her words the silence was broken and Samuel recognized the voice of Rachel the Raccoon. She was raised in the forest and her family had been faithful to the fellowship. In all her years, she had never missed the meeting, and during her youth was often found near the village, by a brook where children played.
     She was intrigued by games they played. Theirs was a world where imagination and belief made all things possible. Like knights of story, boys were noble and brave. And the girls also believed in fairytale and chivalry, as they looked for a prince from some distant kingdom, to come and carry them away.
     She also noticed when the children grew older and no longer played by the brook, their innocence was lost, as imagination and belief surrendered to the mundane and ordinary. It was almost as if the fairytale ended, or worse yet—never existed. It left the raccoon very said.
     Samuel was not offended by her interruption. In fact he expected such questions.  And though he was not surprised with what he heard, he was moved by what he saw. For the mask on her face could no longer conceal the weariness of her heart. She was tired in the worst way. Like when you’ve held on to a promise, or expectation, for a long time, only to discover—hope is fading.
     Her words brought an uncomfortable spirit to the fellowship and riding on the emotion of such an awkward moment, was a question everyone held, but no one was willing to ask. Suddenly that which was evident to a few, became obvious to all.
     Having chaired the meeting for several years Samuel believed it was okay to ask difficult questions. He had also learned shallow answers never satisfy the deepest longings, so he waited, for he knew in such times a personality will emerge. It will come from one who has the influence to speak and the resolve to remain objective.
     So, after a few minutes had passed, he lifted is eyes and looked up toward Owl. The old bird was still sitting on his perch. He had taken in Samuel’s address, and heard Rachel’s concerns. He had also listened intently to the chatter of fellow Woodlanders and noticed how their mood morphed into something different as Rachel shared her heart.  Many identified with her emotion and came into agreement with her disappointment.
     Having received his cue, Owl nodded his head and spoke: “Samuel, we have gathered here and on this date for many generations. Each year we reflect on the promise and renew our pledge to the king. Just as our fathers and grandfathers have done before us. We’ve come to realize in the world of men, there seems to be a growing oppression. So, with that understanding, how are things with the family you’re observing?
     Every eye turned toward Samuel and listened for his response.
    “Well, it is Christmas, so people are smiling though few are happy. Once again, something is obviously lacking, but no one seems to realize it.  There is music in the market, but no dancing in the street. The clock is ticking and that ridicules count down of remaining shopping days has begun. It truly seems the world has forgotten.”
     Rachel interrupted, “But Samuel, how are things in the village church! How are the new pastor and his wife? How are the children?” The mouse lowered his head, took a deep breath and responded, “Things could be better.”
     You could feel the tension and though everyone was coming to the same conclusion, it was Badger who gave voice to their opinion.  “It’s the McVectons!”
     “Yes.” Samuel responded, ‘It’s the McVectons.”

The Royal Order

     Everyone has a story, and Samuel is no exception.  He lives in the village near the wood and makes his home in the library of an old church. Though I’m not sure of his age, he has been around for a very long time and hidden beneath a simple appearance is a very complex and mysterious individual.
     Across the ages rodents have occupied a strange place in the world of men. Some live in laboratories, while others are treated as pets.  A cartoonist once partnered with a mouse to build an empire, and the world is a better place for it.
    But, Samuel has a higher purpose. His ancestors first came to this land as stowaways on board a ship called The Mayflower. They had lived among the Puritans in the early 1600’s and traveled with them incognito, while crossing the Atlantic.
     By virtue of his family and their heritage he belongs to an unusual network called: The Royal Order of Church Mice.  This Order was established long ago in the ancient city of Bethlehem when a census had been ordered by the Roman Emperor Octavian; who also went by the name, Caesar Augustus.
     Because a census was ordered, the streets of Bethlehem were filled with people and busy with hustle, as merchants capitalized on opportunity­—peddling products to sojourners—who were finding accommodations limited.   
    It was during this time and late one evening when a couple of mice named Levi and Hannah dodged the chaos of crowded streets and took refuge in a tiny corner of an obscure stable. They had just settled in for the evening when a man named Joseph suddenly rushed into their abode and interrupted their lives forever.
     He was escorting a young mother in labor, and because there was no room in the Inn, a stable became the birth place of a King. His name was Jesus. He is also called, The Christ.
     And though his birth went unnoticed in Rome, and Jerusalem, and even to the multitudes passing through Bethlehem, there was a celebration that evening, unlike anything the world had ever witnessed.
     For on that night the hillsides of Judea became animated as messengers form another world delivered His birth announcement.  Unbound by earthly limitations, these magnificent beings appeared suspended in flight with a concentrated brightness. And though they delivered a message of peace, there was something very warrior about them.
     Songs of celebration erupted across the hills and echoed through the valley. Shepherds responded to their invitation as they walked down and into the city with hopes of seeing the newborn. And when they arrived, they were not disappointed. For a very bright star illuminated the evening sky, and as promised, they found an infant—wrapped in swaddling clothes—lying in a manger.  

The Magi

     While Levi and Hannah did not understand the significance of such an evening, they knew something about it, was very special. The experience was difficult to describe. There was a sense of peace and yet they trembled.
     In the language of humans only one word could describe that which their eyes looked upon. They had heard the word shouted by priest serving in the temple, and spoken by rabbis teaching in synagogues.  Hannah noticed it was often whispered in the dwelling places of many who closed their eyes and lifted their voices to an unseen guest.
     Though the mice had never understood the meaning of the word, that evening while standing in the shadows they turned to each other and whispered, “HOLY.”
     Call it intuition, or revelation, but for some unexplained reason it seemed right, and they knew the Child was holy, and the world would never be the same.
     Though Joseph and Mary came from a poor village, there was something very uncommon about the mother and child. They brought an awareness of a presence not of this world. While the shepherds stood in reverence of an event they could not comprehend, three Wise Men approached. Bowing before the baby, they presented expensive gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.
     From the shadows, Hannah leaned toward Levi and whispered, “I don’t understand what this is all about. What could it possibly mean?” Levi responded, “Very strange. It’s all very strange.”
     A new moon looked down from above and the stars had never been more obvious. For a moment it seemed as if peace had actually come to this troubled world.
     Soon the shepherds returned to their flocks and the Wise Men began making preparations for a long journey home. It was at that time when one of the noblemen asked Joseph if he could come out and talk for a few minutes. Joseph leaned  forward and placing a kiss on  Mary’s head whispered, “I’ll be back.” 
     The men had only walked a few paces from the stable when the carpenter began asking questions and confessing his confusion about the three Nobles and the gifts they bore.
     The Wise Men said they were scholars of ancient scriptures and had an understanding of the prophetic word. They had also noticed what appeared to be a new star, and had been tracking it for some time. As far as the gifts, the Nobles said they were suitable for such an occasion.
     They also informed Joseph that Herod was threatened by any prophecies concerning a new born King, and had questioned them while passing through Jerusalem—saying he too wanted to pay homage to the child. But, they discerned evil intentions; one even had a dream which confirmed their worst suspicion. 
     With a spirit of darkness hovering over the land the Magi felt it imperative for Joseph and the young mother take the child and flee at the earliest possible moment.  Then they each bade the carpenter farewell and departed, being careful to take another route home.
     Joseph watched as the Nobles mounted their camels and rode into the night, then looked toward the heavens and considered his situation. Though life had become complicated, he had never been more aware of divine presence. And, while there was much the carpenter did not understand, he was sure God was near and had a purpose for his life.
     So he returned to the stable and informed Mary of the Magi’s somber warning. They were both confused and could not reason why could not reason why anyone would want to bring harm to a baby.  Together, they made a decision and within a few hours fled from Bethlehem, under the cover of night.
     Their first stop was Jerusalem, where they were careful to keep a low profile, because Herod and his henchmen were in the area. While in the city, they visited the temple and lowing Jewish custom dedicated the child to God, and named him Jesus.  
      It was during this time when an elderly man named Simeon looked upon the child and pronounced a blessing, and a prophetess named Anna gave thanks to God for what had occurred. Mary would ponder these events and sayings in her heart for years to come.
     The Magi’s warning had been taken to heart, and as soon as Mother and Child were strong enough for the journey, the trio departed for Egypt, seeking sanctuary in the land where Moses had challenged Pharaoh. But, that’s another story


A Tyrants Revenge
He was called Herod the Great, but that was a misnomer. For though he held office and was politically connected, he was also insane and insecure. Over the process of time, he became obsessed with power and committed to the oligarchy. So when the Magi failed to return, he knew he had been deceived and grew furious.  
     Having been versed in Hebrew Scripture, Herod was fully aware of a prophetic promise—that one day—a virgin would conceive and give birth to a king.  Though a nation longed for their Messiah, the fulfillment of that ancient promise left the tyrant vulnerable. So, as an act of self-preservation, the corrupt king put a face on evil and ordered the genocide of every male child under the age of two.
     It was a diabolical and wicked atrocity­ and though it represents a dark chapter in the Christmas Story, it must be told, because the world needs to know. 
      On that night mothers cried out, as babies were torn form their pleading arms; and fathers trying to defend their families were beaten and thrown into prison. Levi and Hannah were horrified and sought hiding in the stable where they had witnessed the birth of The Child King. When the screams subsided, and the solders left, the two mice crawled out from under the same straw where Jesus had laid, and walked out of the stable to look upon the carnage.
     Though they were clueless as to why a king, or anyone else would murder children, they knew it had something to do with the babe that was laid in the manger. And on that day, they made an agreement to look into the strange occurrences, and enlist others who would do the same and eventually establish a fellowship which is now called The Royal Order of Church Mice.

A Christmas Chronicle

A Christmas Chronicle represents a storyline that's been germinating for a few years.  It began late one night, in Traverse City Michigan, while hanging out with a group of college kids form our church.
   While they were playing Nintendo, cranking up music and consuming an enormous amount of junk food, I was sitting on a sofa drinking  Diet Pepsi and trying to come up with a new storyline. I had recently published a short story with Amazon and that received enough response to encourage me to write another.
   I looked out the window that evening and noticed giant snow flakes following when the inspiration came. I had been captivated with the genius of C.S. Lewis and Charles Schultz. They both had a knack for writing children's stories adults like to read. And with that, I opened my laptop and began writing:

 

A Christmas Chronicle

It happens every year, four nights before the grandest of all celebrations. On this occasion, while snow is falling softly in the deepest wood, creatures of the forest gathered—representing a fellowship no human eye had ever looked upon.
     Chipmunks and squirrels listened with quiet anticipation to muffled conversations of those present. Rabbits had come, fox were there, and from his perch, an owl observed the moment.  It was by every appearance, a most unusual and unlikely assembly. But each year, on the 21^st Eve of the Twelfth month, these Woodlanders blended into a union of kindred spirits, as they waited for the reading to begin.
     A fire crackled and smoke ascend high above the trees as a mouse named Samuel navigated his way through the assembly. Dressed like a character from your favorite Dickens story, he walked across the crust of the snow commanding everyone's attention. For he was very old and wise, and his kind had observed the mystery for many generations.
     Under his arm he carried an ancient book. It was leather bound and worn, but from its pages both kings and paupers have found hope and encouragement. Silence fell upon the group as he climbed up on a stump.
     Brushing the snow from his garments, he held the book in one hand and adjusting his glasses with the other, then cleared his throat, and opened to a familiar text:
    “The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them. For unto us a Child is born and unto us a Son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulders. And His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…of the increase of His government and peace there will be no end.”
     Like a melody, phrases danced off the pages, as the fellowship nodded their heads in rhythm with the cadence of Samuel’s voice. Though they had gathered and listened to these words on several occasions, there was a renewed sense of expectancy in the air.
     Closing the book and tucking it back under his arm, the mouse adjusted his glasses once more, then addressed the fellowship.
     “The King has made a promise which cannot be broken. One day peace will come and the curse shall be broken.”
     Scanning the perimeter Owl noticed a collective look on every face. The snow stopped falling and the clouds dissipated revealing a brilliance of the moon’s shadows falling across winter’s fresh blanket. While Samuel was warmed by the fire, it was reading from the ancient text that warmed the hearts of the fellowship. Reminiscent of a time when angelic host declared, “Peace on earth good will to men.”
     Only the pop and crack of the fire could be heard as they stood in reverence, and together reflected on a promise made long ago. Since that time, kingdoms had come and gone and the world had changed in ways too numerous to count, but the longing and groaning of the human condition remained.
     “But Samuel, it has been so long and once again these are such trying times. It is just four days before Christmas and people are discouraged. We know the promise is for mankind, but all creation is included. How long must the world wait? How long must we wait.”
     And with her words the silence was broken and the mouse recognized the voice of Rachel the Raccoon. She was raised in the forest and had been faithful to the fellowship. In all her years, she had never missed the meeting, and during her youth was often found near the village, by a brook where children played.
     She was intrigued by games they played. For theirs was a world, where imagination and belief made all things possible. Like knights of story, boys were noble and brave. And the girls also believed in fairytale and chivalry, as they looked for a prince from some distant kingdom, to come and carry them away.
     She also noticed when the children grew older and no longer played by the brook, their innocence was lost, as imagination and belief surrendered to the mundane and ordinary. It was almost as if the fairytale ended, or worse yet—never existed. It left the raccoon very said.
     Samuel was not offended by her interruption. In fact he expected such questions.  And though he was not surprised with what he heard, he was moved by what he saw. For the mask on her face could no longer conceal the weariness of her heart. She was tired in the worst way. Like when you’ve held on to a promise, or expectation, for a long time, only to discover—hope is fading.
     Her words brought an uncomfortable spirit to the fellowship and riding on the emotion of such an awkward moment, was a question everyone held, but no one was willing to ask. Suddenly that which was evident to a few, became obvious to all.
     Having chaired the meeting for several years Samuel believed it was okay to ask difficult questions. He had also learned shallow answers never satisfy the deepest longings, so he waited, for he knew in such times a personality will emerge. It will come from one who has the influence to speak and the resolve to remain objective.
     So, after a few minutes had passed, he looked up toward Owl. The old bird was still sitting on his perch. He had taken in Samuel’s address, and heard Rachel’s concerns. He had also listened to the chatter of the Woodlanders; noticing how their mood morphed into something different as Rachel shared her heart.  Many identified with her emotion and came into agreement with her disappointment.
     Having received his cue, Owl nodded his head and spoke: “Samuel, we have gathered here and on this date for many generations. Each year we reflect on the promise and renew our pledge to the king. Just as our fathers and grandfathers have done before us. We’ve come to realize in the world of men, there seems to be a growing oppression. So, with that understanding, how are things with the family you’re observing?
     Every eye turned toward Samuel and listened for his response.
    “Well, it is Christmas, so people are smiling though few are happy. Once again, something is obviously lacking, but no one seems to realize it.  There is music in the market, but no dancing in the street. The clock is ticking and that ridicules count down of remaining shopping days has begun. It truly seems the world has forgotten.”
     Rachel interrupted, “But Samuel, how are things in the village church! How are the new pastor and his wife? How are the children?” The mouse lowered his head, took a deep breath and responded, “Things could be better.”
     You could feel the tension and though everyone was coming to the same conclusion, it was Badger who gave voice to their opinion.  “It’s the McVectons!”
     “Yes.” Samuel responded, ‘It’s the McVectons.”

The Royal Order

     Everyone has a story, and Samuel is no exception.  He lives in the village near the wood and makes his home in the library of an old church. Though I’m not sure of his age, he has been around for a very long time and hidden beneath a simple appearance is a very complex and mysterious individual.
     Across the ages rodents have occupied a strange place in the world of men. Some live in laboratories, while others are treated as pets.  A cartoonist once partnered with a mouse to build an empire, and the world is a better place for it.
    But, Samuel has a higher purpose. His ancestors first came to this land as stowaways on board a ship called The Mayflower. They had lived among the Puritans in the early 1600’s and traveled with them incognito, while crossing the Atlantic.
     By virtue of his family and their heritage he belongs to an unusual network called: The Royal Order of Church Mice.  This Order was established long ago in the ancient city of Bethlehem when a census had been ordered by the Roman Emperor Octavian; who also went by the name, Caesar Augustus.
     Because a census was ordered, the streets of Bethlehem were filled with people and busy with hustle. Local merchants capitalized on opportunity to peddle products to sojourners who were finding accommodations limited.   
    It was during this time and late one evening when a couple of mice named Levi and Hannah dodged the chaos of crowded streets and found refuge in a tiny corner of an obscure stable. They had just settled in for the evening when a man named Joseph suddenly rushed in and interrupted their lives forever.
     He was escorting a young mother in labor, and because there was no room in the Inn, a stable became the birth place of a King. His name was Jesus. He’s also called, Christ.
     And though his birth went unnoticed in Rome, and Jerusalem, and even to the multitudes passing through Bethlehem, there was a celebration that evening, unlike anything the world had ever witnessed.
     For on that night the hillsides of Judea became animated as messengers form another world delivered His birth announcement.  Unbound by earthly limitations, these magnificent beings appeared suspended in flight with a concentrated brightness. And though they delivered a message of peace, there was something very warrior about them.
     Songs of celebration erupted across the hills and echoed through the valley. Shepherds responded to their invitation as they walked down and into the city with hopes of seeing the newborn. And when they arrived, they were not disappointed. For a very bright star illuminated the evening sky, and as promised, they found an infant—wrapped in swaddling clothes—lying in a manger.  

The Magi

     While Levi and Hannah did not understand the significance of such an evening, they knew something about it, was very special. The experience was difficult to describe. There was a sense of peace and yet they trembled.
     In the language of humans only one word could describe that which their eyes looked upon. They had heard that word shouted by priest serving in the temple, and spoken by rabbis teaching in synagogues.  Hannah noticed it was often whispered in the dwelling places of many who closed their eyes and lifted their voices to an unseen guest.
     Though the mice had never understood it's meaning, while standing in the shadows, they turned to each other and whispered, “HOLY.”
     Call it intuition, or revelation, but for some unexplained reason it seemed right, and they knew the Child was holy, and the world would never be the same.
     Though Joseph and Mary came from a poor village, there was something uncommon about the mother and her child. They brought an awareness of a presence not of this world. While the shepherds stood in reverence of an event they could not comprehend, three Wise Men approached. Bowing before the baby, they presented expensive gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.
     From the shadows, Hannah leaned toward Levi and whispered, “I don’t understand what this is all about. What could it possibly mean?” Levi responded, “Very strange. It’s all very strange.”
     A new moon looked down from above and the stars had never been more obvious. For a moment it seemed as if peace had actually come to this troubled world.
     Soon the shepherds returned to their flocks and the Wise Men began making preparations for a long journey home. It was at that time when one of the noblemen asked Joseph if he could come out and talk for a few minutes. Joseph responded by leaning forward and placing a kiss on the top of Mary’s head and whispering, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 
     The men had only walked a few paces from the stable when the carpenter began asking questions and confessing his confusion about the nature of their visit and the gifts they bore.
     The Wise Men said they were scholars of ancient scriptures and had an understanding of the prophetic word. They had also noticed what appeared to be a new star, and had been tracking it for some time. As far as the gifts, the Nobles said they were suitable for such an occasion.
     They also informed Joseph that Herod was threatened by any prophecies concerning a new born King and had questioned them while passing through Jerusalem—saying he too wanted to pay homage to the child. But, they discerned evil intentions; one even had a dream which confirmed their worst suspicion. 
     With a spirit of darkness hovering over the land the Magi felt it imperative for Joseph to take the young mother and child. and flee at the earliest possible moment.  Then they each bade the carpenter farewell and departed, being careful to take another route home.
     Joseph watched as the Nobles mounted their camels and rode into the night, then looked toward the heavens and considered his situation. Though life had become complicated, he had never been more aware of divine presence. And, while there was much the carpenter did not understand, he was sure that— in some mysterious way—God was near and had a purpose for his life.
     So he returned to the stable and informed Mary of the Magi’s somber warning. They were both confused and looking down upon Jesus could not reason why anyone would want to bring harm to a baby.  Together, they made a decision and within a few hours fled from Bethlehem, under the cover of night.
     Their first stop was Jerusalem, where they were careful to keep a low profile, because Herod and his henchmen were in the area. While in the city, they visited the temple and dedicated the child to God, and named him Jesus.  It was during this time when an elderly man named Simeon looked upon the child and pronounced a blessing, and a prophetess named Anna gave thanks to God for what had occurred. Mary would ponder these events and sayings in her heart for years to come.
     The Magi’s warning had been taken to heart, and as soon as Mother and Child were strong enough for the journey, the trio departed for Egypt, seeking sanctuary in the land where Moses had challenged Pharaoh. But, that’s another story.


A Tyrants Revenge
He was called Herod the Great, but that was a misnomer. For though he held office and was politically connected, he was also insane and insecure. Over the process of time, he became obsessed with power and committed to an oligarchy. So when the Magi failed to return, he knew he had been deceived and grew furious.  
     Having been versed in Hebrew Scripture, Herod was fully aware of a prophetic promise—that one day—a virgin would conceive and give birth to a king.  Though a nation longed for their Messiah, the fulfillment of that ancient promise left the tyrant vulnerable. Therefore, as an act of self-preservation, he put a face on evil and ordered the genocide of every male child under the age of two.
     It was a diabolical and wicked atrocity­. And though it makes for a dark chapter in the Christmas Story, it must be told, because the world needs to know. 
      On that night mothers cried out, as babies were torn form their pleading arms; and fathers trying to defend their families were beaten and thrown into prison. Levi and Hannah were horrified and sought hiding in the stable where they had witnessed the birth of The Child King. When the screams subsided, and the solders left, the two mice crawled out from under the same straw where Jesus had laid, and walked out of the stable to look upon the carnage.
     Though they were clueless as to why a king, or anyone else would murder children, they knew it had something to do with the new born king. And on that day, they made an agreement to look into the strange occurrences, and enlist others who would do the same and eventually establish a fellowship that is now called The Royal Order of Church Mice.

 

(This serves as an introduction. I am looking for feed back and critique. Your responses are welcomed. This little intro makes for about 25%  of the first installment of a trilogy.)

  

Sixty-Five years after Howl. Revisiting Ginsberg.

Those who know me have heard me say, "Everyone has a story." For me, that saying has become,  axiomatic. I believe it is impossible to understand individuals, until we know something of their story. There is a reason we are the way we are and much of it has to do with the previous chapters of our lives.

Here comes another axiom. Every poem has a story and there is a story behind the poem of my previous poem. It has to do with something that's been germinating in my heart for quite some time. 
That being said, I walked into a book store this week and as usual migrated over to the poetry and literature section and picked up a copy of Allen Ginsberg's collected poems.

I went to the index and looked for his poem Howl and sat down in the floor to read it. The poem opens with these lines:

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
    Starving hysterical naked,
Dragging themselves through the Negro streets at dawn looking
     For an angry fix,..."

Powerful words written by a beat poet in 1955. In 1956 he was invited to a coffee shop in San Francisco, along with a few other beat poets to do a reading. When Ginsberg shared Howl he pretty much blew the lid off American poetry and helped set a direction for decades to come.

Sitting in the floor of the bookstore this week, I read those opening lines and thought, wow! My  next thought was, "He was homosexual.” Then I wondered, "Where did that come from?" I was filtering the value of his work through a lens of sexual orientation.

Something about it, didn’t feel right.  So, I asked myself—does his orientation diminish the power of his opening lines. The obvious answer being, no.

 He was also into drugs, Buddhism and a radical liberal. I rolled all those labels over in my mind and remembered one more thing that he was—a human being. It left me feeling self-righteous, guilty and ashamed. 

Then I remembered how Jesus looked beyond labels and embraced people in their deepest need and darkest hour. I mean after all, He did not call the Samaritan lady, The Woman at the Well, we do that. He was not repulsed by Mary Magdalene’s demonic procession.  He embraced her, loved her and set her free. I thought of a New Testament story about a blind man named Bartimaeus, the son of Timaeus.

I remembered how it was not Jesus who gave him the label, Blind Bartimaeus. We have done that over the last two thousand years as we have told his story. I was thankful for the fact that the Gospel put the handicap in the proper context when and reminded us that Bartimaeus was not only blind, but he was also someone’s son.

I have often thought about misplaced identity and how often it gets wrapped and packaged in sickness, handicaps, bad choices and poverty. It also gets placed in other unhealthy areas like, profession, one’s financial net worth, and social standing. It happens to people on both ends of the social cast system.

Some of my friends are going to read the previous post, I Want to Write a Poem, and this post and wonder if I have lost my salvation, or perhaps morphed into something of an unhealthy and unacceptable social liberal.

And to that, I would respond, no. I have not jumped ship, and I have never been more convinced of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. But, something in my heart has changed as I am trying to look beyond people’s personal issues, and special needs. Beyond their label and into their heart.

At the end of the day, we are all broken and in need of a serious fix. The church has the answer, but we have so often, missed it up. I wrote I want toWrite a Poem, as a personal confession and heartfelt convection.

Sixty-Five years ago, during the midst of the counter culture movement, Ginsberg wrote a poem so controversial and extreme, for it's time, it was argued in the court system. This week I picked it up while browsing a book store and was moved to write a few lines of my own.

Poetry will do that. It will look through the chaos and speak metaphorically to the deeper things. The world is better for it.