by Heather Donckels
I’ve read a fair smattering of Christian fiction in my lifetime. By Christian fiction I mean the paperback novels with pictures of beautiful young women on the front and dramatic questions under the titles: “Can she fulfill her dreams without losing the one she loves?” After reading four Christian novellas of this type in early high school, I realized that often Christian fiction is Christian in name only. Though the pages of these stories were sprinkled with prayers and a few Bible verses, the characters behaved in ways that made them indistinguishable from unbelievers.
Since reading those novellas, I’ve had an interesting relationship with Christian fiction. Even though I don’t like it, I sometimes stroll down the Christian fiction aisle at a bookstore, waiting for something different, something radical, to catch my eye. But nothing ever does. It’s all the same. The girl eventually gets the guy, and they live happily ever after.
There are many reasons why Christian fiction drives me up the wall, but for now, I’ll ignore the stale plots and actual quality of the writing and focus on aspects that, I believe, have even more significance. As stated above, I’ve found that much Christian fiction is Christian in name only. Many of the characters in the stories I read were more concerned with chasing after Mr. or Mrs. Right than pursuing a relationship with the Lord. I’m not saying that characters should be perfect Christians; that wouldn’t be realistic. However, I do think that fiction labeled as Christian should show genuine Christians fighting to pursue the things that matter. Often, in spite of the Bible verses, prayers and spiritual breakthroughs, Christian fiction is not edifying. Honestly, do you read a Christian romance novel for the spiritual truth or for the love scene? Now tell me, how will a love scene draw you closer to Jesus? Likely, it won’t. It may give you nice feelings, but it won’t bring about any change in your life. There’s nothing inherently wrong with romance or love scenes, but should a book that focuses on these be labeled as Christian? Often Christian fiction — and Christian art in general — gives easy, unrealistic answers to life’s problems.
A recent Christian film, “Facing the Giants,” demonstrated this tendency of Christian art. In the movie, the protagonist and his wife are unable to have children. However, after the protagonist places his complete trust in God, his wife gets pregnant. Life does not always operate on this blessing theology. Sometimes trusting God doesn’t bring success, but it does bring a person closer to God, a benefit greater than earthly prosperity.
The question then rises: What sort of fiction should a Christian read? Personally, I’d suggest almost anything besides Christian fiction. There are so many classic and contemporary works of literature out there that have been largely ignored by modern evangelicals. These works are mostly secular, but I believe that in our times, it can be more profitable to read a secular novel than a Christian one. The secular ones show us our world with all of its imperfections — the immorality and paganism, the poverty and injustice — and force us to see our depravity apart from the grace of God. If we consciously filter secular literature through the grid of Scripture, we can practice discernment while reading and strengthen our ability to distinguish between right and wrong. Also, reading secular literature increases our ability to relate to unbelievers. If we can understand their literature, we will better understand their philosophies and be able to more effectively share the truth with them. As Christians, we cannot wall ourselves up in completely Christian worlds. We must get out and understand our culture if we are going to change it.
Friday, May 4, 2007
The Mending: A Poem
by Dr. Grant Horner
I shall tell you then.
I was busy that morning, busy about the given books
And counting that which needed counting
When the hurried, even frantic knock came undesired to my door
There was much to do; The Great Day was upon us
And as always (when you are busy with the things of
He Who Cannot Be Named)
One can never quite get all those little things done
That need the doing!
So that knock was the last thing I needed
Yet dutifully and with visible gravity
My face appeared opposite his who pressed into the frame
Of the passageway. We stared at one another:
The highest of men, with the greatest of privilege and power,
And this one who
served below.
I told him (rather brusquely,
As I later thought) that I could not be bothered with trifles.
If I (I said) should condescend to come down
From this Place
And solve every little problem, then who
Will keep the important things?
Who will rule — all that needs rule?
It was then that I chanced to notice the portent of his face
Carved in a single deep line
Harrowed into his sunned brow
Anchored, I thought, in the very skull, the bone itself.
I knew him (vaguely) as one of those lower kind,
Perhaps a re-maker, a harmless drudge making and remaking,
Look, write, look, write, look again,
Performing no original task, no new thought, just repeating
Repeating, remembering. Or perhaps not. Just a messenger?
What could be more bothersome, petty, than
A messenger at the door
Knocking
When there is much to do? Much preparation, much work!
But the face, the face.
Drawn, stoney as one who had seen
Something. Pale — no, less than that. As one who had seen death
Itself, or something like it. He spoke brokenly
Of a thing broken and torn.
What was that to me (I ask you) if a thing of supposed consequence
Be torn? Mend it.
But the face, the face.
So I came to the Place. You would think by the look of
Them that their slight world had been ripped as
The thing itself.
None would enter. ‘This is not,
This is not disobedient sons, strange fire, unjust Disaster.’
Yet fear had gripped their little minds, fear and…what?
Whatever it was, I would not be subject to it —
Or anything else.T
he people looked to me, looked to me, and can you even
Imagine what this is like? They looked to me, surrounded
By beauty and glory, making (for them) all things
Possible.
And when they look to me, how my heart does rise and swell
Filled with a sense of weightiness, and weight.
Weight.
I entered that Place. It was so
Ordinary. By now, I mean.
One would have thought it
just some room, anonymous, a place
of no import, a place to meet, perhaps,
or eat, sit, even sleep.
Yet…
One could linger here (though perhaps not rest) and
Gaze blankly at…what? There was nothing there.
No one. Not even a chair in which to sit and rest
One’s tired and aching bones after hours of laborious service!
And truly…
This has been a season of disturbance: petty annoyance,
minor rift, small tremor. Our captors
Senatus populusque romanorum
Have pressed us beyond measure. It is as if
We have no king but Caesar.
Now, that…that is power.
Now, staring at the Place, I could not help but wonder. . .
What the view would be like
from There.
Could I sit There, finally at rest from all the years of service,
and cry out
‘It is I, it is I, it is I’
And quaff the admiration of liquid eyes, limpid eyes
Always looking up expectantly, fearfully
When returning from the entering, once in 12 moons.
What might that be like? I am,
they say,
But a step from God.
And such a small step!
Even within the grasp.
Well! One thing is clear. We must mend the tear.
After all, no cloth fails tearing, in the end.
As if determined from the beginning . . .
All we weave Is torn asunder eventually.
As if made for the tearing.
I myself will mend it. None must enter here; none must look
Within. The mystery must remain the mystery; we who have
(On occasion) glanced furtively into the place while holding forth
The Required,
have seen — nothing. Nothing at all.
We, at least, know.
So I must stand in, close the gap, and keep the mystery,
the mystery,
Hidden.
None must know.
And all things will continue as they have from the time of
Our Fathers.
I shall tell you then.
I was busy that morning, busy about the given books
And counting that which needed counting
When the hurried, even frantic knock came undesired to my door
There was much to do; The Great Day was upon us
And as always (when you are busy with the things of
He Who Cannot Be Named)
One can never quite get all those little things done
That need the doing!
So that knock was the last thing I needed
Yet dutifully and with visible gravity
My face appeared opposite his who pressed into the frame
Of the passageway. We stared at one another:
The highest of men, with the greatest of privilege and power,
And this one who
served below.
I told him (rather brusquely,
As I later thought) that I could not be bothered with trifles.
If I (I said) should condescend to come down
From this Place
And solve every little problem, then who
Will keep the important things?
Who will rule — all that needs rule?
It was then that I chanced to notice the portent of his face
Carved in a single deep line
Harrowed into his sunned brow
Anchored, I thought, in the very skull, the bone itself.
I knew him (vaguely) as one of those lower kind,
Perhaps a re-maker, a harmless drudge making and remaking,
Look, write, look, write, look again,
Performing no original task, no new thought, just repeating
Repeating, remembering. Or perhaps not. Just a messenger?
What could be more bothersome, petty, than
A messenger at the door
Knocking
When there is much to do? Much preparation, much work!
But the face, the face.
Drawn, stoney as one who had seen
Something. Pale — no, less than that. As one who had seen death
Itself, or something like it. He spoke brokenly
Of a thing broken and torn.
What was that to me (I ask you) if a thing of supposed consequence
Be torn? Mend it.
But the face, the face.
So I came to the Place. You would think by the look of
Them that their slight world had been ripped as
The thing itself.
None would enter. ‘This is not,
This is not disobedient sons, strange fire, unjust Disaster.’
Yet fear had gripped their little minds, fear and…what?
Whatever it was, I would not be subject to it —
Or anything else.T
he people looked to me, looked to me, and can you even
Imagine what this is like? They looked to me, surrounded
By beauty and glory, making (for them) all things
Possible.
And when they look to me, how my heart does rise and swell
Filled with a sense of weightiness, and weight.
Weight.
I entered that Place. It was so
Ordinary. By now, I mean.
One would have thought it
just some room, anonymous, a place
of no import, a place to meet, perhaps,
or eat, sit, even sleep.
Yet…
One could linger here (though perhaps not rest) and
Gaze blankly at…what? There was nothing there.
No one. Not even a chair in which to sit and rest
One’s tired and aching bones after hours of laborious service!
And truly…
This has been a season of disturbance: petty annoyance,
minor rift, small tremor. Our captors
Senatus populusque romanorum
Have pressed us beyond measure. It is as if
We have no king but Caesar.
Now, that…that is power.
Now, staring at the Place, I could not help but wonder. . .
What the view would be like
from There.
Could I sit There, finally at rest from all the years of service,
and cry out
‘It is I, it is I, it is I’
And quaff the admiration of liquid eyes, limpid eyes
Always looking up expectantly, fearfully
When returning from the entering, once in 12 moons.
What might that be like? I am,
they say,
But a step from God.
And such a small step!
Even within the grasp.
Well! One thing is clear. We must mend the tear.
After all, no cloth fails tearing, in the end.
As if determined from the beginning . . .
All we weave Is torn asunder eventually.
As if made for the tearing.
I myself will mend it. None must enter here; none must look
Within. The mystery must remain the mystery; we who have
(On occasion) glanced furtively into the place while holding forth
The Required,
have seen — nothing. Nothing at all.
We, at least, know.
So I must stand in, close the gap, and keep the mystery,
the mystery,
Hidden.
None must know.
And all things will continue as they have from the time of
Our Fathers.
For the Prostitutes: A Poem
by Rachel Thompson
The streets are always visible
Your job is never done
Your hope is a just a word
You’ve never learned to pronounce
I tremble because I can’t understand
I’m scared of you — for you
And you’re just walking the streets
Trying to afford cigarettes and socks
It’s just one more day to finish
And you find a novel in someone’s grocery cart
The world you’re lost in is your own
Did you forget — you are alive
I see a painted shell that keeps walking
My heart bleeds soft blood
You’re heart can’t even be cut
It’s grown thick scar tissue from all the wounds
You don’t even remember receiving
And I feel I’m accomplishing little
When I tell you of Jesus love
His love that understands every cell
That caused His death and our life
I just see lifeless…blank eyes
Your giggle and tight skirt hit me in the stomach
I want to yell and scream and break through
It’s just something I can’t seem to do
The smells must have rotted your soul
And the physical act, any dream of modesty
And you look at the white middle-class
I bet you’re thinking “You don’t even know”
How do you drown out your thoughts?
Who sucked your body of emotion, of trust?
And you don’t have time to talk
You’re working, and you’re so good
So good at convincing yourself it’s just life
While I am being cherished, body and soul
I want you to feel something unselfish in an embrace
And your eyes to shine like they probably did
But we exchange few words
You always have to walk the block once more
I wouldn’t know what to say if you told me
That’s how much I don’t understand
I’d probably cry, I’m sorry
But love has left my heart unprotected
It doesn’t shrivel up like you’d think
It gets bigger and the beat harder to stop
But you just keep walking…
And I want to die for you tonight
A Single Act of Hatred: A Story
by Michelle Morley
It’s strange how one’s life can change so dramatically because of a single act of hatred. I only realized this after that one act was carried out.
In 1934 I was 16 and was living in the town of my birth, Green Briar, Mississippi. It was just about as south as you could run without running smack dab into the ocean. Actually, Green Briar never was green; the sign that welcomed visitors to our little town was terribly misleading. It was all nicely whitewashed and depicted a lovely green valley. However, this was far from the truth since everything in Green Briar was covered in a thick coat of dirt.
I was no different from the average boy, except for the fact that I have been and always will be a girl. My momma died giving birth to me, so my daddy raised me the way he thought best: as a boy. I would hunt, fish, wrestle and josh around with all of the other boys. You couldn’t pick me out from all of them. I dressed the same as they did, wearing overalls and a cotton shirt. The only way anybody remembered that I was a girl was my stick brown hair in a single braid that reached below my shoulders, which I mostly tucked under my hat.
I was good friends with all of the boys, but I was especially close to Silas, a black boy my daddy took in when I was six. (Because there weren’t any black folks in Green Briar, Daddy figured he was abandoned further up the river in another town and then wandered to our house.) We were always together. Color was never an issue between the two of us or Daddy. We would run together, talk into the wee hours of the morning, and fish together at our favorite spot at Bracken’s Pond. He was a good friend. He would listen to me, offer me good advice, and wait around patiently until I got home from school.
But the townspeople never seemed to tolerate our happy friendship. They would glare at Silas and me as if we were diseased. “A nice little white girl like you shouldn’t be ‘round the likes of him,” the men would say. The girls would say, “Robin Cole, you should be ashamed of yourself, first disgracin’ yourself by actin’ like a boy and then bein’ friends with that boy.” I found out later that every single white man who hailed from Green Briar (except for Daddy) was an active member of the Ku Klux Klan. They would go into other towns to find people to prey on and to carry out their dirty work. It didn’t surprise me much when I found out. One day in July however, everything changed.
There was one particular man who everyone in Green Briar admired, except for Daddy, Silas and me. His name was Judas White, and he was about 45 or so. He was the judge and executioner for Green Briar. He stood up straight, combed over his grey hair, and carried with him the thickest whip and oddest Bowie knife I have ever seen. They said he was the best poker player in Green Briar; he could bluff his way out of the weakest hand. But what I feared were those eyes — golly those eyes. His left eye was blue, but the color was so washed out it looked almost white. His right eye was a reddish-brown color that looked as if it would gladly send you to hell if it could.
Silas and I had the misfortune of meeting Judas in the general store while we were buying a barrel of flour. He glared at me for a moment and then glared at Silas for almost a minute. He set his jaw, bumped me and then spat in Silas’s face. Silas acted as if nothing had happened and calmly wiped the spit off his face with his sleeve. The store owner was gossiping about Daddy, Silas and me to one of his friends. “That feller Cole must’ve been nuts! First raisin’ that otherwise pretty girl of his like a boy, and then takin’ in that nigger as his own and lettin’ him call him Daddy! Everybody knows that niggers are nothin’ but —” Then he stopped when he saw my shadow. Silas and I didn’t mind gossip about us, but when it came to gossip about Daddy, we couldn’t take it. Silas stared at the store owner, and I simply gave him my angry smile. We paid for our flour, and the store owner went back to jabbering about other people’s affairs. Silas went to go do something — I can’t remember what — and walked out of the general store. I was trying to balance the big barrel of flour on my hip like a baby, but it kept slipping, so I went to ask Silas if he could carry it for me. What I found outside would change my life forever.
Silas was walking down the street when Judas tripped him. Judas clutched his knee as if it was in pain. His face became redder than a freshly-painted steamboat. “What do you think you’re doin’, you dirty, ugly, clumsy, filthy nigger? You rammed into me without even lookin’ at me! You almost knocked me over, and it’s amazin’ I didn’t break any bones.” Silas was the one in real pain; I had never seen his face so twisted before. He tried to stand, but each time he tried, Judas’s hand shoved him back down into the dust. Silas then spoke up. “Suh, I ain’ nevah hahmed you befo. Why should I now?” Judas’s eyes were ablaze. “Are you callin’ me a liar?” he shrieked. “Imagine that! A nigger callin’ me a liar!” “No suh, I didn’t call you a liar neither. Actually, you pushed me down. I didn’t e’en touch you.” Judas was enraged. Nobody dared to call Judas White anything negative without paying dearly for it. Judas jumped on Silas and started landing heavy blows on his quivering frame. Other men who were there got in on it and started to beat Silas too. I dropped the flour and bolted towards the pile of angry, wrestling men and tried to pick them off Silas one by one. I heard the horrible sound of a knife being unsheathed and a muffled scream. Then all the men walked away from Silas and went back to their business as if they had done nothing more than glance at a dead dog in the street. Judas walked off and started laughing as if he had won some great victory over an incomprehensible evil. I saw why he was laughing. Silas, my closest friend, had a Bowie knife in his belly. His warm eyes were fixated on something unseen. I cradled him in my arms, and he started coughing up blood. My tears fell down on his face as I wiped the blood away with my hair. He looked at me and stroked my face, and as he tried to speak, I watched his soul fly to heaven. I sobbed for the first time in my life that day. Silas was gone.
Judas looked over at me smugly and muttered, “Nigger lover,” and strutted off into the distance. I glanced at the knife’s handle, and for the first time I understood that odd design. I had seen it many times, but never realized it depicted a skeleton suffering in hell. I felt helpless, angry, heartbroken and vengeful all at once. All I could do was wail. I took his body in my arms, and with all my strength, I dragged him to our favorite tree by the pond. I cut some of his hair that I loved to play with when we were little and cut a lock of my own. I placed them intertwined in a handkerchief and hid it in my pocket, next to my heart. Though Daddy couldn’t show it like I could, he was just as heartbroken as me. We buried Silas at our favorite spot. We talked it over and figured that we couldn’t do anything about it because Silas’s murder amounted to a lynching. And in Green Briar, no one did anything about lynchings. You might even say that murdering a black man was legal. We talked about the things that hurt us most, about how some people could do the things they do. But I never could tell my daddy about what I’ve always kept wrapped up so close to me. When it comes to love and hate, I’ve come to realize how much can be hidden in the human heart.
It’s strange how one’s life can change so dramatically because of a single act of hatred. I only realized this after that one act was carried out.
In 1934 I was 16 and was living in the town of my birth, Green Briar, Mississippi. It was just about as south as you could run without running smack dab into the ocean. Actually, Green Briar never was green; the sign that welcomed visitors to our little town was terribly misleading. It was all nicely whitewashed and depicted a lovely green valley. However, this was far from the truth since everything in Green Briar was covered in a thick coat of dirt.
I was no different from the average boy, except for the fact that I have been and always will be a girl. My momma died giving birth to me, so my daddy raised me the way he thought best: as a boy. I would hunt, fish, wrestle and josh around with all of the other boys. You couldn’t pick me out from all of them. I dressed the same as they did, wearing overalls and a cotton shirt. The only way anybody remembered that I was a girl was my stick brown hair in a single braid that reached below my shoulders, which I mostly tucked under my hat.
I was good friends with all of the boys, but I was especially close to Silas, a black boy my daddy took in when I was six. (Because there weren’t any black folks in Green Briar, Daddy figured he was abandoned further up the river in another town and then wandered to our house.) We were always together. Color was never an issue between the two of us or Daddy. We would run together, talk into the wee hours of the morning, and fish together at our favorite spot at Bracken’s Pond. He was a good friend. He would listen to me, offer me good advice, and wait around patiently until I got home from school.
But the townspeople never seemed to tolerate our happy friendship. They would glare at Silas and me as if we were diseased. “A nice little white girl like you shouldn’t be ‘round the likes of him,” the men would say. The girls would say, “Robin Cole, you should be ashamed of yourself, first disgracin’ yourself by actin’ like a boy and then bein’ friends with that boy.” I found out later that every single white man who hailed from Green Briar (except for Daddy) was an active member of the Ku Klux Klan. They would go into other towns to find people to prey on and to carry out their dirty work. It didn’t surprise me much when I found out. One day in July however, everything changed.
There was one particular man who everyone in Green Briar admired, except for Daddy, Silas and me. His name was Judas White, and he was about 45 or so. He was the judge and executioner for Green Briar. He stood up straight, combed over his grey hair, and carried with him the thickest whip and oddest Bowie knife I have ever seen. They said he was the best poker player in Green Briar; he could bluff his way out of the weakest hand. But what I feared were those eyes — golly those eyes. His left eye was blue, but the color was so washed out it looked almost white. His right eye was a reddish-brown color that looked as if it would gladly send you to hell if it could.
Silas and I had the misfortune of meeting Judas in the general store while we were buying a barrel of flour. He glared at me for a moment and then glared at Silas for almost a minute. He set his jaw, bumped me and then spat in Silas’s face. Silas acted as if nothing had happened and calmly wiped the spit off his face with his sleeve. The store owner was gossiping about Daddy, Silas and me to one of his friends. “That feller Cole must’ve been nuts! First raisin’ that otherwise pretty girl of his like a boy, and then takin’ in that nigger as his own and lettin’ him call him Daddy! Everybody knows that niggers are nothin’ but —” Then he stopped when he saw my shadow. Silas and I didn’t mind gossip about us, but when it came to gossip about Daddy, we couldn’t take it. Silas stared at the store owner, and I simply gave him my angry smile. We paid for our flour, and the store owner went back to jabbering about other people’s affairs. Silas went to go do something — I can’t remember what — and walked out of the general store. I was trying to balance the big barrel of flour on my hip like a baby, but it kept slipping, so I went to ask Silas if he could carry it for me. What I found outside would change my life forever.
Silas was walking down the street when Judas tripped him. Judas clutched his knee as if it was in pain. His face became redder than a freshly-painted steamboat. “What do you think you’re doin’, you dirty, ugly, clumsy, filthy nigger? You rammed into me without even lookin’ at me! You almost knocked me over, and it’s amazin’ I didn’t break any bones.” Silas was the one in real pain; I had never seen his face so twisted before. He tried to stand, but each time he tried, Judas’s hand shoved him back down into the dust. Silas then spoke up. “Suh, I ain’ nevah hahmed you befo. Why should I now?” Judas’s eyes were ablaze. “Are you callin’ me a liar?” he shrieked. “Imagine that! A nigger callin’ me a liar!” “No suh, I didn’t call you a liar neither. Actually, you pushed me down. I didn’t e’en touch you.” Judas was enraged. Nobody dared to call Judas White anything negative without paying dearly for it. Judas jumped on Silas and started landing heavy blows on his quivering frame. Other men who were there got in on it and started to beat Silas too. I dropped the flour and bolted towards the pile of angry, wrestling men and tried to pick them off Silas one by one. I heard the horrible sound of a knife being unsheathed and a muffled scream. Then all the men walked away from Silas and went back to their business as if they had done nothing more than glance at a dead dog in the street. Judas walked off and started laughing as if he had won some great victory over an incomprehensible evil. I saw why he was laughing. Silas, my closest friend, had a Bowie knife in his belly. His warm eyes were fixated on something unseen. I cradled him in my arms, and he started coughing up blood. My tears fell down on his face as I wiped the blood away with my hair. He looked at me and stroked my face, and as he tried to speak, I watched his soul fly to heaven. I sobbed for the first time in my life that day. Silas was gone.
Judas looked over at me smugly and muttered, “Nigger lover,” and strutted off into the distance. I glanced at the knife’s handle, and for the first time I understood that odd design. I had seen it many times, but never realized it depicted a skeleton suffering in hell. I felt helpless, angry, heartbroken and vengeful all at once. All I could do was wail. I took his body in my arms, and with all my strength, I dragged him to our favorite tree by the pond. I cut some of his hair that I loved to play with when we were little and cut a lock of my own. I placed them intertwined in a handkerchief and hid it in my pocket, next to my heart. Though Daddy couldn’t show it like I could, he was just as heartbroken as me. We buried Silas at our favorite spot. We talked it over and figured that we couldn’t do anything about it because Silas’s murder amounted to a lynching. And in Green Briar, no one did anything about lynchings. You might even say that murdering a black man was legal. We talked about the things that hurt us most, about how some people could do the things they do. But I never could tell my daddy about what I’ve always kept wrapped up so close to me. When it comes to love and hate, I’ve come to realize how much can be hidden in the human heart.
A Response to "God in the Living Room"
by D.K. Holland
The following essay is a response to “God in the Living Room,” an essay by Cole Jeffrey published in Vol. 6, No. 2.
The sum total of meaning in a work of art is more than equal to its parts. In every art form, from painting to photography, the artist attempts to communicate and the viewer attempts to interpret a message beneath the oil or silver comprising the medium. That being said, the distinction often made by viewers of art remains one of “high” versus “low,” pitting the physical medium against the inherent significance of a given piece. Eerily close to Plato’s Theory of Forms, the belief that the material world reflects a shadow of reality contextualizes the general understanding of art in contemporary culture.
With the default position of Greek philosophy deeply imbedded in Western thought, many people suffer from an inferior understanding of art’s makeup based on the platonic split between the work of art and the ideal it attempts to represent.
Cole Jeffrey, in his essay “God in the Living Room,” asserts that “if we only look at a statue, then we will just see a piece of rock carved and chiseled into an image. But if we see the statue, then we will have our minds carved and chiseled into something by the sculptor.” Jeffrey correctly observes that art has both a tangible substance and a higher ideal. Like Plato, he believes that the eye and the mind work in tandem, but also separately, in the perception of a statue. According to this reasoning, the statue of David has at once a physical image recognized by the eye and a certain “David-ness” that appeals only to the sensitivities of the mind, if it can be perceived at all. What this “David-ness” means varies from person to person. But according to Jeffrey, only the human mind can respond to seeing the real statue.
Jeffrey bases his ideas on Plato’s thinking and unfortunately misapplies the concepts found in the Theory of Forms. In so doing, he wrongly assumes that art is inherently steeped in ambiguity. In “God in the Living Room,” there is a disparity between Jeffrey’s description of emotional reaction and the cerebral understanding of art. Jeffrey does not fully explain what he means by “receiving” art. This eventually leads to frustration when trying to pinpoint what he means by “thinking about what [art] can give us.” Try as he might, Jeffrey’s platonic view of a painting would lead him to see only oil and canvas, leaving the ever-present undertone undefined. Since one’s experience and knowledge differ from that of another observer, there remains the possibility for minor disagreement about the deeper meaning of a piece. Conversation concerning the artwork would circle round to an end with two unaltered, extremely limited original opinions and no conclusion. This scenario seems to be nothing more than the proverbial banging of one’s head against a wall.
Allow me to suggest an alternative. The idea that a moment in time can be captured through human endeavor is known as mimesis, a Greek term meaning the representation of aspects of the sensible world. The viewer viscerally perceives this representation as separate and complete, and the artwork essentially becomes its own autonomous world. Every form of art involves the creation of a mimetic world, whether two-dimensional in painting or photography or three-dimensional in film or drama. This new world is more than a thing with corresponding thought-provocation. It is a separate universe the viewer can explore. With this idea of mimesis in mind, art’s purpose becomes twofold. Sir Philip Sydney, in his Defense of Poesy, enumerated these two purposes when he stated that a poet’s station is to “teach and delight.” Sydney wrote in response to a flagrantly anti-art sentiment proposed by his Puritan peers, specifically Sir Stephen Gossom. In his work, The School of Art, Gossom sarcastically condemned the creation of poetry as well as other arts. Interestingly, this condemnation was based on arguments in the works of Plato. In The Republic, Plato had called for the removal of all poets from his utopian society on the basis that they did not “tell the truth” about the world around them. This assertion appears to be sensible in light of Plato’s belief that the true form of the world cannot be fully captured with the mere words of a poem. Gossom took Plato’s argument one step further and stated that poets were liars, often targeting Sydney personally. Sydney carefully crafted a thorough response, graciously leaving out Gossom’s name in favor of allegorical pseudonyms.
In Defense of Poesy, Sydney describes an artist’s station as teacher and one who brings delight. Poets, according to Sydney, do not invent subliminal messages to deceive and lead listeners away from the higher ideal. On the contrary, artists manipulate their chosen mediums to illuminate the viewer. This allows the viewer to connect diegetic aspects of the artwork with ideas and truths already known. Sydney recognized that man does conceive of abstract forms, but saw that in art these abstractions do not necessarily exist separately from the work of art itself.
In light of Sydney’s astute observations, Jeffrey’s diagnosis of art’s purposes can be seen, not as erroneous, but hasty. The platonic outlook of dividing meaning from substance is in some ways unavoidable. Humans naturally tend to look for a deeper meaning in all things, and their quest for sub-textual information is too fruitful to deny that art is simply material. Since art is a facsimile of reality, no piece can be completely without a “shadow.” A separation between what can be seen and what can be imagined invariably makes for inquisitive viewers. However, the goal of art is not to encourage this schism between imagination and substance, but to close it. In order to promote a broader understanding of the world, artists will continue their attempts to impart to viewers more than pieces that cause emotional reaction. The creation of a mimetic world in which characters or objects act in ways that allude to other areas of life is the surest way to break away from ambiguous and pedantic views of art.
The following essay is a response to “God in the Living Room,” an essay by Cole Jeffrey published in Vol. 6, No. 2.
The sum total of meaning in a work of art is more than equal to its parts. In every art form, from painting to photography, the artist attempts to communicate and the viewer attempts to interpret a message beneath the oil or silver comprising the medium. That being said, the distinction often made by viewers of art remains one of “high” versus “low,” pitting the physical medium against the inherent significance of a given piece. Eerily close to Plato’s Theory of Forms, the belief that the material world reflects a shadow of reality contextualizes the general understanding of art in contemporary culture.
With the default position of Greek philosophy deeply imbedded in Western thought, many people suffer from an inferior understanding of art’s makeup based on the platonic split between the work of art and the ideal it attempts to represent.
Cole Jeffrey, in his essay “God in the Living Room,” asserts that “if we only look at a statue, then we will just see a piece of rock carved and chiseled into an image. But if we see the statue, then we will have our minds carved and chiseled into something by the sculptor.” Jeffrey correctly observes that art has both a tangible substance and a higher ideal. Like Plato, he believes that the eye and the mind work in tandem, but also separately, in the perception of a statue. According to this reasoning, the statue of David has at once a physical image recognized by the eye and a certain “David-ness” that appeals only to the sensitivities of the mind, if it can be perceived at all. What this “David-ness” means varies from person to person. But according to Jeffrey, only the human mind can respond to seeing the real statue.
Jeffrey bases his ideas on Plato’s thinking and unfortunately misapplies the concepts found in the Theory of Forms. In so doing, he wrongly assumes that art is inherently steeped in ambiguity. In “God in the Living Room,” there is a disparity between Jeffrey’s description of emotional reaction and the cerebral understanding of art. Jeffrey does not fully explain what he means by “receiving” art. This eventually leads to frustration when trying to pinpoint what he means by “thinking about what [art] can give us.” Try as he might, Jeffrey’s platonic view of a painting would lead him to see only oil and canvas, leaving the ever-present undertone undefined. Since one’s experience and knowledge differ from that of another observer, there remains the possibility for minor disagreement about the deeper meaning of a piece. Conversation concerning the artwork would circle round to an end with two unaltered, extremely limited original opinions and no conclusion. This scenario seems to be nothing more than the proverbial banging of one’s head against a wall.
Allow me to suggest an alternative. The idea that a moment in time can be captured through human endeavor is known as mimesis, a Greek term meaning the representation of aspects of the sensible world. The viewer viscerally perceives this representation as separate and complete, and the artwork essentially becomes its own autonomous world. Every form of art involves the creation of a mimetic world, whether two-dimensional in painting or photography or three-dimensional in film or drama. This new world is more than a thing with corresponding thought-provocation. It is a separate universe the viewer can explore. With this idea of mimesis in mind, art’s purpose becomes twofold. Sir Philip Sydney, in his Defense of Poesy, enumerated these two purposes when he stated that a poet’s station is to “teach and delight.” Sydney wrote in response to a flagrantly anti-art sentiment proposed by his Puritan peers, specifically Sir Stephen Gossom. In his work, The School of Art, Gossom sarcastically condemned the creation of poetry as well as other arts. Interestingly, this condemnation was based on arguments in the works of Plato. In The Republic, Plato had called for the removal of all poets from his utopian society on the basis that they did not “tell the truth” about the world around them. This assertion appears to be sensible in light of Plato’s belief that the true form of the world cannot be fully captured with the mere words of a poem. Gossom took Plato’s argument one step further and stated that poets were liars, often targeting Sydney personally. Sydney carefully crafted a thorough response, graciously leaving out Gossom’s name in favor of allegorical pseudonyms.
In Defense of Poesy, Sydney describes an artist’s station as teacher and one who brings delight. Poets, according to Sydney, do not invent subliminal messages to deceive and lead listeners away from the higher ideal. On the contrary, artists manipulate their chosen mediums to illuminate the viewer. This allows the viewer to connect diegetic aspects of the artwork with ideas and truths already known. Sydney recognized that man does conceive of abstract forms, but saw that in art these abstractions do not necessarily exist separately from the work of art itself.
In light of Sydney’s astute observations, Jeffrey’s diagnosis of art’s purposes can be seen, not as erroneous, but hasty. The platonic outlook of dividing meaning from substance is in some ways unavoidable. Humans naturally tend to look for a deeper meaning in all things, and their quest for sub-textual information is too fruitful to deny that art is simply material. Since art is a facsimile of reality, no piece can be completely without a “shadow.” A separation between what can be seen and what can be imagined invariably makes for inquisitive viewers. However, the goal of art is not to encourage this schism between imagination and substance, but to close it. In order to promote a broader understanding of the world, artists will continue their attempts to impart to viewers more than pieces that cause emotional reaction. The creation of a mimetic world in which characters or objects act in ways that allude to other areas of life is the surest way to break away from ambiguous and pedantic views of art.
Seattle's Homeless: An Essay
by Katie McCausland
I hurried down the wet plank and onto the back of the small passenger ferry that ran from my town of Port Orchard to Bremerton. It was my first day of work, and I wished I’d dressed warmer as I took one of the last seats on the exposed deck of the boat and made a sad attempt to wrap the tail of my scarf over my knees. The salty wind whipped through my hair, and I was amazed at the beautiful sunrise coming up from behind the towering forests of Kitsap Peninsula that quickly grew smaller as we pulled away from the dock. The sun warmed the gray clouds to pinks and oranges that contrasted against the clear blue sky. I began to think that catching the early ferry might not be so bad after all.
Fifteen minutes later, I tramped onto the Bremerton docks with the rest of the passengers. However, I paused to curiously examine a man who was waiting to go back to Port Orchard. Everything about him said he was homeless — his long, tangled, salt and pepper hair, his dirty, shabby jeans and his old plaid jacket. My attention was caught though, by a birdhouse attached to a string that hung around his neck. It was a small wooden birdhouse, clearly damaged and faded from the Seattle rain and wind. If I didn’t know better than to talk to the homeless, I would have liked to look inside the birdhouse and see what kind of bird he had in there. “Don’t mind him,” a small, middle-aged Filipino woman advised me, noticing my interest. “He don’t keep no bird in there. He keep the money he begs for. He used to carry it in jar, but the others break it and steal his money too much. Now he try to fool the people with his birdhouse. If you ask me, he should get a job. I come here and get my nursing degree, and now I make the money myself.” I nodded, replied “Oh,” and kept moving toward the larger ferry leaving from Bremerton’s terminal to downtown Seattle.
Once on the Seattle ferry, I found a booth near a heating vent and curled up to go to sleep. I had taken this ride so often that I wasn’t anxious to look out the window. The boat would pull out of Bremerton and cross the Puget Sound towards Rich Passage and then move on to the piers of Seattle. It would pass several big red navigational buoy towers, bobbing cheerily in the cold water. On a sunny morning like this, a few sea lions would be fighting to jump up on the bases of these towers to sun themselves. Large homes lined the shore, set against rolling hills covered in brownish-green brush and a backdrop of evergreen trees. On the beach a few of the timid shore birds might run up and down, quickly pecking at the wet sand, then racing away from the approaching waves. It all looked the same for that hour-long ride.
Once we docked in Seattle, we were greeted by a crew of seagulls who landed on the deck to beg for food. They angrily fluffed their wings and tried to peck their way closer to the passengers. A few tourists displayed their naivete by feeding the seagulls, creating a larger, noisier flock of birds as the pigeons and nearby crows joined in. An irritated ferry employee shooed the birds away and threw a dirty look towards the tourists. I was carried off the ferry by the bustle of commuters who went in different directions with looks of determination on their faces. They didn’t notice the cries of the workers in the fish market, how the sun sparkled and gleamed on the side of the cruise ship that had docked a few piers down, or the graffiti showing off the artistic talents of the local street kids.
I followed this oblivious group into the pedestrian tunnel leading out to the streets of Seattle. I was immediately taken aback by the strong smell of urine. Apparently the tunnel doubled as the local restroom for the homeless and a home as well, judging by the dirty sleeping bag crumpled nearby. I did my best to hold my breath, and silently cursed my high heels for crippling me from walking any faster. This was when I first saw Smiley. I was waiting at the corner of Marion and First, right by Starbucks, which happened to be his corner. His deformed purplish-red nose and ears (and slightly intoxicated state) testified to his alcoholism. From his looks and the long thin braid hanging down his back, I guessed he was probably Native American. I wondered how this 50-something man was able to survive. He stood there in nothing but a tattered t-shirt and jeans, while I could barely stay warm enough to function with my scarf, wool coat and layers of sweaters and shirts.
The thing that most surprised me was how he chose to occupy himself: smiling, not asking for money, but merely holding a bent cardboard sign that said in sloppy black marker, “Smile.” He looked at me, almost begging me to smile with his glazed-over brown eyes. I averted my gaze to the light and quickly crossed the street when it turned green. I knew it was better not to encourage the homeless to bother you. If I was going to see him often, I didn’t need him trying to talk to me every time I waited at that light.
I hiked four blocks uphill and then another four through the hotel district to the historic Fairmont-Olympic Hotel where I was employed by a watch boutique. Smartly-dressed bellhops nodded at me as I walked by, while valets ran around vehicles and assisted guests with their luggage before driving the cars off. A couple of bank employees stood outside the back of Wells Fargo, smoking next to a sign that pointed to an Asian deli located down a shady-looking alley. I crossed the street to the Fairmont Hotel, happy that this area remained relatively free of bums and suspicious characters.
I hadn’t been working more than a few hours before I was sent down the street to the warehouse to bring more stock to the watch shop. I didn’t mind though; I needed some fresh air. One of the benefits of the continual rain in Seattle is that it keeps the air clean of smog. The sidewalks always provide one with plenty to look at. The tables and chairs outside of cafes attract gray pigeons, bobbing their heads and cooing at the customers, hoping for a stray crumb. Asian tourists run around with cameras, asking those passing by to take their picture. And I always have a hard time not staring at the costumes the “artsy” women turn out in, with their bright stockings, crazy windblown hair, and fluttering peasant skirts. Confused groups of elderly tourists grabbed anybody who would stop and inquired where Pike Place Market was. I stopped only to greet the old Jewish man who ran the hot dog stand on the corner of Fourth and Union (because you never know when a friendship like that might come in handy) before reaching the warehouse.
“Oh man, look at that!” I heard our repairman, Ryan, yell as I scanned the shelves for the box to a watch I was pulling. The shipping manager and I rushed into his office and found Ryan in his usual stance, leaning against the window. We all peered down five stories to the sidewalk across the street. There on the ground lay a heap of rags that might have once been a man, but now was so lifeless I was sure someone would come along and throw it in the dumpster at any moment. “Wait, here come the bike patrol dudes. They’ll pick him up for sure.” Ryan pointed as two policemen came coasting around the corner. To my surprise, they stopped and talked to each other only for a moment before directing their attention to a pedestrian who seemed to need directions. An ambulance began wailing in the distance. Surely it was coming to pick up the poor passed-out man, but as it drew closer, it rumbled by in a hurry to help someone else. I strained my eyes to see if the man was breathing. “How long will he be there?” I asked. “I don’t know, a little while. I’m pretty sure that storeowner will get really upset if he has a homeless man dead outside his store. It looks bad for business, you know.” Ryan responded absently as he turned back to his ringing phone. “Do you really think he’s dead?” “I don’t know…Hello? Yeah…I’ll send her. Hey Katie, Sara says to hurry back down there with that watch.” I glanced out the window one last time before leaving. I found it odd that humanity would just sweep past a man who might be dying.
That was the thing with the homeless; they didn’t seem to have any connections with anybody. Nobody really cared what happened to them. I wondered if I should have done something, but I quickly pushed the thought out of my head. He was, no doubt, just drunk or a drug addict who was finally getting what had been coming to him for years. Nobody cared about the homeless for a good reason — they didn’t contribute to society; all they really did was try to leech off of other people’s sympathies.
I felt relieved when the time came for me to leave. Eight hours of being in uncomfortable dress clothes made me eager to get home. The sun was setting behind the city and the air grew chilly again. I wanted to stop and stand in between the buildings where the last few warm rays of sun were able to reach, but I had a ferry to catch. That’s the only problem with taking a ferry; you’re always in a rush to catch it. If you miss it, it will be a good hour or two before the next one comes.
The same determined crowd that had pushed me off the boat now trotted down the steep hills of Seattle, everyone once again oblivious to the world. I loved soaking in the sights of the city. White horse-drawn carriages meandered along the waterfront carrying couples cuddled in the backseat. A few shopkeepers watered their flower boxes and swept their storefronts before closing and joining the crowds towards the ferry. People coming from Pike Place Market had their arms loaded with colorful bouquets and fresh produce. The only thing I disliked was the squealing and hissing of the buses as they lurched by, trying to make all their stops on time. A few frazzled individuals dressed in business suits sprinted towards their bus stop, waving their arms and yelling for the bus to wait. I had nearly been knocked over by one of these people as I was crossing the street when I ran into Smiley again. He hadn’t moved an inch from his corner. He still waited, imploring anybody to smile for him. He waved and thanked those who were brave enough to take notice of him. I looked his way, and he caught my eye. “Oh won’t you please take me home with you?” he pleaded, giving me a rather toothless smile. Unsure of what to do, I gave him a weak smile and tried to pass him as quickly as possible.
When I entered the pedestrian tunnel, I was surprised to find the offensive smell of urine replaced with that of a cleaning agent. A man who would become a very familiar figure to me that summer was working away in there. I called him Mr. Clean. He stood inside the tunnel, scrubbing the walls. He didn’t work energetically or cheerfully, but at a dreary, steady pace, like a tired donkey that plods along, not because it wants to, but because it’s a duty that must be done. He took no notice of the people passing him or the curious looks he received, but continued spraying and scrubbing. His appearance wasn’t one that suggested an individual with a clean streak. He had the same tangled gray hair, the same lanky, malnourished body, and the same worn, leathery skin as any other homeless man. Yet underneath this ordinary appearance was a man who had resolved to make his home clean.
From that point on, every day I saw Smiley and Mr. Clean. Mr. Clean spent all of his mornings reading and cleaned in the evening. The only thing I ever saw him read was a faded green Gideon New Testament. I often wished that I could stop and talk to Mr. Clean. He fascinated me. It didn’t surprise me that he had a New Testament, because most of the homeless often read and can even quote a little Scripture, but I wondered what Mr. Clean thought of it. I also wondered how he survived. I never once saw him panhandle, beg, eat or drink anything. And why did he always clean? Living as a homeless man was one of the dirtiest lives he could’ve chosen. Where did he get his cleaning supplies? He had several bottles with different colored liquids, but I couldn’t figure out where he kept them. In the morning I never saw them poking out from his shopping cart. Despite my desire to talk with Mr. Clean, I knew he never spoke to anybody, not even to himself. The few times I had tried to get his attention, he just went on cleaning or reading.
At first I was disgusted by Smiley. On several occasions I heard him making lewd comments to women. Later, I noticed that he only said nasty things to women who ignored him. To those who would acknowledge him, he put on that huge toothless grin, and sometimes, if you were really special, he would mockingly give you a flourished bow. But Smiley’s mind was not right, and he could not hold a conversation. I remember near the end of the summer, Smiley passed out from drinking too much. The next day I asked him how he was feeling, and he just gave me a blank stare and held up his sign. I smiled, he bowed, and I continued on my way.
On my last long ferry ride from Seattle to Bremerton, I stared idly out the window. Huge dark clouds began rolling in, turning the soft colors of sunset into cold, bluish-grays and greens. The forests were no longer a rich emerald green, but black, and the houses that had seemed so brightly painted on sunny mornings turned dull under the clouds. A few of the braver seagulls who were catching rides back to Bremerton stepped under the covered side of the deck and huddled together for a little body heat.
I thought about how through those trips to Seattle I had really grown attached to Smiley and Mr. Clean. Because of them, my view of the homeless had been significantly changed. They’re not all societal leeches looking to use other’s emotions and sympathies for their own benefit. But they are all sinners, like me, who are in desperate need of God’s love and grace. It’s not often that two people you’ve never held a conversation with change you, but that summer, those homeless men changed me.
I hurried down the wet plank and onto the back of the small passenger ferry that ran from my town of Port Orchard to Bremerton. It was my first day of work, and I wished I’d dressed warmer as I took one of the last seats on the exposed deck of the boat and made a sad attempt to wrap the tail of my scarf over my knees. The salty wind whipped through my hair, and I was amazed at the beautiful sunrise coming up from behind the towering forests of Kitsap Peninsula that quickly grew smaller as we pulled away from the dock. The sun warmed the gray clouds to pinks and oranges that contrasted against the clear blue sky. I began to think that catching the early ferry might not be so bad after all.
Fifteen minutes later, I tramped onto the Bremerton docks with the rest of the passengers. However, I paused to curiously examine a man who was waiting to go back to Port Orchard. Everything about him said he was homeless — his long, tangled, salt and pepper hair, his dirty, shabby jeans and his old plaid jacket. My attention was caught though, by a birdhouse attached to a string that hung around his neck. It was a small wooden birdhouse, clearly damaged and faded from the Seattle rain and wind. If I didn’t know better than to talk to the homeless, I would have liked to look inside the birdhouse and see what kind of bird he had in there. “Don’t mind him,” a small, middle-aged Filipino woman advised me, noticing my interest. “He don’t keep no bird in there. He keep the money he begs for. He used to carry it in jar, but the others break it and steal his money too much. Now he try to fool the people with his birdhouse. If you ask me, he should get a job. I come here and get my nursing degree, and now I make the money myself.” I nodded, replied “Oh,” and kept moving toward the larger ferry leaving from Bremerton’s terminal to downtown Seattle.
Once on the Seattle ferry, I found a booth near a heating vent and curled up to go to sleep. I had taken this ride so often that I wasn’t anxious to look out the window. The boat would pull out of Bremerton and cross the Puget Sound towards Rich Passage and then move on to the piers of Seattle. It would pass several big red navigational buoy towers, bobbing cheerily in the cold water. On a sunny morning like this, a few sea lions would be fighting to jump up on the bases of these towers to sun themselves. Large homes lined the shore, set against rolling hills covered in brownish-green brush and a backdrop of evergreen trees. On the beach a few of the timid shore birds might run up and down, quickly pecking at the wet sand, then racing away from the approaching waves. It all looked the same for that hour-long ride.
Once we docked in Seattle, we were greeted by a crew of seagulls who landed on the deck to beg for food. They angrily fluffed their wings and tried to peck their way closer to the passengers. A few tourists displayed their naivete by feeding the seagulls, creating a larger, noisier flock of birds as the pigeons and nearby crows joined in. An irritated ferry employee shooed the birds away and threw a dirty look towards the tourists. I was carried off the ferry by the bustle of commuters who went in different directions with looks of determination on their faces. They didn’t notice the cries of the workers in the fish market, how the sun sparkled and gleamed on the side of the cruise ship that had docked a few piers down, or the graffiti showing off the artistic talents of the local street kids.
I followed this oblivious group into the pedestrian tunnel leading out to the streets of Seattle. I was immediately taken aback by the strong smell of urine. Apparently the tunnel doubled as the local restroom for the homeless and a home as well, judging by the dirty sleeping bag crumpled nearby. I did my best to hold my breath, and silently cursed my high heels for crippling me from walking any faster. This was when I first saw Smiley. I was waiting at the corner of Marion and First, right by Starbucks, which happened to be his corner. His deformed purplish-red nose and ears (and slightly intoxicated state) testified to his alcoholism. From his looks and the long thin braid hanging down his back, I guessed he was probably Native American. I wondered how this 50-something man was able to survive. He stood there in nothing but a tattered t-shirt and jeans, while I could barely stay warm enough to function with my scarf, wool coat and layers of sweaters and shirts.
The thing that most surprised me was how he chose to occupy himself: smiling, not asking for money, but merely holding a bent cardboard sign that said in sloppy black marker, “Smile.” He looked at me, almost begging me to smile with his glazed-over brown eyes. I averted my gaze to the light and quickly crossed the street when it turned green. I knew it was better not to encourage the homeless to bother you. If I was going to see him often, I didn’t need him trying to talk to me every time I waited at that light.
I hiked four blocks uphill and then another four through the hotel district to the historic Fairmont-Olympic Hotel where I was employed by a watch boutique. Smartly-dressed bellhops nodded at me as I walked by, while valets ran around vehicles and assisted guests with their luggage before driving the cars off. A couple of bank employees stood outside the back of Wells Fargo, smoking next to a sign that pointed to an Asian deli located down a shady-looking alley. I crossed the street to the Fairmont Hotel, happy that this area remained relatively free of bums and suspicious characters.
I hadn’t been working more than a few hours before I was sent down the street to the warehouse to bring more stock to the watch shop. I didn’t mind though; I needed some fresh air. One of the benefits of the continual rain in Seattle is that it keeps the air clean of smog. The sidewalks always provide one with plenty to look at. The tables and chairs outside of cafes attract gray pigeons, bobbing their heads and cooing at the customers, hoping for a stray crumb. Asian tourists run around with cameras, asking those passing by to take their picture. And I always have a hard time not staring at the costumes the “artsy” women turn out in, with their bright stockings, crazy windblown hair, and fluttering peasant skirts. Confused groups of elderly tourists grabbed anybody who would stop and inquired where Pike Place Market was. I stopped only to greet the old Jewish man who ran the hot dog stand on the corner of Fourth and Union (because you never know when a friendship like that might come in handy) before reaching the warehouse.
“Oh man, look at that!” I heard our repairman, Ryan, yell as I scanned the shelves for the box to a watch I was pulling. The shipping manager and I rushed into his office and found Ryan in his usual stance, leaning against the window. We all peered down five stories to the sidewalk across the street. There on the ground lay a heap of rags that might have once been a man, but now was so lifeless I was sure someone would come along and throw it in the dumpster at any moment. “Wait, here come the bike patrol dudes. They’ll pick him up for sure.” Ryan pointed as two policemen came coasting around the corner. To my surprise, they stopped and talked to each other only for a moment before directing their attention to a pedestrian who seemed to need directions. An ambulance began wailing in the distance. Surely it was coming to pick up the poor passed-out man, but as it drew closer, it rumbled by in a hurry to help someone else. I strained my eyes to see if the man was breathing. “How long will he be there?” I asked. “I don’t know, a little while. I’m pretty sure that storeowner will get really upset if he has a homeless man dead outside his store. It looks bad for business, you know.” Ryan responded absently as he turned back to his ringing phone. “Do you really think he’s dead?” “I don’t know…Hello? Yeah…I’ll send her. Hey Katie, Sara says to hurry back down there with that watch.” I glanced out the window one last time before leaving. I found it odd that humanity would just sweep past a man who might be dying.
That was the thing with the homeless; they didn’t seem to have any connections with anybody. Nobody really cared what happened to them. I wondered if I should have done something, but I quickly pushed the thought out of my head. He was, no doubt, just drunk or a drug addict who was finally getting what had been coming to him for years. Nobody cared about the homeless for a good reason — they didn’t contribute to society; all they really did was try to leech off of other people’s sympathies.
I felt relieved when the time came for me to leave. Eight hours of being in uncomfortable dress clothes made me eager to get home. The sun was setting behind the city and the air grew chilly again. I wanted to stop and stand in between the buildings where the last few warm rays of sun were able to reach, but I had a ferry to catch. That’s the only problem with taking a ferry; you’re always in a rush to catch it. If you miss it, it will be a good hour or two before the next one comes.
The same determined crowd that had pushed me off the boat now trotted down the steep hills of Seattle, everyone once again oblivious to the world. I loved soaking in the sights of the city. White horse-drawn carriages meandered along the waterfront carrying couples cuddled in the backseat. A few shopkeepers watered their flower boxes and swept their storefronts before closing and joining the crowds towards the ferry. People coming from Pike Place Market had their arms loaded with colorful bouquets and fresh produce. The only thing I disliked was the squealing and hissing of the buses as they lurched by, trying to make all their stops on time. A few frazzled individuals dressed in business suits sprinted towards their bus stop, waving their arms and yelling for the bus to wait. I had nearly been knocked over by one of these people as I was crossing the street when I ran into Smiley again. He hadn’t moved an inch from his corner. He still waited, imploring anybody to smile for him. He waved and thanked those who were brave enough to take notice of him. I looked his way, and he caught my eye. “Oh won’t you please take me home with you?” he pleaded, giving me a rather toothless smile. Unsure of what to do, I gave him a weak smile and tried to pass him as quickly as possible.
When I entered the pedestrian tunnel, I was surprised to find the offensive smell of urine replaced with that of a cleaning agent. A man who would become a very familiar figure to me that summer was working away in there. I called him Mr. Clean. He stood inside the tunnel, scrubbing the walls. He didn’t work energetically or cheerfully, but at a dreary, steady pace, like a tired donkey that plods along, not because it wants to, but because it’s a duty that must be done. He took no notice of the people passing him or the curious looks he received, but continued spraying and scrubbing. His appearance wasn’t one that suggested an individual with a clean streak. He had the same tangled gray hair, the same lanky, malnourished body, and the same worn, leathery skin as any other homeless man. Yet underneath this ordinary appearance was a man who had resolved to make his home clean.
From that point on, every day I saw Smiley and Mr. Clean. Mr. Clean spent all of his mornings reading and cleaned in the evening. The only thing I ever saw him read was a faded green Gideon New Testament. I often wished that I could stop and talk to Mr. Clean. He fascinated me. It didn’t surprise me that he had a New Testament, because most of the homeless often read and can even quote a little Scripture, but I wondered what Mr. Clean thought of it. I also wondered how he survived. I never once saw him panhandle, beg, eat or drink anything. And why did he always clean? Living as a homeless man was one of the dirtiest lives he could’ve chosen. Where did he get his cleaning supplies? He had several bottles with different colored liquids, but I couldn’t figure out where he kept them. In the morning I never saw them poking out from his shopping cart. Despite my desire to talk with Mr. Clean, I knew he never spoke to anybody, not even to himself. The few times I had tried to get his attention, he just went on cleaning or reading.
At first I was disgusted by Smiley. On several occasions I heard him making lewd comments to women. Later, I noticed that he only said nasty things to women who ignored him. To those who would acknowledge him, he put on that huge toothless grin, and sometimes, if you were really special, he would mockingly give you a flourished bow. But Smiley’s mind was not right, and he could not hold a conversation. I remember near the end of the summer, Smiley passed out from drinking too much. The next day I asked him how he was feeling, and he just gave me a blank stare and held up his sign. I smiled, he bowed, and I continued on my way.
On my last long ferry ride from Seattle to Bremerton, I stared idly out the window. Huge dark clouds began rolling in, turning the soft colors of sunset into cold, bluish-grays and greens. The forests were no longer a rich emerald green, but black, and the houses that had seemed so brightly painted on sunny mornings turned dull under the clouds. A few of the braver seagulls who were catching rides back to Bremerton stepped under the covered side of the deck and huddled together for a little body heat.
I thought about how through those trips to Seattle I had really grown attached to Smiley and Mr. Clean. Because of them, my view of the homeless had been significantly changed. They’re not all societal leeches looking to use other’s emotions and sympathies for their own benefit. But they are all sinners, like me, who are in desperate need of God’s love and grace. It’s not often that two people you’ve never held a conversation with change you, but that summer, those homeless men changed me.
Breaking Down the Walls: Editorial
By Debbie Stampfli
When I was nine years old, my room fell apart. Literally.
In one moment on a cold January morning in 1994, my drawers full of books flew out onto the carpet, my glass figurines tumbled from their shelves, and my furniture fell over onto the floor and on top of my bed.
It wasn’t just my room though. The Northridge Earthquake hit our entire neighborhood in a severe way — mainly because my family lived only a few miles from the epicenter. Some chimneys collapsed, and most incredibly, nearly every single one of our neighbor’s fences and walls were knocked down, including ours.
As a result, if you looked outside through our backyard, you could see into nearly every other backyard in the neighborhood. We were suddenly taken away from our comfortable, fenced-in environment, and forced to see into the backyards of people we barely knew. Stranger still, when the boundaries of our backyard opened, we suddenly became host to a number of animals. We began to regularly see squirrels, possums and mice in the days that followed. Our patio table even became home to a pure white dove that we affectionately named “Snowshoe.” After a while, he knew us so well that he would eat Saltine crackers right from our hands.
Although our world was shaken in a terrible way, it was also opened in a strange and beautiful way. After the earthquake, the busy main street we lived on became an unconventional neighborhood. Everyone had to come out of their homes eventually that day, and the most common phrase spoken that morning became, “Are you guys okay?” I wondered if those words would have escaped anyone’s lips if our “worlds” had not been tangibly broken.
In the same sense, I wish we would all become this shaken. It is a terrible thing to go through life in the center of a busy world with fences and walls and barriers keeping us apart from it. We become trapped behind our own fences, unaware of the world that is just next door, full of broken people and even beautiful white doves.
I’ve come to the point where I’ve realized that this is one of the defining marks of our culture. We live for ourselves and rarely see what is going on outside what interests us. When I was driving past a bus stop the other day, I saw an older woman with frazzled dark hair and disappointed eyes, holding her face in her hands. I knew she had grief that this world would categorize as unfixable. And I knew I would never see her again. Granted, it is impossible to take into consideration every pained person we come across. Yet, to ignore them altogether and dissolve into our own self-centered worlds is a tragedy. Some might call this condition apathy, but I think they are being far too kind. It is merely a symptom of our self-consumed culture: egoism, to be sure. Moreover, it demonstrates the complete lack of compassion that has taken us all captive. Instead of being aware and concerned for others, we are exclusively centered on ourselves. And by shutting out the world around us with a frame of indifference, we lose a whole world of unexpected beauty as well. Instead of building taller fences and thicker walls, we should long for earthquakes that take us into worlds we would have nothing to do with otherwise.
In spite of the destructive effect of the earthquake, my family gained a wonderful pet dove and a few new neighbors — things I wouldn’t have noticed in any other circumstance. Likewise, oftentimes when we lock ourselves behind fences instead of letting our walls fall down, we miss the important things, the simplistically beautiful things, and the imperfectly lovely things. But even more so, we need to desire “earthquakes” in order to get out of ourselves and observe those around us. If our worlds have to be shaken in order to transform us into observant and sensitive individuals, then so be it. Better a world of fallen fences than apathetic egomaniacs.
When I was nine years old, my room fell apart. Literally.
In one moment on a cold January morning in 1994, my drawers full of books flew out onto the carpet, my glass figurines tumbled from their shelves, and my furniture fell over onto the floor and on top of my bed.
It wasn’t just my room though. The Northridge Earthquake hit our entire neighborhood in a severe way — mainly because my family lived only a few miles from the epicenter. Some chimneys collapsed, and most incredibly, nearly every single one of our neighbor’s fences and walls were knocked down, including ours.
As a result, if you looked outside through our backyard, you could see into nearly every other backyard in the neighborhood. We were suddenly taken away from our comfortable, fenced-in environment, and forced to see into the backyards of people we barely knew. Stranger still, when the boundaries of our backyard opened, we suddenly became host to a number of animals. We began to regularly see squirrels, possums and mice in the days that followed. Our patio table even became home to a pure white dove that we affectionately named “Snowshoe.” After a while, he knew us so well that he would eat Saltine crackers right from our hands.
Although our world was shaken in a terrible way, it was also opened in a strange and beautiful way. After the earthquake, the busy main street we lived on became an unconventional neighborhood. Everyone had to come out of their homes eventually that day, and the most common phrase spoken that morning became, “Are you guys okay?” I wondered if those words would have escaped anyone’s lips if our “worlds” had not been tangibly broken.
In the same sense, I wish we would all become this shaken. It is a terrible thing to go through life in the center of a busy world with fences and walls and barriers keeping us apart from it. We become trapped behind our own fences, unaware of the world that is just next door, full of broken people and even beautiful white doves.
I’ve come to the point where I’ve realized that this is one of the defining marks of our culture. We live for ourselves and rarely see what is going on outside what interests us. When I was driving past a bus stop the other day, I saw an older woman with frazzled dark hair and disappointed eyes, holding her face in her hands. I knew she had grief that this world would categorize as unfixable. And I knew I would never see her again. Granted, it is impossible to take into consideration every pained person we come across. Yet, to ignore them altogether and dissolve into our own self-centered worlds is a tragedy. Some might call this condition apathy, but I think they are being far too kind. It is merely a symptom of our self-consumed culture: egoism, to be sure. Moreover, it demonstrates the complete lack of compassion that has taken us all captive. Instead of being aware and concerned for others, we are exclusively centered on ourselves. And by shutting out the world around us with a frame of indifference, we lose a whole world of unexpected beauty as well. Instead of building taller fences and thicker walls, we should long for earthquakes that take us into worlds we would have nothing to do with otherwise.
In spite of the destructive effect of the earthquake, my family gained a wonderful pet dove and a few new neighbors — things I wouldn’t have noticed in any other circumstance. Likewise, oftentimes when we lock ourselves behind fences instead of letting our walls fall down, we miss the important things, the simplistically beautiful things, and the imperfectly lovely things. But even more so, we need to desire “earthquakes” in order to get out of ourselves and observe those around us. If our worlds have to be shaken in order to transform us into observant and sensitive individuals, then so be it. Better a world of fallen fences than apathetic egomaniacs.
Poetry: Issue 3
Memoirs From a Dance Floor
by Rachel Thompson
Their grace was subtle, and I fell into step
with them,
with them,
with my eyes.
They didn’t need physical touch to move together
like water.
A business man pulled off his mask
and trampled imaginary papers
under his jazz feet
while spinning the woman
in the red dress.
The floor got slick
when the salsa crowd hit.
Their moves talked sweet,
coaxing the lights
to dance.
A man brought me punch the color of wine.
And I drank it slowly,
watching him go back and forth,
Back and forth —a drink for every woman,
without dancing one step.
When she entered,
the room hushed, smooth and silent.
And when she breathed,
they pulled their dances toward the wall.
And gave her the spot
in the centerof the floor.
A couple walked out kissing.
Polka music played for two songs.
I watched other
couples
who tapped
their dance.
She skirted his hand
and spun in a circle
around him.
I watched as they played
with the music. I watched
their beautiful feet.
Morning Glory
by Anna Forbes
The sun silently disregarded my curtains this morning.
He crept in and sprawled himself across the linen
As if there was room for two.
“You’re early,” I said.“Please come back in an hour.”
Now he was recklessly throwing gold against my wall
and showing off my dust collection.
“What next?” I asked my bold intruder.
The wind gently replied instead.
I couldn’t refuse this fresh sea breeze,
so I put my feet on the hardwood floor
and stepped into my shoes.
In the Middle of Somewhere: An Adventure in the Arizona Desert pt. 3
by Joe Barnes
By this time, I had been at the house for five hours. It was 3 p.m. We got in the Jeep and drove away, glad to be moving on. We pulled up to the auto store 30 minutes later, shocked that a Napa existed out here in the middle of nowhere. We went in, and Luke called Dad to explain what had happened. I bought a soda and took a seat on the bar stool at the long checkout counter.
As the two middle-aged women standing behind the counter listened to Luke, they showed a growing curiosity as to how we had arrived there with car trouble. Noticing this, I began to satisfy them with the story. After hearing everything I said, one of the ladies brought a man from the warehouse to take a look at the car. Luke hung up the phone and followed us to the Jeep. The big fat guy lay on the cement and looked at the engine. “Your water pump is shot. You see it leaking here?” He pointed up into the engine and then to the ground where the drips of water fell. “You need a new water pump. There’s not enough water getting to your engine to keep it cool.” “Are you sure?” Luke asked. “Positive,” the man replied.
Luke went back in the store and got on the phone to tell Dad the real problem. As Luke and Dad spoke, it became apparent that we needed to find a mechanic to put the pump on. One of the women interrupted Luke. “My husband is a part-time mechanic. He can do it. We live right down the street.” She had thin, light brown hair reaching to her waist. Her face was round with a double chin and a sincere smile. Luke paused from his conversation. We stared silently at her. The other woman chimed in, sensing our hesitation. “He’s a good mechanic — and a preacher. He won’t overcharge you. You can trust him.”
Luke ran it by my dad and got the okay. We bought two new hoses and a water pump. It was 4 p.m. as we followed the woman to her house. The medium-sized, tan and brown brick houses were much nicer than those in Greg’s town. We turned off the main road. The woman parked along the curb in front of a house, got out and ran to the edge of the driveway, motioning like an air-traffic controller. We parked under the carport over the driveway and got out of the car.
The woman, Shirley James, introduced us to her husband, Hosea James. Hosea stood just short of six feet. He was fit for a man in his 50s and had bristly brown hair cut high-top style. His tan skin showed the effects of long, blue-collar days in the sun. We also met an older couple, Dan and Marie, in the yard. When we pulled up, they were complimenting “Preacher James” on the message he had delivered the day before. Marie had shoulder-length, white hair. Dan’s head was bald with short white hair around the sides. It seemed that his age had caused his posture to slump.
Luke handed the water pump to Hosea. He immediately opened the hood and began to work. Shirley and Marie conversed while Luke and I petted the Black Labrador Dan held on a leash. “So Dan, what do you do out here? Are you retired?” I asked. “Well, I did work, until I fell off the ladder on the job and hurt myself real bad. I spent three months in the hospital. I’m still recovering. I got out in March.” His voice shook, and his words came out slowly.
Though his head slanted towards the ground, he made sure to look me in the eyes while he spoke. “Tell them Dan! Tell them what happened!” Marie said. Luke took a step closer to Dan and folded his arms to show interest. “Like I said, I hurt myself real bad. I broke three ribs, punctured my kidney, dislocated my hip and shoulder, and I had stitches all over my head.” He touched the side of his head. “I haven’t always stood this way, just since the accident.” “He’s always been real healthy,” his wife interjected.
Dan continued. “I was in a coma for two and a half months. While I was lying there one day, two tall young men dressed in black striped suits came in. They said, ‘Do you want to live through this, Dan?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. They told me they would only let me live if I denied Christ. If not, I would die.” By this time, Shirley and Marie had moved closer to Luke and me, listening as if it was the first time they had heard the story. “Now I gotta tell you, I had never been a Christian. She always wanted me to be, but I just didn’t care.” He pointed at Marie. “I’d been praying for him for 30 years,” she said. “For some reason, I knew this was not the time to deny Christ. So I said, ‘No, get out of here!’ They left. Then they came again. They said the same thing. I said no again, only this time, I got real mad and cursed and yelled at them. One of the men walked towards me, and I started swinging at him.”
Astonished, Luke and I looked over at the ladies. “It’s true!” Marie said. “The nurses had to strap his legs and arms to the bed. They even called me in to see.” I thought it peculiar that an injured man could be so rambunctious while he was unconscious. We looked back at Dan. “Right when I swung at him, a lion’s head lunged at me roaring.” He spread his hand wide and quickly moved it toward us to show the thrust. “It came out of his arm. I swung at it. Then it ended, and they were gone.” “It came out of his arm?” I asked, grabbing my arm and furrowing my brow. “Yes.” Dan raised his right forearm and touched the middle of it. “It came out right here.” “Wow,” I said, turning my head to Luke. We looked at each other wide-eyed. “Anyway, they came back a couple more times. When they were there, I felt like I was in hell. It smelled bad — and the heat. I could hear cries.” Dan paused to gather himself. “It put the fear of God in me,” he said in a severe tone. “I got out of there and gave my life to the Lord. I’ve read my Bible every day since.” “Thanks for telling us about that,” Luke said. I nodded my head to agree.
“We better get going!” Marie said to Shirley. “Nice to meet you boys. If you need a place to stay tonight, we have an extra bedroom.” “We’d appreciate that, but we should be out of here pretty soon,” Luke said. The old couple walked away. Shirley pulled out some chairs and began to tell us how Hosea and she had met, got married, become Christians and gotten very involved in their charismatic church. “The real preacher died, and they asked Hosea to fill in. He just kinda never stopped. He’s only been doing it a couple of years. Everyone loves him.”
Hosea walked over with the water pump and interrupted, telling us we had bought the wrong kind of pump. He said he had ordered the right one from Napa, but it wouldn’t be in until tomorrow morning. Also, he had found a crack in one of our cylinders, which he said he would fill with liquid glass. “I’m guessing you won’t be out of here until three or four tomorrow,” he said. Luke and I walked down the sidewalk towards Dan and Marie’s around 6 p.m., Luke with a duffle bag on his shoulder and me rolling a small suitcase. We laughed as people stared and gave us strange looks. Dan and Marie were happy to have us. Marie insisted on cooking us dinner. She made chicken and vegetable stir-fry with egg rolls.
After cleaning up, Luke and I walked through the living room and peered out the glass door. There Dan sat, shoulders hunched over and head down, holding a book very close to his face. Marie walked up behind us. “He reads his Bible there every evening,” she said. Luke slid the door open, and the four of us talked on the patio for a couple of hours. We headed back to the Jeep about 11 the next morning. Hosea had been working on it since nine. “I got the water pump on and the crack filled,” he said. “It needs another three or four hours to dry. It’s risky, but I think it should get you home.”
Once again, we sat underneath the carport and talked to Hosea and Shirley for three hours. They captivated us with interesting stories, telling us about the 10 years they had spent ministering on Indian reservations in northern Arizona. Time went by unnoticed. “Can we pray for ya’ll before you leave?” Shirley asked. “Of course,” Luke said. Holding hands, we formed a circle in the driveway. It was a solid, five-minute prayer. They agreed with each other’s requests and repeatedly said, “Yes, Jesus.” Their body movement caused Luke and me to open our eyes and watch them. They nodded and looked up to the sky and shook their heads. I looked at Luke, turned my nose up, and raised my eyebrows. He smiled.
We gave hugs and got into the Jeep. I drove out of Carney, Arizona on Tuesday afternoon at 4 p.m. I constantly checked the engine temperature, knowing that the engine could die at any moment. The mental video of driving down my street and pulling into my driveway played over and over. Luke asked if I wanted to listen to Mere Christianity on CD. Normally I’d say no, but I wanted distraction from looking at the clock every 20 minutes. I listened for 10 minutes.
My mind switched from dreading the remaining length of time in the car to worrying about the problems I would face at home. Milling them over, I began to speed. “Joe, did you hear that?” “No! What?” “What he just said.” “Yeah, I did. What was it, though?” He explained C.S. Lewis’ breakdown on the issue of hypocrisy in Christianity and then posed the same simple question Lewis asked. “Joe, are you a hypocrite? Think about it. Don’t be.” I drove in silence. Naturally, I wanted to ignore the difficult question. However, I fought my tendency and began to evaluate. Clearly, for me the question was not, “Are you a hypocrite?” but, “Will you be a hypocrite?” The only way to find authenticity at home would be the same way I had found it in Carney: by relying on and trusting in God. I drove until stopping for gas around 1 a.m. We were finally in Texas: time for Luke’s shift and my sleep.
Two hours later, I jolted up at a loud noise. It sounded and felt like we had just hit a car. “What in the —” I didn’t have a chance to finish. “I just ran over a deer!” Luke said. “He ran out in front of me, and I ran straight over him!” “Did it do any damage?” I asked. Luke leaned forward in the seat, trying to get a look at the front end. “I don’t know. I think it’s all right. I’m not stopping. I don’t care!” “You’re not gonna stop?” I said. “Whatever, just don’t hit any more deer.” I laughed and went back to sleep.
Thirty minutes later, I woke to the sounds of sirens. “Oh great, Luke! A cop! First the deer, now--” “Shut up, Joe!” Luke yelled. The Texas Highway Patrolman came to the window, giving the by-the-book statement. “Officer, I hit a deer a little bit ago. Can I get out and check the front?” “Sure, sure,” the officer answered. Luke and I got out and met him at the bumper. He shined his flashlight on it. “Yup, looks like it,” he said. “You can see some of the hair and the blood.” Luke gripped part of the plastic bumper, trying to force it back to the right position. Then he squatted to inspect the damage. “Is there any reason you were speeding back there, son?” Luke stood up and slowly turned to face him. “Actually, yeah, there is. I just graduated college, my car broke down in the middle of nowhere in Arizona for two days, and I just want to get home.” He pushed out a deep breath. “Be careful out there,” the officer said. He walked away.
We looked at each other, shocked. “Nice Luke!” I said. “Your tact worked!” We arrived home at 5 a.m. on Wednesday morning. I failed miserably that summer at being a Christian, and at the end, I was shamefully aware of it. Only now can I look back and see what God taught me through that experience and know that Hosea, Shirley, Dan and Marie would be proud of who I am today.
By this time, I had been at the house for five hours. It was 3 p.m. We got in the Jeep and drove away, glad to be moving on. We pulled up to the auto store 30 minutes later, shocked that a Napa existed out here in the middle of nowhere. We went in, and Luke called Dad to explain what had happened. I bought a soda and took a seat on the bar stool at the long checkout counter.
As the two middle-aged women standing behind the counter listened to Luke, they showed a growing curiosity as to how we had arrived there with car trouble. Noticing this, I began to satisfy them with the story. After hearing everything I said, one of the ladies brought a man from the warehouse to take a look at the car. Luke hung up the phone and followed us to the Jeep. The big fat guy lay on the cement and looked at the engine. “Your water pump is shot. You see it leaking here?” He pointed up into the engine and then to the ground where the drips of water fell. “You need a new water pump. There’s not enough water getting to your engine to keep it cool.” “Are you sure?” Luke asked. “Positive,” the man replied.
Luke went back in the store and got on the phone to tell Dad the real problem. As Luke and Dad spoke, it became apparent that we needed to find a mechanic to put the pump on. One of the women interrupted Luke. “My husband is a part-time mechanic. He can do it. We live right down the street.” She had thin, light brown hair reaching to her waist. Her face was round with a double chin and a sincere smile. Luke paused from his conversation. We stared silently at her. The other woman chimed in, sensing our hesitation. “He’s a good mechanic — and a preacher. He won’t overcharge you. You can trust him.”
Luke ran it by my dad and got the okay. We bought two new hoses and a water pump. It was 4 p.m. as we followed the woman to her house. The medium-sized, tan and brown brick houses were much nicer than those in Greg’s town. We turned off the main road. The woman parked along the curb in front of a house, got out and ran to the edge of the driveway, motioning like an air-traffic controller. We parked under the carport over the driveway and got out of the car.
The woman, Shirley James, introduced us to her husband, Hosea James. Hosea stood just short of six feet. He was fit for a man in his 50s and had bristly brown hair cut high-top style. His tan skin showed the effects of long, blue-collar days in the sun. We also met an older couple, Dan and Marie, in the yard. When we pulled up, they were complimenting “Preacher James” on the message he had delivered the day before. Marie had shoulder-length, white hair. Dan’s head was bald with short white hair around the sides. It seemed that his age had caused his posture to slump.
Luke handed the water pump to Hosea. He immediately opened the hood and began to work. Shirley and Marie conversed while Luke and I petted the Black Labrador Dan held on a leash. “So Dan, what do you do out here? Are you retired?” I asked. “Well, I did work, until I fell off the ladder on the job and hurt myself real bad. I spent three months in the hospital. I’m still recovering. I got out in March.” His voice shook, and his words came out slowly.
Though his head slanted towards the ground, he made sure to look me in the eyes while he spoke. “Tell them Dan! Tell them what happened!” Marie said. Luke took a step closer to Dan and folded his arms to show interest. “Like I said, I hurt myself real bad. I broke three ribs, punctured my kidney, dislocated my hip and shoulder, and I had stitches all over my head.” He touched the side of his head. “I haven’t always stood this way, just since the accident.” “He’s always been real healthy,” his wife interjected.
Dan continued. “I was in a coma for two and a half months. While I was lying there one day, two tall young men dressed in black striped suits came in. They said, ‘Do you want to live through this, Dan?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. They told me they would only let me live if I denied Christ. If not, I would die.” By this time, Shirley and Marie had moved closer to Luke and me, listening as if it was the first time they had heard the story. “Now I gotta tell you, I had never been a Christian. She always wanted me to be, but I just didn’t care.” He pointed at Marie. “I’d been praying for him for 30 years,” she said. “For some reason, I knew this was not the time to deny Christ. So I said, ‘No, get out of here!’ They left. Then they came again. They said the same thing. I said no again, only this time, I got real mad and cursed and yelled at them. One of the men walked towards me, and I started swinging at him.”
Astonished, Luke and I looked over at the ladies. “It’s true!” Marie said. “The nurses had to strap his legs and arms to the bed. They even called me in to see.” I thought it peculiar that an injured man could be so rambunctious while he was unconscious. We looked back at Dan. “Right when I swung at him, a lion’s head lunged at me roaring.” He spread his hand wide and quickly moved it toward us to show the thrust. “It came out of his arm. I swung at it. Then it ended, and they were gone.” “It came out of his arm?” I asked, grabbing my arm and furrowing my brow. “Yes.” Dan raised his right forearm and touched the middle of it. “It came out right here.” “Wow,” I said, turning my head to Luke. We looked at each other wide-eyed. “Anyway, they came back a couple more times. When they were there, I felt like I was in hell. It smelled bad — and the heat. I could hear cries.” Dan paused to gather himself. “It put the fear of God in me,” he said in a severe tone. “I got out of there and gave my life to the Lord. I’ve read my Bible every day since.” “Thanks for telling us about that,” Luke said. I nodded my head to agree.
“We better get going!” Marie said to Shirley. “Nice to meet you boys. If you need a place to stay tonight, we have an extra bedroom.” “We’d appreciate that, but we should be out of here pretty soon,” Luke said. The old couple walked away. Shirley pulled out some chairs and began to tell us how Hosea and she had met, got married, become Christians and gotten very involved in their charismatic church. “The real preacher died, and they asked Hosea to fill in. He just kinda never stopped. He’s only been doing it a couple of years. Everyone loves him.”
Hosea walked over with the water pump and interrupted, telling us we had bought the wrong kind of pump. He said he had ordered the right one from Napa, but it wouldn’t be in until tomorrow morning. Also, he had found a crack in one of our cylinders, which he said he would fill with liquid glass. “I’m guessing you won’t be out of here until three or four tomorrow,” he said. Luke and I walked down the sidewalk towards Dan and Marie’s around 6 p.m., Luke with a duffle bag on his shoulder and me rolling a small suitcase. We laughed as people stared and gave us strange looks. Dan and Marie were happy to have us. Marie insisted on cooking us dinner. She made chicken and vegetable stir-fry with egg rolls.
After cleaning up, Luke and I walked through the living room and peered out the glass door. There Dan sat, shoulders hunched over and head down, holding a book very close to his face. Marie walked up behind us. “He reads his Bible there every evening,” she said. Luke slid the door open, and the four of us talked on the patio for a couple of hours. We headed back to the Jeep about 11 the next morning. Hosea had been working on it since nine. “I got the water pump on and the crack filled,” he said. “It needs another three or four hours to dry. It’s risky, but I think it should get you home.”
Once again, we sat underneath the carport and talked to Hosea and Shirley for three hours. They captivated us with interesting stories, telling us about the 10 years they had spent ministering on Indian reservations in northern Arizona. Time went by unnoticed. “Can we pray for ya’ll before you leave?” Shirley asked. “Of course,” Luke said. Holding hands, we formed a circle in the driveway. It was a solid, five-minute prayer. They agreed with each other’s requests and repeatedly said, “Yes, Jesus.” Their body movement caused Luke and me to open our eyes and watch them. They nodded and looked up to the sky and shook their heads. I looked at Luke, turned my nose up, and raised my eyebrows. He smiled.
We gave hugs and got into the Jeep. I drove out of Carney, Arizona on Tuesday afternoon at 4 p.m. I constantly checked the engine temperature, knowing that the engine could die at any moment. The mental video of driving down my street and pulling into my driveway played over and over. Luke asked if I wanted to listen to Mere Christianity on CD. Normally I’d say no, but I wanted distraction from looking at the clock every 20 minutes. I listened for 10 minutes.
My mind switched from dreading the remaining length of time in the car to worrying about the problems I would face at home. Milling them over, I began to speed. “Joe, did you hear that?” “No! What?” “What he just said.” “Yeah, I did. What was it, though?” He explained C.S. Lewis’ breakdown on the issue of hypocrisy in Christianity and then posed the same simple question Lewis asked. “Joe, are you a hypocrite? Think about it. Don’t be.” I drove in silence. Naturally, I wanted to ignore the difficult question. However, I fought my tendency and began to evaluate. Clearly, for me the question was not, “Are you a hypocrite?” but, “Will you be a hypocrite?” The only way to find authenticity at home would be the same way I had found it in Carney: by relying on and trusting in God. I drove until stopping for gas around 1 a.m. We were finally in Texas: time for Luke’s shift and my sleep.
Two hours later, I jolted up at a loud noise. It sounded and felt like we had just hit a car. “What in the —” I didn’t have a chance to finish. “I just ran over a deer!” Luke said. “He ran out in front of me, and I ran straight over him!” “Did it do any damage?” I asked. Luke leaned forward in the seat, trying to get a look at the front end. “I don’t know. I think it’s all right. I’m not stopping. I don’t care!” “You’re not gonna stop?” I said. “Whatever, just don’t hit any more deer.” I laughed and went back to sleep.
Thirty minutes later, I woke to the sounds of sirens. “Oh great, Luke! A cop! First the deer, now--” “Shut up, Joe!” Luke yelled. The Texas Highway Patrolman came to the window, giving the by-the-book statement. “Officer, I hit a deer a little bit ago. Can I get out and check the front?” “Sure, sure,” the officer answered. Luke and I got out and met him at the bumper. He shined his flashlight on it. “Yup, looks like it,” he said. “You can see some of the hair and the blood.” Luke gripped part of the plastic bumper, trying to force it back to the right position. Then he squatted to inspect the damage. “Is there any reason you were speeding back there, son?” Luke stood up and slowly turned to face him. “Actually, yeah, there is. I just graduated college, my car broke down in the middle of nowhere in Arizona for two days, and I just want to get home.” He pushed out a deep breath. “Be careful out there,” the officer said. He walked away.
We looked at each other, shocked. “Nice Luke!” I said. “Your tact worked!” We arrived home at 5 a.m. on Wednesday morning. I failed miserably that summer at being a Christian, and at the end, I was shamefully aware of it. Only now can I look back and see what God taught me through that experience and know that Hosea, Shirley, Dan and Marie would be proud of who I am today.
The Loosing of Words: An Essay
By Jamie Lundsberg
I wouldn’t call myself a writer, or at least not a good one. I don’t consider my writing something that William Shakespeare, George Orwell or even you would take the time to read. But I can say that I am faithful to dedicate portions of each day to the smooth, buttermilk paper in my papyrus journal. It deserves that much at least, for even when I miss my scheduled times to write, it still waits for me to pick up my yellow Number Two and chat away with it.
No, I am not a writer — not yet anyway. But I set aside time for the use of words because I am fascinated, even captivated, by the rhythmic hum of their lullabies. Words don’t mind when I manipulate and contort them to my liking. I can make them say whatever I want them to say, and they are faithful to keep my secrets in the safety of their shadows.
There was a time in my life when words rescued me from a pit of deadly silence. When my world was failing, words, like faithful friends, did not neglect me. Words were the glue that kept my sanity intact. I remember the specific moment in which words became something personal to me. But not just any words: my words.
My hero, my older sister Danielle, was severely poisoned by methyl bromide, a pesticide used to spray crops, when she was 16. To this day, we don’t know how it happened. Some have concluded that it was done intentionally; others have said it was an accident. But have you ever watched someone die, someone wilt away like the petals on a fallen rose? It is one thing to strip all life from a flower, to rob it of its beauty in one lethal sweep. But to mutilate it, bit by bit, until nothing but its shell remains, is heart-breaking. Danielle was that flower, a rare beauty, growing and flourishing, until one day her life was demanded from her. It was as if some greedy child happened on a daisy, and instead of gently stroking its petals and enjoying it, plucked it out of the ground, roots and all, and tore off the petals one by one.
Each day, a bit of Danielle’s strength was stolen away, a bit of her life taken captive by the poison that ravaged her body. She was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do. Even the doctors did nothing. They told my weeping parents to take their child home to let her die peacefully. How does one communicate such pain? I didn’t know how, but I was desperate to find a way to release the tension within me. I did not want to pray since I was angry with God. My thoughts were whirling about in chaos, and no matter where I turned, I was faced with the ugliness of reality with no way to escape.
So I went into my white oak desk, a hand-me-down from Danielle, and took out a piece of college-ruled binder paper. I sat in front of my window, pencil in hand, and proceeded to write an angry letter to the doctors who, I thought, were not doing their jobs properly. My sister had a problem, and I demanded that they and their so-called “expertise” fix it. Finally, I had put my thoughts into words, and it felt good.
From that point on, I made it a ritual to write throughout each day. Sometimes I would scribble out a few sentences of a story I had made up in my head while riding to the doctor’s office with my mom and Danielle. The stories and poems I wrote were my way of escaping from the reality I wished could be make-believe. Why couldn’t my life be a tragedy that I had formed? Why did it have to be real?
I daily fought with God over these questions. I demanded answers, reasons as to why He was allowing this to happen to my family. His only response was “wait.” So I did, quite begrudgingly in fact.
And then one day it hit me. My mom, Danielle and I were in the checkout line in the grocery store when a little boy came up to my sister and innocently asked, “Are you an angel?” She smiled and told him no and watched him walk away with a skeptical look on his face. I took a long, hard look at my sister and realized that if she did die, if this poison did claim her life, she was going to go to heaven and live forever with the God she loved and placed so much faith in. God was in control, no matter what.
Fortunately, Danielle’s new treatments of homeopathic medicine came through. Within months of her first dose, she began to show improvement. And it is by the grace of God that she was completely healed. Though she has a weak immune system, she now lives a normal life and graduates from college in June. I seldom talked about my sister’s illness and the effects it had on me and my family, but my binder paper knew, my composition books knew, my secret stash of scribble-covered Post-it notes knew. Writing became my catalyst, and words became the dearest of friends.
My hope was in knowing that words would not die, they would not fade with time, and they would never leave me. As long as I was able to think and contemplate, I would have them with me. Even though the past nine years have changed me, have shown what time is capable of, my words have not aged, nor have I grown tired of writing them. If anything, I have fallen more in love with them because I have learned the beauty of the 26 letters that roll like die in a magician’s cup until they are ready to be spilled out and moved around to form words. One could even say that they hold me spellbound.
I carry my journal with me virtually everywhere I go. Who knows when a thought will come into my mind that must be put down on paper? My boyfriend, Jonn, frequently remarks how much he enjoys watching me suddenly grab my journal and write something in a frantic manner. He finds my writing quirk charming. There is a persistent desire within me to get my thoughts out, even if those thoughts are meaningless.
I feel that if I don’t put my thoughts into words, I have betrayed them. The thought of betrayal saddens me. That is why I always keep a pencil in my purse to pull out whenever I need it, to show my thoughts and words that I am thankful for them, for all that they have done for me. But more specifically to show my thankfulness to God for allowing me to think and to write, for forming my body in such a perfect way that my mind is able to tell the muscles in my hands and wrists to pick up that yellow Number Two and write.
At a time in my life when I struggled most, God showed me His grace and faithfulness in the strangest of ways. He opened my eyes to the beauty and freedom that are found in words. I am forever indebted to Him for saving me, not just from hell, but from wanting to keep my thoughts in a cellblock. Words are important to God. He gave us the Word, so words are important to me as well. The least I can do is say thank you by putting them to use, even if they are just words shrouded in Number Two lead in the safety of my journal.
I wouldn’t call myself a writer, or at least not a good one. I don’t consider my writing something that William Shakespeare, George Orwell or even you would take the time to read. But I can say that I am faithful to dedicate portions of each day to the smooth, buttermilk paper in my papyrus journal. It deserves that much at least, for even when I miss my scheduled times to write, it still waits for me to pick up my yellow Number Two and chat away with it.
No, I am not a writer — not yet anyway. But I set aside time for the use of words because I am fascinated, even captivated, by the rhythmic hum of their lullabies. Words don’t mind when I manipulate and contort them to my liking. I can make them say whatever I want them to say, and they are faithful to keep my secrets in the safety of their shadows.
There was a time in my life when words rescued me from a pit of deadly silence. When my world was failing, words, like faithful friends, did not neglect me. Words were the glue that kept my sanity intact. I remember the specific moment in which words became something personal to me. But not just any words: my words.
My hero, my older sister Danielle, was severely poisoned by methyl bromide, a pesticide used to spray crops, when she was 16. To this day, we don’t know how it happened. Some have concluded that it was done intentionally; others have said it was an accident. But have you ever watched someone die, someone wilt away like the petals on a fallen rose? It is one thing to strip all life from a flower, to rob it of its beauty in one lethal sweep. But to mutilate it, bit by bit, until nothing but its shell remains, is heart-breaking. Danielle was that flower, a rare beauty, growing and flourishing, until one day her life was demanded from her. It was as if some greedy child happened on a daisy, and instead of gently stroking its petals and enjoying it, plucked it out of the ground, roots and all, and tore off the petals one by one.
Each day, a bit of Danielle’s strength was stolen away, a bit of her life taken captive by the poison that ravaged her body. She was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do. Even the doctors did nothing. They told my weeping parents to take their child home to let her die peacefully. How does one communicate such pain? I didn’t know how, but I was desperate to find a way to release the tension within me. I did not want to pray since I was angry with God. My thoughts were whirling about in chaos, and no matter where I turned, I was faced with the ugliness of reality with no way to escape.
So I went into my white oak desk, a hand-me-down from Danielle, and took out a piece of college-ruled binder paper. I sat in front of my window, pencil in hand, and proceeded to write an angry letter to the doctors who, I thought, were not doing their jobs properly. My sister had a problem, and I demanded that they and their so-called “expertise” fix it. Finally, I had put my thoughts into words, and it felt good.
From that point on, I made it a ritual to write throughout each day. Sometimes I would scribble out a few sentences of a story I had made up in my head while riding to the doctor’s office with my mom and Danielle. The stories and poems I wrote were my way of escaping from the reality I wished could be make-believe. Why couldn’t my life be a tragedy that I had formed? Why did it have to be real?
I daily fought with God over these questions. I demanded answers, reasons as to why He was allowing this to happen to my family. His only response was “wait.” So I did, quite begrudgingly in fact.
And then one day it hit me. My mom, Danielle and I were in the checkout line in the grocery store when a little boy came up to my sister and innocently asked, “Are you an angel?” She smiled and told him no and watched him walk away with a skeptical look on his face. I took a long, hard look at my sister and realized that if she did die, if this poison did claim her life, she was going to go to heaven and live forever with the God she loved and placed so much faith in. God was in control, no matter what.
Fortunately, Danielle’s new treatments of homeopathic medicine came through. Within months of her first dose, she began to show improvement. And it is by the grace of God that she was completely healed. Though she has a weak immune system, she now lives a normal life and graduates from college in June. I seldom talked about my sister’s illness and the effects it had on me and my family, but my binder paper knew, my composition books knew, my secret stash of scribble-covered Post-it notes knew. Writing became my catalyst, and words became the dearest of friends.
My hope was in knowing that words would not die, they would not fade with time, and they would never leave me. As long as I was able to think and contemplate, I would have them with me. Even though the past nine years have changed me, have shown what time is capable of, my words have not aged, nor have I grown tired of writing them. If anything, I have fallen more in love with them because I have learned the beauty of the 26 letters that roll like die in a magician’s cup until they are ready to be spilled out and moved around to form words. One could even say that they hold me spellbound.
I carry my journal with me virtually everywhere I go. Who knows when a thought will come into my mind that must be put down on paper? My boyfriend, Jonn, frequently remarks how much he enjoys watching me suddenly grab my journal and write something in a frantic manner. He finds my writing quirk charming. There is a persistent desire within me to get my thoughts out, even if those thoughts are meaningless.
I feel that if I don’t put my thoughts into words, I have betrayed them. The thought of betrayal saddens me. That is why I always keep a pencil in my purse to pull out whenever I need it, to show my thoughts and words that I am thankful for them, for all that they have done for me. But more specifically to show my thankfulness to God for allowing me to think and to write, for forming my body in such a perfect way that my mind is able to tell the muscles in my hands and wrists to pick up that yellow Number Two and write.
At a time in my life when I struggled most, God showed me His grace and faithfulness in the strangest of ways. He opened my eyes to the beauty and freedom that are found in words. I am forever indebted to Him for saving me, not just from hell, but from wanting to keep my thoughts in a cellblock. Words are important to God. He gave us the Word, so words are important to me as well. The least I can do is say thank you by putting them to use, even if they are just words shrouded in Number Two lead in the safety of my journal.
I'm Doin' All Right: A Short Story
By D. Eric Durso
It was a large, dark room. The lights on the wall were dim; the faint glow of the sconces around the room left many shadows. Only a few people were left. Most of them were the usual old, drunk, haggard men by which The Big Barnacle stayed in business.
The Big Barnacle was a low profile bar on the ocean front, near a long wooden pier where most fishermen try their luck at catching the “big one.” Wealthier visitors looked at The Big Barnacle as a lower class, second-rate bar that served no purpose apart from getting old men drunk. That was only partially true. It was lower class, and it was second-rate, but it wasn’t only for getting people drunk.
The bar’s walls were decorated with pictures of people in cities all around the world. The founding owner painted the words, “A piece of every part of the world” in black above the bar so that it was the first thing you saw when you entered. His goal was to fill the walls with artifacts from peoples’ adventures all over the world. The sailors in the community were travelers to begin with, so whenever they went anywhere, they’d bring something back for the bar — a piece of the Great Wall of China or the nets hanging from the ceiling that were taken from a Korean fishing boat. An Australian had even left a sanitized kangaroo foot hanging from the ceiling. If travelers didn’t have an artifact, they brought a framed picture of the place they had been. Anyone stopping by the pier to fish would stop at The Big Barnacle to see the latest artifacts.
When the excitement eventually died down, all that was left were multitudes of stories, memories and pictures on the walls. There were stories of love and hate, of adventure and disaster. There were stories of discovery and failure, each of them encapsulated in an artifact that was placed on the wall. Sam, upon entering the bar, had seen the words in black: A piece of every part of the world. He had seen the nets and the pictures. Now he was looking at a picture of a man standing in front of the ruins of the Areopagus in Greece with a smile of satisfaction on his face. Sam sighed. He sat hunched over in one of the stools, not drunk, but hardly sober.
He was deep in thought when the bartender approached him. “You all right, bud? You haven’t even had a drink yet, and you look worse than the regulars.” “You want the short answer or the long one?” The bartender smiled a grisly, but friendly smile. He had the beginning traces of a black beard and wore a stained, white button-up shirt. “I’ve got all night. And I became a bartender for this very reason.” He winked, “I love love stories.” Sam looked up from the bar. “It’s hardly a love story.” “Tell,” he said. “You need to talk.”
The bartender had dealt with plenty of Sam-like people. They’d come into the bar after a heartache or a long day at work. He had been in the business so long he could tell exactly who was feeling the heartbreak and who was just bored. He could tell which ones just wanted a good time and which ones just wanted to be alone. Some needed to talk. Some people just needed silence. The bartender could tell that Sam needed to talk. Plus, he really did enjoy the stories. Sam was silent for a while, contemplating where he would begin. After all, he did need to talk, if only to sort out his thoughts about the whole situation.
“She’s gone.”
“Who’s she?”
“She was supposed to be my wife,” Sam said bitterly. “Toward the end of our relationship she started having second thoughts about it all. We started fighting about it more. She says she isn’t ready to settle down yet.” The bartender was silent, waiting to see if he would say more.
When he didn’t, the bartender said, “Go back further. Tell me about this girl.” “Well,” he began, “we met on an Alaskan cruise. My uncle — he’s a lawyer — had just won a huge case and decided he wanted to celebrate it by taking his extended family on a seven-day cruise in Alaska. Anyway, on the first day of the cruise, I decided to wake up before my family and get some breakfast. I was eating alone and reading The Royal Road to Romance. It’s a book about this guy who can’t stand college life anymore and takes off to travel the world. Good book. Anyway, while I was eating she sat down at my table and said, ‘How do you like it?’ I didn’t know what to say; I thought she was talking about my food at first. Then she said, ‘Sorry, but I love that book, and I’ve never seen anyone reading it before. What part are you at?’”
Sam paused and looked up at the bartender who was listening to every word. “No lie — she was beautiful,” he laughed. “I’ll be honest, I probably wouldn’t have talked to her if she wasn’t!” The bartender laughed, and Sam continued. “She was just naturally pretty. Blonde hair, big brown eyes, slender. Anyway, we ended up talking about the book for at least a half hour, and then we talked about ourselves for another hour or so. She was so perky, so smart yet humble, independent, but not a feminist.
“After that we kept running into each other. At dinner I’d see her three tables away and wave, and she’d smile and wave back. My family kept asking me who she was and all I’d say was,‘She’s just a girl I met.’ After that they’d all say, ‘She sure is a looker!’ or something stupid like that. You know how family is.” The bartender laughed and nodded in agreement. “That’s how it was for the first couple days at sea. I swear I ran into her at least three times a day! Every time we’d stop and talk to each other, and I’m not the most outgoing guy. She just came up and talked to me. She was so comfortable, so confident. Not to mention that she loved to travel, loved to sing (not that she was good at it!), and loved to enjoy life. Every time we talked, I felt like I was getting to know her more and more. We even went on some excursions together. Anyway, by the end of the cruise, I was spending more time with her than I was with my family.
When we were about to get off the ship, I got her number and told her I’d call her. After that, it just blossomed.” The bartender was smiling when Sam looked up at him. “What was her name?” “Mindy.” Sam was staring down at the bar again. The bartender let him be silent for a while and then spoke: “Go on.” Without hesitation, Sam went on. “We’d have so much fun together. It turned out that she only lived two hours from my house, so for the next year we got to see each other. Sometimes I’d surprise her and we’d go kayaking in the ocean; or she’d surprise me and we’d go horseback riding through the forest by my house.
One time, we sat next to each other under a pine tree — gosh it sounds like the movies — and we said that we were never going to leave each other. Sappy, I know. But everybody’s sappy sometimes, right?” The bartender solemnly nodded his head. “Of course.” This caused him to think about the love that he had lost. Now, looking back on it, it didn’t seem so painful.
At the time however, he would have claimed to be in a worse predicament than Sam. The girl that he loved had left him for another man when he was studying abroad in Spain. The whole three months he never went a week without writing her at least one letter. Some were sappy, some serious. Every single one of them ended with the words, “I love you. Please write back.” She responded twice. Neither of those letters told him that she was moving on. Coming home was not the way he expected it to be. She wasn’t waiting for him at the port, and she wouldn’t answer his calls. Finally, he got a letter explaining where she’d been and how she’d moved on. After a week of mourning, he had left his hometown and never gone back.
“Anyway, as time went on I began to tell her that I wanted to settle down eventually. Get married, start a family, you know. It just seemed natural to take that step. I mean, we could see each other, at the most, twice a week. We did that for a year! Yeah, we talked on the phone every day, but I didn’t feel like it was going anywhere. I wanted to marry her. I told her over the phone that I loved her, and she told me she loved me. Then I said we should get married. But whenever I brought that up, she would either laugh at me and pretend I was joking, or she would get mad and say, ‘Be realistic, Sam.’ Whenever I stood up for myself, she would get mad, and you know how girls get when they’re mad. They don’t want to talk, but they don’t want to hang up the phone. They say they’re fine when really they’re ticked off. Then when you try to talk to them, they’ll answer you with one word answers. Gosh, I hated that.”
The bartender laughed. “That made me never want to bring up marriage. “After a while it only became harder not to bring it up. I wanted her to marry me. After a while, I decided that I couldn’t take her indecision any longer, so I bought a ring and proposed.” The bartender looked almost shocked. “How’d you do it?” he said.
“We were on a small sailboat, kind of like the ones that are outside in this dock. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. We were having a great time talking about where we wanted to go. We always played a game where we’d ask each other if you could go anywhere in the world, all expenses paid, where would you go? We were talking about the Great Wall of China and laughing about a Far Side cartoon we had seen about it. A breeze picked up, and she let her hair out, and while she was looking at the expanse of the ocean, I got to my knee. It was really awkward, but I didn’t care. I said something like, ‘Mindy, I love you, and I can’t stand you not being mine. Marry me.’” Sam’s whole posture changed after he said this.
The bartender knew exactly how the story would end. The same thing had happened to him. After he came home from Barcelona, he found his girl and begged her to marry him. He didn’t have a ring, he didn’t have any money, but he swore that he’d live the rest of his life making her dreams come true. There are not many men who hear the woman they love say “no” when they ask for their hand in marriage. When she told him that it was over and that they would never get married, he flew to Italy with the last of his money.
Sam continued. “Well, it’s obvious what her answer was. She said no. Gosh, that killed me. The whole trip back to the dock we argued. She said she wanted to be free; I said we could be free together. She said she wanted to see the world before she settled down; I said we’d do it together. She thought that whole idea was unrealistic. When we got back to the dock she said, ‘Sam, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t get married. I can’t see you anymore.’ When she drove away that day, I was crushed. I felt completely broken. I think I threw up at least three times.” The bartender was not satisfied. “Where’d she go?” Sam, feeling weary of the conversation, went on. “She wrote me a letter about a week ago, and I got it today.” He pulled out a folded and refolded piece of paper that looked like it had been read a hundred times. “Here, I’ll read it to you:
“Dear Sam, I am on a sailboat called Freedom sailing through the Greek Isles. Remember how we talked about the wind that blows across your face and how it makes you feel free? How it makes you feel fresh and alive and meaningful? Well, that’s how I feel right now. I’ve never felt more alive than I do right at this moment. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’ve got what I wanted. I hate knowing that I’ve hurt you, but maybe, if it’s any consolation to you, at least you know that I’m living my dream. I’m going to see the world, Sam! Isn’t that exciting? It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Maybe someday I’ll come back, and you’ll be right there waiting. I know that I can’t ask that of you, but at least I can hope it. At this point, that hope is all I’ve got. I’m on my road to romance, Sam. I needed this in my life. I needed to do this. For what it’s worth Sam, I love you. Mindy.”
The bartender’s favorite picture hung in the back of the bar. It was a picture of him on a large sailboat. He wasn’t smiling; in fact, he looked tired and beaten. His brown coarse hair was sticking up from the wind, his beard unkempt. In the background, the afternoon sun was hanging low over the coast of Sicily, and every cloud was wreathed in gold. He had taken it of himself about a week after he had left his girl. Although he looked wearied, there was a glint in his eyes that said he was doing all right. On the bottom of the picture he had written, “Now I’m doing just fine.”
When Sam looked back up at him after he had finished reading the letter, the bartender looked concerned, but not sympathetic. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” Sam replied, softly. “I’ll be right here waiting.”
There was a pause. The bartender was uneasy. He knew that would be a mistake, but he remembered wanting to do the same thing. He had wanted to let his girl see him in pain. Perhaps it would make her feel just a little slice of the pain he was feeling. Two sleepless nights had cured him of that diseased thought. He had realized that life goes on. Though exhausted, beaten, bruised and broken, the only way to heal was to move forward.
Finally he spoke. “It doesn’t have to be that way. Live, Sam!” the bartender said emphatically. He slammed his fist on the bar and silverware rattled. “Live!”
Sam was startled by the bartender’s reaction. He didn’t know what to think. “Sam, you need to forget about her and find your life again. Why should you wait here in misery? There is hope in this life! You just have to find it. Get out there and do something!”
Sam’s eyes widened. It was almost like he was beginning to question himself. “You should be sailing in the Greek Isles! You should be hiking through the cold Rocky Mountains. You should be on your way to Scotland! This life is your last life! Do everything you possibly can before it’s too late. What are you doing here?”
Maybe it was the bartender’s imagination, but a faint smile passed over Sam’s stone face. He recognized the glint in his eyes. He stood up from his stool and turned around to leave the bar. He paused. From behind, the bartender could tell he was looking at the pictures on the walls. He was looking at the foreign artifacts that decorated the room. When Sam looked back to see the bartender, he saw the smug contentment on his face. The kind of face that says, “Atta boy!” One week later, Sam was on his way out to sea. He didn’t care where he was in the great ocean; he had his compass and the stars at night. The boat was big enough for him to live on, and he was alone and free. The first few nights at sea were lonely. He looked at the stars and thought about Mindy. He’d spend all day tending the sails or writing. Writing always helped him vent his feelings. It wasn’t comfortable, but the freedom that he had was worth it. He had neglected to write a response to Mindy’s letter because he knew that he wasn’t ready to yet. He didn’t want to write her a letter saying that he was sad that she had left and he was lonely now. He wanted to wait it out.
He wanted freedom to run its course through him so that eventually he would forget about her. He’d forget about the dimple on her left cheek. He’d forget about the way she rubbed her eyes when she was tired. He’d forget about the way her toes curled up when they touched cold water. She would be reduced to whatever picture he had of her; whatever memory he could maintain of her. While sailing the mighty sea, he thought of her often, but more and more, he felt free of her. When he was at that point, he began to write his letter.
Dear Mindy, I have decided to take my chances out on the great sea. It’ll be hard at first, but it’s something I must do. I’ll be lonely at first. I will feel out of place. People and places will be different. But eventually everything will change. I’ll feel at home on the ocean. I’ll give up my insecurities, and I will live for the sake of life. Soon, I’ll feel at home. Now, when I’m out here on the ocean, I get a little lonely sometimes. Lord knows how much I could use a warm kiss. But still, I begin to think twice about whether or not I ever want to come back. But maybe if I did come back I could do things differently. I would make better use of my time. I’d drink less than I do out here. Without me you’ll slowly begin to see that things will change. What you left me for will eventually lose its taste. Things will change. All that will be left are the things that you hold on to. You have to hold on to something. But every once in a while the wind will blow through my hair and I’ll be reminded of you. The smell will take me away from the ocean, and I’ll be right there with you. I’ll be honest when I say that I’m okay with that. I guess I’m writing you to say I’m doing all right. I’m free like you are. So, when you turn around to find me one day, I’ll be sailing the big blue ocean with freedom blowing through my hair and chills running down my back. Freedom is a precious thing, I’ve found. Sam
After Sam wrote the letter, he got out his Polaroid and took a picture of himself. On the bottom, in the white part, he wrote, “Hey. I’m doin’ all right.” He didn’t put the picture in with the note. Instead, he saved it for the next time he would be passing through The Big Barnacle, so he could hang it on the wall.
It was a large, dark room. The lights on the wall were dim; the faint glow of the sconces around the room left many shadows. Only a few people were left. Most of them were the usual old, drunk, haggard men by which The Big Barnacle stayed in business.
The Big Barnacle was a low profile bar on the ocean front, near a long wooden pier where most fishermen try their luck at catching the “big one.” Wealthier visitors looked at The Big Barnacle as a lower class, second-rate bar that served no purpose apart from getting old men drunk. That was only partially true. It was lower class, and it was second-rate, but it wasn’t only for getting people drunk.
The bar’s walls were decorated with pictures of people in cities all around the world. The founding owner painted the words, “A piece of every part of the world” in black above the bar so that it was the first thing you saw when you entered. His goal was to fill the walls with artifacts from peoples’ adventures all over the world. The sailors in the community were travelers to begin with, so whenever they went anywhere, they’d bring something back for the bar — a piece of the Great Wall of China or the nets hanging from the ceiling that were taken from a Korean fishing boat. An Australian had even left a sanitized kangaroo foot hanging from the ceiling. If travelers didn’t have an artifact, they brought a framed picture of the place they had been. Anyone stopping by the pier to fish would stop at The Big Barnacle to see the latest artifacts.
When the excitement eventually died down, all that was left were multitudes of stories, memories and pictures on the walls. There were stories of love and hate, of adventure and disaster. There were stories of discovery and failure, each of them encapsulated in an artifact that was placed on the wall. Sam, upon entering the bar, had seen the words in black: A piece of every part of the world. He had seen the nets and the pictures. Now he was looking at a picture of a man standing in front of the ruins of the Areopagus in Greece with a smile of satisfaction on his face. Sam sighed. He sat hunched over in one of the stools, not drunk, but hardly sober.
He was deep in thought when the bartender approached him. “You all right, bud? You haven’t even had a drink yet, and you look worse than the regulars.” “You want the short answer or the long one?” The bartender smiled a grisly, but friendly smile. He had the beginning traces of a black beard and wore a stained, white button-up shirt. “I’ve got all night. And I became a bartender for this very reason.” He winked, “I love love stories.” Sam looked up from the bar. “It’s hardly a love story.” “Tell,” he said. “You need to talk.”
The bartender had dealt with plenty of Sam-like people. They’d come into the bar after a heartache or a long day at work. He had been in the business so long he could tell exactly who was feeling the heartbreak and who was just bored. He could tell which ones just wanted a good time and which ones just wanted to be alone. Some needed to talk. Some people just needed silence. The bartender could tell that Sam needed to talk. Plus, he really did enjoy the stories. Sam was silent for a while, contemplating where he would begin. After all, he did need to talk, if only to sort out his thoughts about the whole situation.
“She’s gone.”
“Who’s she?”
“She was supposed to be my wife,” Sam said bitterly. “Toward the end of our relationship she started having second thoughts about it all. We started fighting about it more. She says she isn’t ready to settle down yet.” The bartender was silent, waiting to see if he would say more.
When he didn’t, the bartender said, “Go back further. Tell me about this girl.” “Well,” he began, “we met on an Alaskan cruise. My uncle — he’s a lawyer — had just won a huge case and decided he wanted to celebrate it by taking his extended family on a seven-day cruise in Alaska. Anyway, on the first day of the cruise, I decided to wake up before my family and get some breakfast. I was eating alone and reading The Royal Road to Romance. It’s a book about this guy who can’t stand college life anymore and takes off to travel the world. Good book. Anyway, while I was eating she sat down at my table and said, ‘How do you like it?’ I didn’t know what to say; I thought she was talking about my food at first. Then she said, ‘Sorry, but I love that book, and I’ve never seen anyone reading it before. What part are you at?’”
Sam paused and looked up at the bartender who was listening to every word. “No lie — she was beautiful,” he laughed. “I’ll be honest, I probably wouldn’t have talked to her if she wasn’t!” The bartender laughed, and Sam continued. “She was just naturally pretty. Blonde hair, big brown eyes, slender. Anyway, we ended up talking about the book for at least a half hour, and then we talked about ourselves for another hour or so. She was so perky, so smart yet humble, independent, but not a feminist.
“After that we kept running into each other. At dinner I’d see her three tables away and wave, and she’d smile and wave back. My family kept asking me who she was and all I’d say was,‘She’s just a girl I met.’ After that they’d all say, ‘She sure is a looker!’ or something stupid like that. You know how family is.” The bartender laughed and nodded in agreement. “That’s how it was for the first couple days at sea. I swear I ran into her at least three times a day! Every time we’d stop and talk to each other, and I’m not the most outgoing guy. She just came up and talked to me. She was so comfortable, so confident. Not to mention that she loved to travel, loved to sing (not that she was good at it!), and loved to enjoy life. Every time we talked, I felt like I was getting to know her more and more. We even went on some excursions together. Anyway, by the end of the cruise, I was spending more time with her than I was with my family.
When we were about to get off the ship, I got her number and told her I’d call her. After that, it just blossomed.” The bartender was smiling when Sam looked up at him. “What was her name?” “Mindy.” Sam was staring down at the bar again. The bartender let him be silent for a while and then spoke: “Go on.” Without hesitation, Sam went on. “We’d have so much fun together. It turned out that she only lived two hours from my house, so for the next year we got to see each other. Sometimes I’d surprise her and we’d go kayaking in the ocean; or she’d surprise me and we’d go horseback riding through the forest by my house.
One time, we sat next to each other under a pine tree — gosh it sounds like the movies — and we said that we were never going to leave each other. Sappy, I know. But everybody’s sappy sometimes, right?” The bartender solemnly nodded his head. “Of course.” This caused him to think about the love that he had lost. Now, looking back on it, it didn’t seem so painful.
At the time however, he would have claimed to be in a worse predicament than Sam. The girl that he loved had left him for another man when he was studying abroad in Spain. The whole three months he never went a week without writing her at least one letter. Some were sappy, some serious. Every single one of them ended with the words, “I love you. Please write back.” She responded twice. Neither of those letters told him that she was moving on. Coming home was not the way he expected it to be. She wasn’t waiting for him at the port, and she wouldn’t answer his calls. Finally, he got a letter explaining where she’d been and how she’d moved on. After a week of mourning, he had left his hometown and never gone back.
“Anyway, as time went on I began to tell her that I wanted to settle down eventually. Get married, start a family, you know. It just seemed natural to take that step. I mean, we could see each other, at the most, twice a week. We did that for a year! Yeah, we talked on the phone every day, but I didn’t feel like it was going anywhere. I wanted to marry her. I told her over the phone that I loved her, and she told me she loved me. Then I said we should get married. But whenever I brought that up, she would either laugh at me and pretend I was joking, or she would get mad and say, ‘Be realistic, Sam.’ Whenever I stood up for myself, she would get mad, and you know how girls get when they’re mad. They don’t want to talk, but they don’t want to hang up the phone. They say they’re fine when really they’re ticked off. Then when you try to talk to them, they’ll answer you with one word answers. Gosh, I hated that.”
The bartender laughed. “That made me never want to bring up marriage. “After a while it only became harder not to bring it up. I wanted her to marry me. After a while, I decided that I couldn’t take her indecision any longer, so I bought a ring and proposed.” The bartender looked almost shocked. “How’d you do it?” he said.
“We were on a small sailboat, kind of like the ones that are outside in this dock. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. We were having a great time talking about where we wanted to go. We always played a game where we’d ask each other if you could go anywhere in the world, all expenses paid, where would you go? We were talking about the Great Wall of China and laughing about a Far Side cartoon we had seen about it. A breeze picked up, and she let her hair out, and while she was looking at the expanse of the ocean, I got to my knee. It was really awkward, but I didn’t care. I said something like, ‘Mindy, I love you, and I can’t stand you not being mine. Marry me.’” Sam’s whole posture changed after he said this.
The bartender knew exactly how the story would end. The same thing had happened to him. After he came home from Barcelona, he found his girl and begged her to marry him. He didn’t have a ring, he didn’t have any money, but he swore that he’d live the rest of his life making her dreams come true. There are not many men who hear the woman they love say “no” when they ask for their hand in marriage. When she told him that it was over and that they would never get married, he flew to Italy with the last of his money.
Sam continued. “Well, it’s obvious what her answer was. She said no. Gosh, that killed me. The whole trip back to the dock we argued. She said she wanted to be free; I said we could be free together. She said she wanted to see the world before she settled down; I said we’d do it together. She thought that whole idea was unrealistic. When we got back to the dock she said, ‘Sam, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t get married. I can’t see you anymore.’ When she drove away that day, I was crushed. I felt completely broken. I think I threw up at least three times.” The bartender was not satisfied. “Where’d she go?” Sam, feeling weary of the conversation, went on. “She wrote me a letter about a week ago, and I got it today.” He pulled out a folded and refolded piece of paper that looked like it had been read a hundred times. “Here, I’ll read it to you:
“Dear Sam, I am on a sailboat called Freedom sailing through the Greek Isles. Remember how we talked about the wind that blows across your face and how it makes you feel free? How it makes you feel fresh and alive and meaningful? Well, that’s how I feel right now. I’ve never felt more alive than I do right at this moment. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’ve got what I wanted. I hate knowing that I’ve hurt you, but maybe, if it’s any consolation to you, at least you know that I’m living my dream. I’m going to see the world, Sam! Isn’t that exciting? It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Maybe someday I’ll come back, and you’ll be right there waiting. I know that I can’t ask that of you, but at least I can hope it. At this point, that hope is all I’ve got. I’m on my road to romance, Sam. I needed this in my life. I needed to do this. For what it’s worth Sam, I love you. Mindy.”
The bartender’s favorite picture hung in the back of the bar. It was a picture of him on a large sailboat. He wasn’t smiling; in fact, he looked tired and beaten. His brown coarse hair was sticking up from the wind, his beard unkempt. In the background, the afternoon sun was hanging low over the coast of Sicily, and every cloud was wreathed in gold. He had taken it of himself about a week after he had left his girl. Although he looked wearied, there was a glint in his eyes that said he was doing all right. On the bottom of the picture he had written, “Now I’m doing just fine.”
When Sam looked back up at him after he had finished reading the letter, the bartender looked concerned, but not sympathetic. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” Sam replied, softly. “I’ll be right here waiting.”
There was a pause. The bartender was uneasy. He knew that would be a mistake, but he remembered wanting to do the same thing. He had wanted to let his girl see him in pain. Perhaps it would make her feel just a little slice of the pain he was feeling. Two sleepless nights had cured him of that diseased thought. He had realized that life goes on. Though exhausted, beaten, bruised and broken, the only way to heal was to move forward.
Finally he spoke. “It doesn’t have to be that way. Live, Sam!” the bartender said emphatically. He slammed his fist on the bar and silverware rattled. “Live!”
Sam was startled by the bartender’s reaction. He didn’t know what to think. “Sam, you need to forget about her and find your life again. Why should you wait here in misery? There is hope in this life! You just have to find it. Get out there and do something!”
Sam’s eyes widened. It was almost like he was beginning to question himself. “You should be sailing in the Greek Isles! You should be hiking through the cold Rocky Mountains. You should be on your way to Scotland! This life is your last life! Do everything you possibly can before it’s too late. What are you doing here?”
Maybe it was the bartender’s imagination, but a faint smile passed over Sam’s stone face. He recognized the glint in his eyes. He stood up from his stool and turned around to leave the bar. He paused. From behind, the bartender could tell he was looking at the pictures on the walls. He was looking at the foreign artifacts that decorated the room. When Sam looked back to see the bartender, he saw the smug contentment on his face. The kind of face that says, “Atta boy!” One week later, Sam was on his way out to sea. He didn’t care where he was in the great ocean; he had his compass and the stars at night. The boat was big enough for him to live on, and he was alone and free. The first few nights at sea were lonely. He looked at the stars and thought about Mindy. He’d spend all day tending the sails or writing. Writing always helped him vent his feelings. It wasn’t comfortable, but the freedom that he had was worth it. He had neglected to write a response to Mindy’s letter because he knew that he wasn’t ready to yet. He didn’t want to write her a letter saying that he was sad that she had left and he was lonely now. He wanted to wait it out.
He wanted freedom to run its course through him so that eventually he would forget about her. He’d forget about the dimple on her left cheek. He’d forget about the way she rubbed her eyes when she was tired. He’d forget about the way her toes curled up when they touched cold water. She would be reduced to whatever picture he had of her; whatever memory he could maintain of her. While sailing the mighty sea, he thought of her often, but more and more, he felt free of her. When he was at that point, he began to write his letter.
Dear Mindy, I have decided to take my chances out on the great sea. It’ll be hard at first, but it’s something I must do. I’ll be lonely at first. I will feel out of place. People and places will be different. But eventually everything will change. I’ll feel at home on the ocean. I’ll give up my insecurities, and I will live for the sake of life. Soon, I’ll feel at home. Now, when I’m out here on the ocean, I get a little lonely sometimes. Lord knows how much I could use a warm kiss. But still, I begin to think twice about whether or not I ever want to come back. But maybe if I did come back I could do things differently. I would make better use of my time. I’d drink less than I do out here. Without me you’ll slowly begin to see that things will change. What you left me for will eventually lose its taste. Things will change. All that will be left are the things that you hold on to. You have to hold on to something. But every once in a while the wind will blow through my hair and I’ll be reminded of you. The smell will take me away from the ocean, and I’ll be right there with you. I’ll be honest when I say that I’m okay with that. I guess I’m writing you to say I’m doing all right. I’m free like you are. So, when you turn around to find me one day, I’ll be sailing the big blue ocean with freedom blowing through my hair and chills running down my back. Freedom is a precious thing, I’ve found. Sam
After Sam wrote the letter, he got out his Polaroid and took a picture of himself. On the bottom, in the white part, he wrote, “Hey. I’m doin’ all right.” He didn’t put the picture in with the note. Instead, he saved it for the next time he would be passing through The Big Barnacle, so he could hang it on the wall.
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