Arms Of Stone
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Arms of Stone" by Keith Hewitt
"Renouncing Worldly Passions" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * *
Arms of Stone
by Keith Hewitt
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)
I would have held him in my arms all night if I could have. Any mother would -- after nine months of carrying this… this being inside you, all the while dreaming about what motherhood will be like; after hours of labor and worrying that something is not right, because it couldn't possibly hurt this much to have a child if things were not going horribly wrong. After all that, when you finally have the chance to hold your child to your breast and look into those eyes for the first time...
You never want to let go. You never want to free your fingertip from the grip of those tiny hands, and you never want to stop staring at that round, ruddy face, looking back at you with consternation -- with befuddlement as to what had happened to his warm, comfortable, safe world. You want to nourish him, hold him, and keep him next to your heart forever.
Any mother would.
But there comes a time when fatigue wins, and your body tells you it's going to rest whether you want to or not. When that happens, the challenge is to find somewhere that will cradle him almost as safely as you would and keep him warm against the chill night air. If you're home, you likely have a cradle for the child. We had one, a sturdy wooden cradle, built by his father -- but it was seventy miles away and might as well have been on the moon.
His father could have held him but that would not last -- there were things he had to do, and even though I had borne the brunt of effort that night, he was tired as well. I couldn't tell him, but I had this vision of Joseph falling asleep and dropping our son, just letting him roll out of his arms and onto the stable floor. I couldn't let that happen.
For one night, at least, we would have to improvise.
I put the problem in Joseph's hands and ceased to fret, choosing instead to spend my time studying every wrinkle and hair on my child's head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him scooping straw out of a manger -- sort of a stone trough that ran along one wall of the stable. When he had dumped it in front of the animals, he got fresh straw from a deep pile near the back and put it in the manger, patted it down carefully until he had formed a hollow in the bedding, then took off his cloak and lay it on top, so the stalks would not prick our child.
"Will this do?" he asked anxiously and with his help I got to my feet and stepped over to the manger. Holding our child with one hand, I tested the bed with the other, pushing down on the cloak, still warm from my husband's back. It was no bed of reeds, but it would do in our rough setting. I nodded gratefully to Joseph, and then lay our child in the manger, carefully folding the cloak over him as the strong stone arms of the manger held him.
We both lost track of time, then, looking down at the face that peeked out at us... trying to imagine what might be in store, and although he was the most beautiful child we had ever seen, we struggled to make sense of all that we had been told about him. In truth, I suppose, we knew that every baby is the most beautiful, to their own parents, but knowing the circumstances of this one's birth made him all the more special, even if he didn't look it. Eventually, we lay down to sleep -- me, in my corner of the stable, and Joseph next to the manger.
I don't think we were asleep for long, when the shepherds came...
They were reluctant to approach us at first and even more reluctant to share the story of what had happened to them in the field. I suppose they were afraid they might be taken for crazy men or worse. But it was clear they wanted to see our son, and it was equally clear they knew something about him -- something about his origins and his uniqueness among all men born of women -- so eventually, under gentle prodding, they told their story about the angels come to announce his birth.
It made our hearts soar -- not that we needed it -- but here was more proof that there was something profoundly different, profoundly important, about this child. At the same time, looking at Joseph's face when no one else was looking, I know it worried him, as well, and I could understand that. Imagine yourself born to common life and being asked to bear and care for something of incalculable wealth, for the king.
How could we possibly live up to this responsibility?
How could we possibly be worthy?
How could we possibly protect him against the forces of darkness, which would surely gather against him -- and had shaded my own joy all these months?
When the shepherds finally left -- gently chased out by my husband after I had fallen asleep a second time during conversation with them -- our son was starting to stir again. I took him out of his manger, nursed him 'til he was quiet, held him for a time, and talked quietly with Joseph about all that I was feeling and was relieved to find that he felt the same way. Finally, when neither of us could stay awake enough to carry on a conversation, I returned our son to the protective warmth of the manger.
I thought about that night more than once, awed at everything that happened, filled with warmth for the gentle strength of my husband who never let me know how scared he was, 'til later... and thankful for the arms of stone that protected our son while we slept in the stable that night. Those memories stayed with me, though they faded over time, supplanted by other memories, other hopes and fears as our family changed... as our firstborn son moved on to meet his destiny.
So it was odd, I thought, that the memory of that night should come flooding back to me as I stood on a hillside outside the walls of Jerusalem, to watch them carry the lifeless, bloodied shell of my baby into the tomb. I would have held him in my arms, if I could, but they wouldn't let me. Instead, I wept as they lay him on a stone shelf that ran along one wall, and remembered the manger -- and as they rolled the stone in front of the tomb I thought, Here, again, he sleeps in the grasp of strong stone arms. The thought made me weep even more -- at my failure to protect him, at my loss, and for all our hopes and dreams that now lay with him -- trapped inside a tomb of rock.
What I did not know -- what I could scarcely imagine -- was that he would not sleep for long...
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
Renouncing Worldly Passions
by Sandra Herrmann
Titus 2:11-14
Liam sat on his bar stool, watching the girl at the end of the bar laugh at some joke the man next to her had made. She leaned in toward the guy, and he wrapped an arm around her. Liam had been watching them for half an hour. He didn't envy the guy, but he sure wished for a woman like that laughing at his jokes. He sighed. Not going to happen tonight, that was obvious. He'd chatted up one woman, a curvy brunette with a husky voice, but after a drink or two she'd slid off her stool. She had to go home. Thanks for the drink.
Yeah, he thought, thanks for nothing. A total waste of five bucks. He'd been at his best, making some clever jokes, but she barely laughed. She seemed vague, didn't get what he was saying, and then she was gone. He shrugged. Whatcha gonna do?
He used to be able to charm any woman he wanted. He lit another cigarette, cocking his head to keep the smoke out of his eyes. He couldn't understand what had changed. He was still in his prime -- 42 -- and had all his own hair, all his own teeth, no glasses or contact lenses. He was still in good shape. He shook his head and upended his drink, draining what was mostly ice water from his glass. He motioned to the bartender.
"Sorry, Liam," the bartender said, shaking his head in an exaggerated sign of sorrow. "I gotta cut you off. You've reached the bar limit." He picked up Liam's glass and coaster, wiped the bar, and turned away.
"Whachoo talkin' about?" Liam whined. "I've only had a coupla drinks."
"Hey, Liam, you've been drinking steady for over two hours. I can't keep serving you. I really should take your keys away and call you a cab, but I don't wanna get in a fight with you. Just take it easy. You want a soda? I could put some bitters innit for you."
Liam snorted. "Not likely, Buddy. Soda with bitters? I haven't gone that way since I was 16." He pushed himself away from the bar. Somehow, he didn't dismount well, stumbled a little, but got himself upright. He headed for the door. Halfway there, he had to stop and stand still for a minute. Every light in the room had a halo around it. Looked kind of pretty, but he knew enough to take it slowly. He stood still and waited until his balance came back.
"You okay, buddy?"
Liam looked at the cop. He felt a little stupid, as he looked around. Where the heck was he? "Sure, I'm fine." But he frowned as he peered past the cop into the dark. "I just gotten a little dis-, uh, lost. Turned around, I guess. Where's my car?"
The cop shook his head. "Mister, I don't know where your car is, but it's a good thing you couldn't find it. You're in no shape to drive!" He cocked his head to one side, looking Liam up and down. "Let me make a phone call for you. Somebody I could get to come and pick you up." He reached for his cop phone, but Liam waved him off, and started to turn away.
When he woke up, he was in some brightly lighted room. It took him a minute to figure out that he was in a bed. The light was blinding him and giving him a huge headache. He tried to shade his eyes with a hand but couldn't seem to move his arm. He squinted and looked down. He was strapped down! He pulled his arm violently against the strap, but it didn't budge. He panicked. He had never thought it fun or okay to be pinned down, and he started twisting and fighting, trying to get free.
Suddenly there was a shadow above him telling him to calm down. But how could he calm down when he couldn't move, couldn't fight back? He swore, arched his back in an effort to throw off the strap that held him down. There was a sharp stab and darkness closed in again.
When he woke the next time, the room was just as bright, but he could see more clearly. He started to sit up and discovered he was strapped down. Panic struck again, but this time he took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. Then he shouted for help. What kind of a place was this, where he could be held against his will, strapped down like a prisoner? He vaguely remembered a cop talking to him. Just as he was about to freak out, a man in a white coat came over. As Liam turned to look at the man, he realized that there were bars on the bed. The man in white took hold of the top bar and just stood there, looking at him.
"What's the deal?" Liam asked. "Why am I strapped down behind bars like this?"
The man in white laughed. "You're not behind bars, sir. These are bed rails. We put them on all the beds in the hospital." And then he said, quite somberly, "You passed out on the street. Your blood chemistry was completely screwed up. A cop called for an ambulance, and they brought you to our Emergency Department. You were brought to this Detox Unit so we could keep you alive, but you were out of your head, fighting us whenever we tried to do anything to help you. We had to strap you down so you didn't hurt yourself or one of us. How are you feeling now?"
Liam shook his head but that turned out to be a bad idea. He felt like someone was tearing off the top of his head. He moaned. He moaned louder when the doctor shined a light in his eyes.
The doctor stood up and said, "You've suffered a hit to your brain. But that happens when your blood alcohol hits .3 or higher, and yours was probably even higher. But we had to deal with the fact that you had no potassium or sodium in your blood, so we didn't test you as soon as you got here. We can take off the straps if you promise not to try to get out of bed. If you get out of bed, we'll strap you down again because there's no way you can walk right now."
"Okay, I promise to be good."
Later that day a woman in a dark jacket came to his bed. "How are you feeling, Mr. Banks?"
Liam motioned to a chair. "Can you sit down? I have a terrible headache."
She sat. "So at least you can make sense now. That's a step forward. What can you remember about the past few days?"
Liam had to think. He didn't remember much. He stumbled through the mélange of memories that were weaving in his head. "There were squirrels. Vicious squirrels. They kept attacking me."
She didn't laugh. They talked for a while. Turned out she was a chaplain, which surprised him. She didn't seem ready to judge him, which also surprised him. Over the next week, they talked every day. Finally, she asked him about his relationship to God. Well, he probably shouldn't be surprised. God would be the stock-in-trade for a chaplain. He tried to shrug her off, but she persisted.
"God is concerned about you, Liam. I know this. He could help you live a sober life, rather than this awfulness you've been living." Liam just shrugged. He hadn't thought about God at all for a long time. He had no interest in church.
"Liam, I'm not talking about going to church. I'm talking about going to GOD." The way she said it, he heard the word in all-capital letters.
"I don't have any idea how to do that," he said. "If God isn't what church is all about, where would I find God?"
"God is everywhere, Liam. He's not only in churches. What you need to do is talk to God, right here. He can hear you. Just tell him what you need."
"What do I need?"
"Well, I don't know. That's between you and God. What do you want from God?"
Liam lay quite still, cradling his pillow under his head. Finally, he said slowly, "Peace. Happiness. Somebody who'll love me." He was mortified to feel a tear slip down his nose. He wiped it away quickly. "But I've asked God for all of that and he never has come through for me. Why would he do that now?"
"He won't, Liam. Peace, happiness, love -- all of these things come to us in the natural course of our lives. By the way we live. You can't just have happiness handed to you. When you start to do things that help you live a sober life, happiness will come to you. Peace comes when we start living lives without chaos. So far, alcohol has been your God. Change that and you will move from chaos to peace. And when you do that, everything else will fall into place."
"You make it sound so easy."
"No, there's nothing easy about it, Liam. Your success will take great effort on your part. God never hands us the fruits of a good life without effort."
Liam shook his head. "I don't know, Chaplain."
The chaplain took his hand. "I know you don't. But God has nothing but good in mind for you, Liam. Please give it a try. I have a little book here for you. It will give you twelve easy steps for eliminating chaos and finding peace and happiness. Good luck." And she stood and walked out.
The next day, Liam left the hospital. On his way to the front door, he asked for the chaplain's office. The nurse gave him a strange look "I'm sorry, Mr. Banks. We haven't had a chaplain on our staff for at least three years. There is no chaplain's office." He tried to argue with her, but she wouldn't budge. No chaplain. No woman volunteer, either. Liam looked at the little book she had given him, shrugged, and put it in his pocket. He would read it once he got home.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
*****************************************
StoryShare, December 25, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
"Arms of Stone" by Keith Hewitt
"Renouncing Worldly Passions" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * *
Arms of Stone
by Keith Hewitt
Luke 2:1-14 (15-20)
I would have held him in my arms all night if I could have. Any mother would -- after nine months of carrying this… this being inside you, all the while dreaming about what motherhood will be like; after hours of labor and worrying that something is not right, because it couldn't possibly hurt this much to have a child if things were not going horribly wrong. After all that, when you finally have the chance to hold your child to your breast and look into those eyes for the first time...
You never want to let go. You never want to free your fingertip from the grip of those tiny hands, and you never want to stop staring at that round, ruddy face, looking back at you with consternation -- with befuddlement as to what had happened to his warm, comfortable, safe world. You want to nourish him, hold him, and keep him next to your heart forever.
Any mother would.
But there comes a time when fatigue wins, and your body tells you it's going to rest whether you want to or not. When that happens, the challenge is to find somewhere that will cradle him almost as safely as you would and keep him warm against the chill night air. If you're home, you likely have a cradle for the child. We had one, a sturdy wooden cradle, built by his father -- but it was seventy miles away and might as well have been on the moon.
His father could have held him but that would not last -- there were things he had to do, and even though I had borne the brunt of effort that night, he was tired as well. I couldn't tell him, but I had this vision of Joseph falling asleep and dropping our son, just letting him roll out of his arms and onto the stable floor. I couldn't let that happen.
For one night, at least, we would have to improvise.
I put the problem in Joseph's hands and ceased to fret, choosing instead to spend my time studying every wrinkle and hair on my child's head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him scooping straw out of a manger -- sort of a stone trough that ran along one wall of the stable. When he had dumped it in front of the animals, he got fresh straw from a deep pile near the back and put it in the manger, patted it down carefully until he had formed a hollow in the bedding, then took off his cloak and lay it on top, so the stalks would not prick our child.
"Will this do?" he asked anxiously and with his help I got to my feet and stepped over to the manger. Holding our child with one hand, I tested the bed with the other, pushing down on the cloak, still warm from my husband's back. It was no bed of reeds, but it would do in our rough setting. I nodded gratefully to Joseph, and then lay our child in the manger, carefully folding the cloak over him as the strong stone arms of the manger held him.
We both lost track of time, then, looking down at the face that peeked out at us... trying to imagine what might be in store, and although he was the most beautiful child we had ever seen, we struggled to make sense of all that we had been told about him. In truth, I suppose, we knew that every baby is the most beautiful, to their own parents, but knowing the circumstances of this one's birth made him all the more special, even if he didn't look it. Eventually, we lay down to sleep -- me, in my corner of the stable, and Joseph next to the manger.
I don't think we were asleep for long, when the shepherds came...
They were reluctant to approach us at first and even more reluctant to share the story of what had happened to them in the field. I suppose they were afraid they might be taken for crazy men or worse. But it was clear they wanted to see our son, and it was equally clear they knew something about him -- something about his origins and his uniqueness among all men born of women -- so eventually, under gentle prodding, they told their story about the angels come to announce his birth.
It made our hearts soar -- not that we needed it -- but here was more proof that there was something profoundly different, profoundly important, about this child. At the same time, looking at Joseph's face when no one else was looking, I know it worried him, as well, and I could understand that. Imagine yourself born to common life and being asked to bear and care for something of incalculable wealth, for the king.
How could we possibly live up to this responsibility?
How could we possibly be worthy?
How could we possibly protect him against the forces of darkness, which would surely gather against him -- and had shaded my own joy all these months?
When the shepherds finally left -- gently chased out by my husband after I had fallen asleep a second time during conversation with them -- our son was starting to stir again. I took him out of his manger, nursed him 'til he was quiet, held him for a time, and talked quietly with Joseph about all that I was feeling and was relieved to find that he felt the same way. Finally, when neither of us could stay awake enough to carry on a conversation, I returned our son to the protective warmth of the manger.
I thought about that night more than once, awed at everything that happened, filled with warmth for the gentle strength of my husband who never let me know how scared he was, 'til later... and thankful for the arms of stone that protected our son while we slept in the stable that night. Those memories stayed with me, though they faded over time, supplanted by other memories, other hopes and fears as our family changed... as our firstborn son moved on to meet his destiny.
So it was odd, I thought, that the memory of that night should come flooding back to me as I stood on a hillside outside the walls of Jerusalem, to watch them carry the lifeless, bloodied shell of my baby into the tomb. I would have held him in my arms, if I could, but they wouldn't let me. Instead, I wept as they lay him on a stone shelf that ran along one wall, and remembered the manger -- and as they rolled the stone in front of the tomb I thought, Here, again, he sleeps in the grasp of strong stone arms. The thought made me weep even more -- at my failure to protect him, at my loss, and for all our hopes and dreams that now lay with him -- trapped inside a tomb of rock.
What I did not know -- what I could scarcely imagine -- was that he would not sleep for long...
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
Renouncing Worldly Passions
by Sandra Herrmann
Titus 2:11-14
Liam sat on his bar stool, watching the girl at the end of the bar laugh at some joke the man next to her had made. She leaned in toward the guy, and he wrapped an arm around her. Liam had been watching them for half an hour. He didn't envy the guy, but he sure wished for a woman like that laughing at his jokes. He sighed. Not going to happen tonight, that was obvious. He'd chatted up one woman, a curvy brunette with a husky voice, but after a drink or two she'd slid off her stool. She had to go home. Thanks for the drink.
Yeah, he thought, thanks for nothing. A total waste of five bucks. He'd been at his best, making some clever jokes, but she barely laughed. She seemed vague, didn't get what he was saying, and then she was gone. He shrugged. Whatcha gonna do?
He used to be able to charm any woman he wanted. He lit another cigarette, cocking his head to keep the smoke out of his eyes. He couldn't understand what had changed. He was still in his prime -- 42 -- and had all his own hair, all his own teeth, no glasses or contact lenses. He was still in good shape. He shook his head and upended his drink, draining what was mostly ice water from his glass. He motioned to the bartender.
"Sorry, Liam," the bartender said, shaking his head in an exaggerated sign of sorrow. "I gotta cut you off. You've reached the bar limit." He picked up Liam's glass and coaster, wiped the bar, and turned away.
"Whachoo talkin' about?" Liam whined. "I've only had a coupla drinks."
"Hey, Liam, you've been drinking steady for over two hours. I can't keep serving you. I really should take your keys away and call you a cab, but I don't wanna get in a fight with you. Just take it easy. You want a soda? I could put some bitters innit for you."
Liam snorted. "Not likely, Buddy. Soda with bitters? I haven't gone that way since I was 16." He pushed himself away from the bar. Somehow, he didn't dismount well, stumbled a little, but got himself upright. He headed for the door. Halfway there, he had to stop and stand still for a minute. Every light in the room had a halo around it. Looked kind of pretty, but he knew enough to take it slowly. He stood still and waited until his balance came back.
"You okay, buddy?"
Liam looked at the cop. He felt a little stupid, as he looked around. Where the heck was he? "Sure, I'm fine." But he frowned as he peered past the cop into the dark. "I just gotten a little dis-, uh, lost. Turned around, I guess. Where's my car?"
The cop shook his head. "Mister, I don't know where your car is, but it's a good thing you couldn't find it. You're in no shape to drive!" He cocked his head to one side, looking Liam up and down. "Let me make a phone call for you. Somebody I could get to come and pick you up." He reached for his cop phone, but Liam waved him off, and started to turn away.
When he woke up, he was in some brightly lighted room. It took him a minute to figure out that he was in a bed. The light was blinding him and giving him a huge headache. He tried to shade his eyes with a hand but couldn't seem to move his arm. He squinted and looked down. He was strapped down! He pulled his arm violently against the strap, but it didn't budge. He panicked. He had never thought it fun or okay to be pinned down, and he started twisting and fighting, trying to get free.
Suddenly there was a shadow above him telling him to calm down. But how could he calm down when he couldn't move, couldn't fight back? He swore, arched his back in an effort to throw off the strap that held him down. There was a sharp stab and darkness closed in again.
When he woke the next time, the room was just as bright, but he could see more clearly. He started to sit up and discovered he was strapped down. Panic struck again, but this time he took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. Then he shouted for help. What kind of a place was this, where he could be held against his will, strapped down like a prisoner? He vaguely remembered a cop talking to him. Just as he was about to freak out, a man in a white coat came over. As Liam turned to look at the man, he realized that there were bars on the bed. The man in white took hold of the top bar and just stood there, looking at him.
"What's the deal?" Liam asked. "Why am I strapped down behind bars like this?"
The man in white laughed. "You're not behind bars, sir. These are bed rails. We put them on all the beds in the hospital." And then he said, quite somberly, "You passed out on the street. Your blood chemistry was completely screwed up. A cop called for an ambulance, and they brought you to our Emergency Department. You were brought to this Detox Unit so we could keep you alive, but you were out of your head, fighting us whenever we tried to do anything to help you. We had to strap you down so you didn't hurt yourself or one of us. How are you feeling now?"
Liam shook his head but that turned out to be a bad idea. He felt like someone was tearing off the top of his head. He moaned. He moaned louder when the doctor shined a light in his eyes.
The doctor stood up and said, "You've suffered a hit to your brain. But that happens when your blood alcohol hits .3 or higher, and yours was probably even higher. But we had to deal with the fact that you had no potassium or sodium in your blood, so we didn't test you as soon as you got here. We can take off the straps if you promise not to try to get out of bed. If you get out of bed, we'll strap you down again because there's no way you can walk right now."
"Okay, I promise to be good."
Later that day a woman in a dark jacket came to his bed. "How are you feeling, Mr. Banks?"
Liam motioned to a chair. "Can you sit down? I have a terrible headache."
She sat. "So at least you can make sense now. That's a step forward. What can you remember about the past few days?"
Liam had to think. He didn't remember much. He stumbled through the mélange of memories that were weaving in his head. "There were squirrels. Vicious squirrels. They kept attacking me."
She didn't laugh. They talked for a while. Turned out she was a chaplain, which surprised him. She didn't seem ready to judge him, which also surprised him. Over the next week, they talked every day. Finally, she asked him about his relationship to God. Well, he probably shouldn't be surprised. God would be the stock-in-trade for a chaplain. He tried to shrug her off, but she persisted.
"God is concerned about you, Liam. I know this. He could help you live a sober life, rather than this awfulness you've been living." Liam just shrugged. He hadn't thought about God at all for a long time. He had no interest in church.
"Liam, I'm not talking about going to church. I'm talking about going to GOD." The way she said it, he heard the word in all-capital letters.
"I don't have any idea how to do that," he said. "If God isn't what church is all about, where would I find God?"
"God is everywhere, Liam. He's not only in churches. What you need to do is talk to God, right here. He can hear you. Just tell him what you need."
"What do I need?"
"Well, I don't know. That's between you and God. What do you want from God?"
Liam lay quite still, cradling his pillow under his head. Finally, he said slowly, "Peace. Happiness. Somebody who'll love me." He was mortified to feel a tear slip down his nose. He wiped it away quickly. "But I've asked God for all of that and he never has come through for me. Why would he do that now?"
"He won't, Liam. Peace, happiness, love -- all of these things come to us in the natural course of our lives. By the way we live. You can't just have happiness handed to you. When you start to do things that help you live a sober life, happiness will come to you. Peace comes when we start living lives without chaos. So far, alcohol has been your God. Change that and you will move from chaos to peace. And when you do that, everything else will fall into place."
"You make it sound so easy."
"No, there's nothing easy about it, Liam. Your success will take great effort on your part. God never hands us the fruits of a good life without effort."
Liam shook his head. "I don't know, Chaplain."
The chaplain took his hand. "I know you don't. But God has nothing but good in mind for you, Liam. Please give it a try. I have a little book here for you. It will give you twelve easy steps for eliminating chaos and finding peace and happiness. Good luck." And she stood and walked out.
The next day, Liam left the hospital. On his way to the front door, he asked for the chaplain's office. The nurse gave him a strange look "I'm sorry, Mr. Banks. We haven't had a chaplain on our staff for at least three years. There is no chaplain's office." He tried to argue with her, but she wouldn't budge. No chaplain. No woman volunteer, either. Liam looked at the little book she had given him, shrugged, and put it in his pocket. He would read it once he got home.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
*****************************************
StoryShare, December 25, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
