6248
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"6248" by Keith Hewitt
"Sky Show" by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * * *
6248
by Keith Hewitt
Ezekiel 37:1-14
The ground rolled gently as it stretched away from him, close-cropped grass in long, slow waves like the languorous swells of some miscolored ocean. Instead of frothy whitecaps, though, these waves bore line upon line of small white markers, one like the other, in neat ranks and files that rolled out as far as the eye could see.
Lewis sat on a stone bench at the crest of one of those swells, shaded by a Dutch Elm, and took a long, slow drink from the bottle -- a half-pint, flat, nearly hidden by the breadth of his hand. He'd heard the car door, closed quietly -- deference seemed appropriate, here; loud noises would have been... out of place. Now he heard the snap of a twig, and nodded. "Six thousand, two hundred and forty-eight," he said quietly, and looked up, over his right shoulder, added pleasantly, "Afternoon, Lieutenant."
"Hey, Lewis," the newcomer said carefully. "What's that you said?"
Lewis faced forward again, inclined his head toward the rows of markers. "Six thousand, two hundred and forty-eight."
Randall considered the phrase, searching his memory for something that might give meaning to it; then just nodded. "Okay."
Lewis lifted his left hand, gestured toward the panorama in front of them, waved slowly from side to side. "From here, I can see 71 markers in each row, and I can see 88 rows. That's 6,248 graves." He cast a sideways glance at Randall, as he sat down next to him. "I did that in my head. Only took me about, oh --" he looked at his watch, "-- half an hour or so. Are you impressed?"
Randall nodded. "Sure."
Lewis shook his head. "You shouldn't be. That was pretty pathetic." He took another drink, glanced at Randall to see if he would react; he didn't. "Do you know what I was before the war, Lieutenant?"
Randall searched memories half a decade old -- conversations, side comments that had been inconsequential at the time, save for their ability to tie them to another life, another place outside the hell that they were living. There had been something about a building, or a bridge, in Rotterdam. "You were an architect."
Lewis rolled his eyes with a disgusted sigh. "Oh, please. I didn't go to college for four years to be an artist. I was an engineer. I built bridges. Big, frickin' bridges that are going to stand for a hundred years. That's what I used to do. That's what I used to be." He waved toward the markers. "And now I'm one of them."
"I may be breathing, but that doesn't mean I'm alive." There was anguish in his voice as he stumbled on, "You know what it was like Randall -- you were there. I used to have dreams. I had plans. I was going to build things. I was sharp! Now I can't keep my thoughts together long enough to do anything, and the only way I can sleep -- if I sleep -- is to make myself numb, first. The things I saw -- the things I did -- I can't ever go back to my old life and pretend they didn't happen. I can never be me again. Not the man I was." Lewis sagged as the words tumbled out of him, ending up deflated, a husk sitting on the white stone bench, bottle dangling from one hand. "We're all dead," he mumbled. "I just haven't stopped breathing, yet."
Randall raised his face toward the sky, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, murmured something Lewis couldn't quite hear. When he spoke, his eyes were open, staring up at the clouds, scudding along in front of the wind. "You're right," he said quietly, "I was there. I saw the same things -- maybe even worse. And I know I did things. Things that changed me forever -- that cut me off from the man I used to be."
"Amen," Lewis intoned, and extended the bottle to Randall. "A drink -- to the men we used to be?"
Randall shook his head slightly, raised a hand to say no. "Here's the thing, Lewis. I've moved on. I'm not the man I used to be -- but I'm not the man that I became, either."
Lewis looked at him closely, said nothing.
"A few years ago, I was pretty down -- I'd guess about where you are, now. Maybe a little better, maybe a little worse, but I knew something was wrong, and I knew that something was here --" he tapped his chest, "-- inside of me. I was afraid it would eat me up... and then some things happened, and it hit me all of a sudden: no matter what I'd done, God still loved me." Randall's eyes were alive, and his voice was full of urgent wonder as he went on. "I understood that no matter what I'd done, Jesus was still reaching out to me. Sure, my old self was dead, that life was gone -- but that didn't mean there wasn't the possibility of a new life. A healed life."
Lewis sagged, lowered his head. "God, I wish I could believe that. I truly do."
"You can, Lewis. I did, so you can." He hesitated. "I think the first step to feeling him reach out to you might be to stop trying to numb yourself to what's inside. What do you say, you hand me that bottle for now, and we can go talk about it some more?"
Lewis held the little bottle up, studied it for a moment, then shrugged and handed it to Randall. "Here you go, Lieutenant. Almost empty, anyway."
Randall accepted the bottle, dumped the contents out on the ground. "It always was empty, Lewis. That's part of the problem -- you were trying to replace emptiness with emptiness. I want to talk to you about filling the emptiness, instead."
Lewis nodded and stood up, reaching one hand to the back of the bench to help him rise. The two men stood, face-to-face; Lewis swayed a bit, just unsteady enough to notice. Randall reached out a hand, held it out, expectantly. Lewis looked up at him for a moment, staring steadily into his eyes -- then gave another small shrug, reached beneath his shirt and pulled a pistol out of his waistband, handed it to Randall.
Randall relaxed, then, for the first time since he got Lewis' phone call; tucked the pistol into his own belt. "I think it's time to leave them behind, Lewis," he said quietly, as pulled his coat over the pistol, then guided the man down the slope toward his car. "It's time to live, again -- the life God wants you to live."
Behind them, 6,248 white stones stood in silence; there would be no new marker today....
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
Sky Show
by Frank Ramirez
John 11:1-45; Psalm 130
... my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.
-- Psalm 130:6
From time immemorial all who have watched for the morning have had as their companions the panoply of stars. Though they may have given different names to the constellations, and told different stories about them, the stars we might look at tonight are largely unchanged across thousands of years. We are looking at basically the same sky that wheeled over the heads of those in biblical times.
Except -- except when a star explodes.
When a star explodes it is called a nova, from the Latin, referring to a "new" start. Such a star would appear in the heavens, shine dimly or brightly; then disappear after a matter of hours or days. Light years away and thousands of years before there would have been a cosmic cataclysm, but for those ancient stargazers, this matter for wonder was interesting, but usually not spectacular.
Once in a great while there would be a supernova, when a giant star collapsed in upon itself, creating an explosion so great that such a star could outshine everything in the heavens, except the sun -- and even then, the great supernovas were visible in daylight when all other heavenly bodies disappeared. Supernovas are not just ordinary exploding stars. Most of the star that goes supernova is destroyed in the explosion resulting in a tremendous output of energy.
The most recent supernovas seen in our galaxy were in the years 1054, 1572, and 1604. Even though none have been observed in our galaxy for over 400 years, many are discovered in distant galaxies, through telescopes. For a brief period of time such supernovas may outshine the entire galaxy. Many are sighted first by amateur astronomers, who patiently watch the skies for the sign of a magnificent exploding star.
One of the most interesting stories about those who watch for the night and wait for the morning concerns 14-year-old Caroline Moore of Warwick, New York, who became famous overnight in November 2008 when she became the youngest person ever to discover a supernova. And Caroline's supernova was very special, because it was one of the faintest ever discovered.
One reason she found the supernova was -- because she was looking. For seven months she compared thousands of photographs by computer, until she made her discovery. She would look from one photo taken of a particular point in space to another taken later, with stars, nebulae, galaxies, and other celestial objects all together until she noticed one star had become brighter in the second photograph.
It may seem obvious, but whether one is looking for a star -- or the truth -- it helps to be looking for something if you want to find it. The universe is a complicated place. There are wheels within wheels, objects and items connected in disparate patterns somehow making a coherent whole. Once upon a time a star shouted out the wonderful news that Jesus Christ is born. This should be a matter of delight.
So think about it -- what are you looking for? Are you looking at all? Because if you don't seek, you won't find, if you don't knock, doors won't open, and if you don't wait for the morning, trusting in God's goodness, you'll never know if there is a wonder appearing overhead, or if God's love has dawned at last in lives all around us.
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 10, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"6248" by Keith Hewitt
"Sky Show" by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * * *
6248
by Keith Hewitt
Ezekiel 37:1-14
The ground rolled gently as it stretched away from him, close-cropped grass in long, slow waves like the languorous swells of some miscolored ocean. Instead of frothy whitecaps, though, these waves bore line upon line of small white markers, one like the other, in neat ranks and files that rolled out as far as the eye could see.
Lewis sat on a stone bench at the crest of one of those swells, shaded by a Dutch Elm, and took a long, slow drink from the bottle -- a half-pint, flat, nearly hidden by the breadth of his hand. He'd heard the car door, closed quietly -- deference seemed appropriate, here; loud noises would have been... out of place. Now he heard the snap of a twig, and nodded. "Six thousand, two hundred and forty-eight," he said quietly, and looked up, over his right shoulder, added pleasantly, "Afternoon, Lieutenant."
"Hey, Lewis," the newcomer said carefully. "What's that you said?"
Lewis faced forward again, inclined his head toward the rows of markers. "Six thousand, two hundred and forty-eight."
Randall considered the phrase, searching his memory for something that might give meaning to it; then just nodded. "Okay."
Lewis lifted his left hand, gestured toward the panorama in front of them, waved slowly from side to side. "From here, I can see 71 markers in each row, and I can see 88 rows. That's 6,248 graves." He cast a sideways glance at Randall, as he sat down next to him. "I did that in my head. Only took me about, oh --" he looked at his watch, "-- half an hour or so. Are you impressed?"
Randall nodded. "Sure."
Lewis shook his head. "You shouldn't be. That was pretty pathetic." He took another drink, glanced at Randall to see if he would react; he didn't. "Do you know what I was before the war, Lieutenant?"
Randall searched memories half a decade old -- conversations, side comments that had been inconsequential at the time, save for their ability to tie them to another life, another place outside the hell that they were living. There had been something about a building, or a bridge, in Rotterdam. "You were an architect."
Lewis rolled his eyes with a disgusted sigh. "Oh, please. I didn't go to college for four years to be an artist. I was an engineer. I built bridges. Big, frickin' bridges that are going to stand for a hundred years. That's what I used to do. That's what I used to be." He waved toward the markers. "And now I'm one of them."
"I may be breathing, but that doesn't mean I'm alive." There was anguish in his voice as he stumbled on, "You know what it was like Randall -- you were there. I used to have dreams. I had plans. I was going to build things. I was sharp! Now I can't keep my thoughts together long enough to do anything, and the only way I can sleep -- if I sleep -- is to make myself numb, first. The things I saw -- the things I did -- I can't ever go back to my old life and pretend they didn't happen. I can never be me again. Not the man I was." Lewis sagged as the words tumbled out of him, ending up deflated, a husk sitting on the white stone bench, bottle dangling from one hand. "We're all dead," he mumbled. "I just haven't stopped breathing, yet."
Randall raised his face toward the sky, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, murmured something Lewis couldn't quite hear. When he spoke, his eyes were open, staring up at the clouds, scudding along in front of the wind. "You're right," he said quietly, "I was there. I saw the same things -- maybe even worse. And I know I did things. Things that changed me forever -- that cut me off from the man I used to be."
"Amen," Lewis intoned, and extended the bottle to Randall. "A drink -- to the men we used to be?"
Randall shook his head slightly, raised a hand to say no. "Here's the thing, Lewis. I've moved on. I'm not the man I used to be -- but I'm not the man that I became, either."
Lewis looked at him closely, said nothing.
"A few years ago, I was pretty down -- I'd guess about where you are, now. Maybe a little better, maybe a little worse, but I knew something was wrong, and I knew that something was here --" he tapped his chest, "-- inside of me. I was afraid it would eat me up... and then some things happened, and it hit me all of a sudden: no matter what I'd done, God still loved me." Randall's eyes were alive, and his voice was full of urgent wonder as he went on. "I understood that no matter what I'd done, Jesus was still reaching out to me. Sure, my old self was dead, that life was gone -- but that didn't mean there wasn't the possibility of a new life. A healed life."
Lewis sagged, lowered his head. "God, I wish I could believe that. I truly do."
"You can, Lewis. I did, so you can." He hesitated. "I think the first step to feeling him reach out to you might be to stop trying to numb yourself to what's inside. What do you say, you hand me that bottle for now, and we can go talk about it some more?"
Lewis held the little bottle up, studied it for a moment, then shrugged and handed it to Randall. "Here you go, Lieutenant. Almost empty, anyway."
Randall accepted the bottle, dumped the contents out on the ground. "It always was empty, Lewis. That's part of the problem -- you were trying to replace emptiness with emptiness. I want to talk to you about filling the emptiness, instead."
Lewis nodded and stood up, reaching one hand to the back of the bench to help him rise. The two men stood, face-to-face; Lewis swayed a bit, just unsteady enough to notice. Randall reached out a hand, held it out, expectantly. Lewis looked up at him for a moment, staring steadily into his eyes -- then gave another small shrug, reached beneath his shirt and pulled a pistol out of his waistband, handed it to Randall.
Randall relaxed, then, for the first time since he got Lewis' phone call; tucked the pistol into his own belt. "I think it's time to leave them behind, Lewis," he said quietly, as pulled his coat over the pistol, then guided the man down the slope toward his car. "It's time to live, again -- the life God wants you to live."
Behind them, 6,248 white stones stood in silence; there would be no new marker today....
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
Sky Show
by Frank Ramirez
John 11:1-45; Psalm 130
... my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.
-- Psalm 130:6
From time immemorial all who have watched for the morning have had as their companions the panoply of stars. Though they may have given different names to the constellations, and told different stories about them, the stars we might look at tonight are largely unchanged across thousands of years. We are looking at basically the same sky that wheeled over the heads of those in biblical times.
Except -- except when a star explodes.
When a star explodes it is called a nova, from the Latin, referring to a "new" start. Such a star would appear in the heavens, shine dimly or brightly; then disappear after a matter of hours or days. Light years away and thousands of years before there would have been a cosmic cataclysm, but for those ancient stargazers, this matter for wonder was interesting, but usually not spectacular.
Once in a great while there would be a supernova, when a giant star collapsed in upon itself, creating an explosion so great that such a star could outshine everything in the heavens, except the sun -- and even then, the great supernovas were visible in daylight when all other heavenly bodies disappeared. Supernovas are not just ordinary exploding stars. Most of the star that goes supernova is destroyed in the explosion resulting in a tremendous output of energy.
The most recent supernovas seen in our galaxy were in the years 1054, 1572, and 1604. Even though none have been observed in our galaxy for over 400 years, many are discovered in distant galaxies, through telescopes. For a brief period of time such supernovas may outshine the entire galaxy. Many are sighted first by amateur astronomers, who patiently watch the skies for the sign of a magnificent exploding star.
One of the most interesting stories about those who watch for the night and wait for the morning concerns 14-year-old Caroline Moore of Warwick, New York, who became famous overnight in November 2008 when she became the youngest person ever to discover a supernova. And Caroline's supernova was very special, because it was one of the faintest ever discovered.
One reason she found the supernova was -- because she was looking. For seven months she compared thousands of photographs by computer, until she made her discovery. She would look from one photo taken of a particular point in space to another taken later, with stars, nebulae, galaxies, and other celestial objects all together until she noticed one star had become brighter in the second photograph.
It may seem obvious, but whether one is looking for a star -- or the truth -- it helps to be looking for something if you want to find it. The universe is a complicated place. There are wheels within wheels, objects and items connected in disparate patterns somehow making a coherent whole. Once upon a time a star shouted out the wonderful news that Jesus Christ is born. This should be a matter of delight.
So think about it -- what are you looking for? Are you looking at all? Because if you don't seek, you won't find, if you don't knock, doors won't open, and if you don't wait for the morning, trusting in God's goodness, you'll never know if there is a wonder appearing overhead, or if God's love has dawned at last in lives all around us.
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 10, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
