Big Mike And The Harmonica
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Big Mike and the Harmonica" by Craig M. Kelly
"The Face of God" by Keith Hewitt
"A Prayer and a Blessing" by Constance Berg
What's Up This Week
In the passage from Acts, Paul and Silas find the freedom to praise God even in chains. In Big Mike and the Harmonica, a young corrections officer sees this true freedom in action. There is an old saying that, sometimes, you can't see the forest for the trees. As human beings, we can get so involved in our own lives that it's hard to see any meaning to it all. If that happens, getting a sense of perspective can make all the difference in the world. And sometimes, as The Face of God by Hewitt suggests, getting a perspective of the world can make all the difference…
* * * * * * * * *
Big Mike and the Harmonica
by Craig Kelly
Acts 16:16-34
It's understandable for people to be nervous on their first day on the job -- the new lawyer in a big law firm, the new teacher on the first day of class, the new teller at a big bank -- but to say I was nervous the first day of my job would be an understatement on the level of saying that World War II was a mild disagreement. I was petrified.
I had all the training, and I had some limited experience already, but to go from county prisons to becoming a corrections officer at a maximum security prison… well, I hope one would forgive me if my mouth was a little dry when I first walked through the gate. I remember thinking that all the moisture from my mouth had gone to my palms because I kept wiping the sweat from them onto my new, freshly pressed uniform. Thankfully, the pants were black, so I don't think anyone noticed. I'm hopeful no one noticed my frequent gulping, too.
There's something about seeing people who, according to all societal norms, need to have a steel door operated by remote separating you from them. It's just not a natural situation. Men weren't born to spend their lives in a box. And yet there was something in these individuals that drove society to think that the world was better off with these men tucked away in a box for the rest of their lives. I remember trying to repress a shudder as I walked down the halls. In that line of work, you can't afford to show fear.
Looking back on it, I know I really shouldn't have gotten the job in the first place. I guess it helps when your father is a state senator who happens to know a certain prison warden. I never liked the idea of getting in on Dad's coattails, but a man's got to earn a living, right? On that first day, however, I found myself wondering whether or not Dad actually did me a favor on this one.
After meeting the warden and my other superiors, who gave me the grand tour, I was assigned to Block 14. They wanted to break me in easy, I guess. Most of the inmates in that block were relatively well-behaved -- relatively being the operative word. This block was still filled with murderers, rapists, and gang members, but these ones for some reason decided not to rock the boat too much. Yeah for me.
I remember the first few days, I didn't say anything. I just did my rounds through the block, trying not to listen. Some of the prisoners were sharks in the water. They knew there was some fresh meat swimming among them. For those first few days, I heard them, constantly taunting me, trying to get inside my head, telling me exactly what they thought of me and what they wanted to do to me. It was the only time in my life I remember sweating in December.
As I would help escort the prisoners to the weight room or the mess hall, one man stood out to me. Well, he would stick out to anybody. Being 6'8" will do that. Shoulders like a linebacker and biceps to match. Inmate number 14564-012. Took me a while to find out his name was Michael Toomes, or Big Mike, as he was more commonly known. His story was much like everyone else's: dark past, troubled childhood -- probably -- petty disobedience leading up to some horrific, terrible crime, and now here. Just like everyone else.
Yet he wasn't like everyone else. There was something different enough in him that it made me notice. And it had nothing to do with his height. For one thing, he was quiet. While everyone else tried to assert themselves through the threats they made, Big Mike just sat, quiet, composed. If it were any other person, the inmates would see that trait as weakness, but everyone knew it wasn't worth messing with Big Mike. It would probably take three of them just to get him down.
But there was something more to Mike than just his silence. This was different. Some people are quiet in order to intimidate people. The less those people say, the scarier they can become. But Big Mike had a different feel about him. His silence had more of a peace about it, like the quiet of a still mountain lake. As I was around him more, I became more convinced that even if every other inmate decided to riot around him, he would still sit there, silent, at peace. He was untouchable.
It's an odd thing when a guard becomes jealous of an inmate. I can't imagine it happens very often. But as the weeks turned into months, I kept thinking, What does Big Mike have that I don't? Is it possible for me to have it, too? It seemed like my life was anything but peaceful. I was going through a pretty nasty breakup, I constantly felt like I had my dad looking over my shoulder, and despite my decent pay, my bills kept piling up. I suppose the time I spent at the racetrack probably didn't help. In ways, it seemed like I was more of a prisoner than Big Mike, and I got to walk out of the main gate every night.
It wasn't until one summer evening that I saw where Big Mike's peace came from. I was only an hour from ending my shift, so I was keeping a close eye on my watch. The sooner I could get out of that hellhole, the better. As I walked by Big Mike's cell door, I thought I could hear something. I stopped and stood by the steel gray door. It was faint, but I definitely could hear a stray note or two in the air. Now, these doors were supposed to be soundproof, so I inspected the door to make sure it was locked correctly. Once I was convinced it was shut tight, I looked down and noticed that the door for the meal tray slot was open. That tray slot was only used if prisoners needed to be kept in lockdown. Well, Big Mike was very well-behaved, so we almost never had to use it, but one of the water pipes burst, flooding the mess hall, so every inmate was fed in their cell that day. As I crouched down to look at the slot, I noticed the spring that shut the slot door had rusted, probably from lack of use. That had made just enough of a hole to let the music out.
Now I could have just shrugged it off, got back up, and finished my rounds, making sure to let my supervisor know about the rusted spring. But I suppose my curiosity got the better of me that night. I clicked the talk button on my radio.
"Unit 9 to control."
"Go ahead, unit 9," came the reply.
"Open cell door 14-12."
"10-3, Unit 9." Stand by.
After a minute, I heard the familiar click of the lock on the door, followed by the hum of the motor as the door slid away.
I waked into Big Mike's narrow cell. It was painted the same gray as the door, the halls, the whole prison, actually. Like all the other cells, Big Mike had a cot for a bed, a desk, which was bolted into the wall, a chair, a toilet, a small sink, and that was about it. It was prison, not the Hilton.
"What's your status, unit 9?" came the voice over the radio.
"Code 7, control." The situation was under control.
"10-1. 1941." Acknowledged. They always gave the time before ending their call.
As I stepped in, Big Mike was sitting on his bed with his back against the wall. He looked up at me with that same serene look he always had, although I could see a tinge of worry in his eyes. I could see he was holding something, although his large hands almost covered it up.
"Something wrong, sir?" he asked, his voice deep, yet soft.
I tried to look stern. Couldn't afford to show weakness. "Whatcha holdin', Big Mike?"
For the first time, I saw sadness in his eyes. Slowly, he leaned over to me and opened his hand. In it was a black comb, covered with a piece of wax paper.
"Please, sir," he said softly. "I wasn't trying to make any trouble."
I reached over and slowly picked it up. I hadn't seen anything like this since I was a kid.
"Did you make yourself… a harmonica?"
Big Mike looked down. "Yes sir," he said quietly. "I used to play harmonica on the outside. I hadn't played one since I came in, but I found I missed it. My grandmamma wasn't sure if she could send one to me, so she sent me a comb. One of the guys who worked in the kitchen got me a piece of wax paper. It wasn't much, but it felt a little like I was playing the harp again."
I leaned against the wall. Even being a corrections officer, sometimes I could forget that when you have nothing, when everything is taken away from you, even the smallest thing can be more valuable than gold, even playing a harmonica.
"You love playing music that much, eh?" I asked.
Big Mike also leaned back against the wall. "Well, yeah, I guess," he said after a moment of reflection. "When I first got here, I was so angry, so hateful, that I didn't really give much thought to playing harp. But a couple of years ago, I heard a guy speak at the chapel, and it really got me thinking."
"Oh yeah? Thinking about what?" I asked.
Big Mike let out a long sigh. "About my life, my soul," he said, his mind drifting back. "I won't tell you why I'm here. You can check my file in the warden's office to find that out, but I'll just say that I was full of anger and rage when I was a young man. Back in those days, probably the only non-violent thing I did was play harp. But that rage finally put me in here to serve a life sentence. No parole. But that didn't stop it. I just brought that violence and anger with me in here. Spent most of my first couple of years here in lockdown."
Big Mike in lockdown? From what I had seen, I had a hard time imagining that. "What changed?" I asked.
Mike started to smile. "Me," he said. "When that guy spoke in chapel, it's like God himself was speaking to me. I guess he was. I realized that what Jesus did all those years ago, he did it for me. He took God's punishment on the cross for everything I did wrong, all the violence, all the hate. I just hadn't accepted it for myself. That day was the first day that I really prayed to God. I had asked him to get me out of stuff in the past, but that was the first time that I really prayed to him, surrendering to him, asking his forgiveness. I felt the Spirit of God rush into me that day, and by his grace, I've never looked back."
Mike reached under his cot. I instinctively reached for my baton, but all Mike did was pull out a small, paperback Bible. I relaxed my grip on the baton handle.
I don't think Big Mike noticed me reaching for my baton, because all he did was look at that book. He had a look in his eyes as if he was looking at an old friend.
"A chaplain gave me this not long after I was saved," Mike said. "One of the great things about being here is that I have a lot of time to myself. I've probably read this book cover to cover at least ten times now." It certainly looked like it. The front cover looked like it was about to fall off and the binding was full of creases from being opened repeatedly. The pages were yellowed along the edges and wrinkled from heavy use. Mike carefully turned to the middle of the book.
"It says here in Psalm 150, 'Praise God with trumpets and all kinds of harps.' There was only one kind of harp I knew how to play, but it was out there, and I was in here. As I've gotten to know God more, I've found myself wanting to sing to him and play for him more. I want to show him how much I love him."
I found myself shaking my head. "But Big Mike, God hasn't taken you out of this prison. As far as the world is concerned, you're going to be locked up here for the rest of your life. What could you possibly have to sing to God about?"
Even with the reminder of his incarceration, the smile never left Big Mike's face. "Sir, I may be locked up in here, but my heart is more free now than it has ever been. I praise God in here because these prison walls can't lock up my heart. The anger and hate did that. But God set me free. I can spend the rest of my days a prisoner here, but I'll live the rest of my life and take my last breath as a free man. I can be chained up here, but no one can stop me from singing and playing music to God."
There wasn't much I could say after that. "I wish I could understand that," I said.
"Just ask God," Mike said. "He'll help you."
I looked down at the comb. Such a simple thing, and yet it had a far deeper significance for Big Mike. I carefully handed it back to him.
"I don't see a problem with you having this," I said. "Don't think you'll be hurting anybody keeping it."
Big Mike let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir, and I won't make too much noise with it. I promise."
"Well, that door is soundproof anyway," I said. "Once we get that door on the tray slot fixed, I don't think you'll have to worry about anyone interrupting you again."
I got up to leave, and I started hearing a hum coming from behind me. Big Mike started to play a song. The notes were familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It seemed like I had heard that melody as a kid, but I couldn't place it.
Then Mike started to sing, his deep baritone voice echoing off the walls, and it all came rushing back to me.
When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul….
I wiped a tear from my eye as I left the room.
"Unit 9 to control," I said, trying to hide a break in my voice.
"Go ahead."
My sin, oh the bliss, of this glorious thought….
"Close door 14-12. Code 7."
My sin, not in part, but the whole, is nailed to the cross and I bear it no more! Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord, O my soul!
"10-1. 1957."
***
A few months later, I accepted a transfer to a smaller, minimum-security prison upstate. But there was one thing I had to do before I left. It took a little convincing for the warden, but he finally went along with it.
When Big Mike came back from the exercise yard that day, there was a small, rectangular, white plastic case on his cot. Inside it was a new Hohner Marine Band C harmonica. Beside it was a black, leather-bound Bible. On the front page was a small inscription:
Thanks for helping me get out of my own prison. From a grateful corrections officer.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
The Face of God
Keith Hewitt
Psalm 97
He sat at ease on his deck, one ankle stacked atop the other on a log bench that alternated service as coffee table, magazine rack, and footrest. It served double duty today, as copies of a handful of news magazines lay on one corner. Most of them were opened to articles inside; the cover of the top one stared back at him -- a familiar face, somewhat less carefully shaved than it was now, the hair shaggier, but split by the same wide grin that had looked back at him often, in the mirror, for many years.
The reason for the grin would have appeared obvious to anyone who knew him -- the picture showed him in an orange pressure suit, reclining, with a space helmet cradled in one elbow, resting on the arm of the chair.
Space helmet -- it was still hard to believe, one of those long and unusually complex dreams that come along ever now and then. It was why he still, in the middle of the night, sometimes pulled out his notebook and flipped through the pictures he had stored there, just to convince himself that it was true. Then, reassured, he would drift off to sleep… and dream of flying.
Footsteps clicked on the wood floor inside, grew louder, paused -- and the screen door slid open, then shut, and a pair of footsteps announced that a visitor had arrived. He didn't look up -- only a handful of people could get this close to him without his security detail alerting him, and of that handful there were perhaps two or three who would intrude on him in this way, without announcing themselves. Of that two or three, only one would cause the footsteps he had heard.
There was no need to look.
"So, would you like to tell me what's going on?" Her voice was soft, but stern -- no, not stern… businesslike. Not judgmental, but not willing to brook any nonsense, either. It was what he imagined his mother might have sounded like if she was asking him about some questionable behavior, gathering facts like the high powered attorney she had been.
He smiled, wondering what she would say if he shared that with her, some day. "I was wondering if they would send you," he answered, and took his foot off the bench long enough to push out the other chair. "Take a load off."
"Thanks." She sat down in the chair next to his, and he glanced over at her. They were the same age, but she managed to look both younger and more mature -- her youthful physical appearance was encased in a carefully crafted shell assembled from no-nonsense business dress, glasses that would have fit a librarian who'd had her sense of fun surgically removed decades ago, and a carefully coiffed hair style calculated to show she was all business.
"What did you expect?" she wondered, catching his eye when he glanced toward her. "The Chairman and CEO of one of the largest avionics firms in the world loses his mind -- of course the Directors are going to send someone to talk to him. And I was the logical choice."
"Do you think I've lost my mind, Emma?"
She looked back at him steadily. "I'm reserving judgment… for now." They looked at one another for another moment or two, each studying the other's expression, trying to read behind the eyes, then she broke contact, looked out toward the lake spread before them. "So, do you want to tell me what happened?"
"What do you mean?"
She looked back at him, raised one eyebrow. "Really? You announce to the Board of Directors that you plan on selling off your entire portfolio of shares in the company -- some eighteen billion dollars worth of stock -- and resigning as President, Chairman, and Genius-in-Residence… and you ask me what I mean?"
"It was a confidential memo, not an announcement. And I think I put together a pretty good plan for selling my portfolio. I'm not going to dump it, and drive the share price down -- I'm going to sell it in stages, so no one should be hurt."
"Yes, I could see you put some thought into it, which brings us back to the original question. What happened? A year ago, you were a titan of industry -- "he smiled at the ironic spin she put on the phrase," -- a certified genius, and as sane a man as any… except for that obsession with going into space." She shook her head. "Really, Andrew, why a grown man would choose to sit on top of a giant Roman candle and ask them to light the fuse is beyond me."
"I know," he said quietly, remembering the long discussions, the months he spent at the Russian training center, getting ready for the flight. He started to speak several times, opening his mouth, then closing it, finally just shook his head. "I don't think I can explain it, Emma. The launch, the flight, the freefall -- it was nothing like I'd imagined it would be… but it was everything I'd thought it would be."
"Spare me," she said simply. "Just tell me, are you running away to join the Space Program? Are you planning to be the old hermit that lives in the International Space Station?"
He smiled. "No, this is something completely different."
He took a sip from a frosted tumbler; the flurry of bubbles coming off the pale brown contents tickled his nose, and he wrinkled it slightly as he lowered the glass. "You've seen the photos, right? The ones I took up there?"
"Dear Heaven, yes -- twice. You're not going to make me look at them again, are you?" she demanded wearily.
He glanced at her quickly, to gauge the feelings behind her answer, and then turned his attention back to the lake, where fish jumped and splashed back into the water, sending out concentric rings of diamonds in the sunlight. "Wouldn't dream of it," he assured her. "But there is one I want to show you, some day. It was along about my eighth or ninth week up there, and I still couldn't believe it when I woke up in the morning."
He raised the glass, took another sip. "Anyway, I was taking pictures as we slid down over the Plains. I guess it was late evening, because the terminator was already on the other side of the Rockies, and I was looking down at the Midwest in the dark -- only it's not really dark. There's the city lights, of course, and the light of the moon reflecting back on the earth. But it's still dark, and there's this big, long band of a deeper dark that went from Minnesota on down through Iowa and Nebraska… clouds, blocking out the lights below. You can never really appreciate how truly massive a storm system is until you can see it all at one time -- from above."
"I've been in a few storms I could appreciate even from the ground, Andrew."
"But not like this. It's like God is reaching down with both hands and spreading them out over a couple of states, blotting them out from view, only you can see it. As we passed over the trailing edge, what I first thought was glare from our navigation beacons -- you know, flashing on the window -- I realized was lightning. These massive clouds, a hundred miles away, were being lit up from the inside. It was like taking a strobe and sticking it inside the biggest blob of cotton candy you ever saw."
"Very picturesque."
"I told you I couldn't really explain it. Do you want me to get my album?"
"No, no," she said hastily. "You're doing a fine job. Like Picasso, with words."
"Look, all I can tell you is this: I looked down at that storm, from up there, a hundred miles up, and I realized that if you took every aircraft we helped build, took every bomb we helped make, and threw them all together and set them off, we couldn't match what was going on down there. And it just kept going on and on -- I could still see it on our next two passes, just not as well. And this is just over one piece of one country -- it happens hundreds of times, all around the world. Thousands of times. That night and every night before -- back through the history of the planet… and on forward 'til the sun eats us for lunch."
"I see," she lied.
"And the things you can see in the daylight -- mountain ranges, rivers, oceans… from down here, you look at these things and you're just a speck, a fly on the wall. But from up there, you get a sense of perspective, a real sense of creation. And awe." He paused, took another sip. "I tell you, it got so I saw the face of God every time I looked out that window."
"Was he trying to tear off a piece of the station -- like that thing on the wing in that old Twilight Zone episode… the one with Shatner?"
He turned his head, rolled his eyes partway up, and looked at her as though he was peering over the tops of glasses he wasn't wearing. "Glad you're taking me seriously, Emma. I'm telling you about power and majesty, a sense of awe and mystery… and you're reflecting back old TV shows. Really?"
She smiled, reached out, and patted his hand reassuringly. "I'm sorry, Andrew. It's just that I've never heard you like this."
"That's because I've never been like this. To me, God was always pretty remote, if I thought about him at all. But seeing this planet the way I did, realizing that there had to be something behind how it all came to be… and realizing the power that it holds, just sort of casually… it made me realize how insignificant we really are. On a planetary scale, nothing I'm ever going to do would even show up -- I'm like a firefly whirling around inside a thunderstorm. It's like I'm not even here."
"I see," she said slowly, and thought she had some glimmer, this time. "You've spent your life thinking you're big stuff -- and now you realize you're not, really."
He raised his glass, tilted it toward her in salute. "Exactly. Thank you for summing up exactly how insignificant I am."
She inclined her head slight, to return the gesture. "No problem, Andrew. Always glad to help." She paused; then shrugged -- a tiny gesture. "But what about divesting your portfolio? What is that all about?"
"Well," he said slowly, "now that I realize everything I've done thus far in my life is irrelevant, I could take that eighteen billion dollars, convert it to stacks of hundred dollar bills, build a nice big pyramid, and set it on fire."
Emma's eyebrow arched slightly. "Don't even joke about that, Andrew. The Directors would have you sedated and straitjacketed before you could say 'cuckoo's nest.' "
"But then I thought, what about those people who work for me? I don't want to put them out of work -- even after I leave the company."
"A reasonable thought."
"And that made me think: if everything I've ever done so far can't light up the world, how about if I help somebody else do it? Somebodies else, I should say -- I'm pretty sure I can find ministries and charities that will do more than I ever could, if they have the resources."
"So you're going to give it away?" she challenged.
"Horrifying, isn't it? You do the math, though: if I take every dime I make off from selling my stock, invest it at 2% in money markets… by my way of thinking, I can give away a million dollars every day of the year and never run out of money." He took another sip, nodded to himself. "I think that could light things up plenty."
"It could at that," she agreed, staring out at the lake as she mentally checked his math. It seemed to work. "But tell me -- if you're so desperate to light the world this way, aren't you still competing with God?"
"If I was doing it to make my mark -- to show my light -- I suppose I would be. But I already know that's a losing battle, so why get into it?" He turned his head, waited until she turned toward him, and held her eyes. "That's why I need you."
"What do you mean?"
"I've never met a better lawyer -- and, underneath that rhino exterior, a better person. So I want your help. If I'm going to do this, I want to make absolutely sure of one thing."
"Yes?"
"Nobody -- nobody -- can ever know I've done it. You can go back and tell the Directors whatever you want -- tell them I'm going to buy the space station and live there the rest of my life. Tell them anything. But then come work for me. Help me do this -- and keep it secret." He smiled, and took her hand. "Who knows," he said, "maybe you'll see the face of God, too."
"Maybe," she agreed quietly.
And suspected that she may have already seen his hand…
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, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
A Prayer and a Blessing
Constance Berg
Acts 1:1-11
Pastor Wallace was loved by many, many people. He had come to a rural, agricultural area and stayed for 41 years. He and his wife Bea had four children, three of whom would become pastors themselves. The fourth was a missionary teacher in Madagascar. Pastor Wallace's second and last call was to another rural church he started only thirty miles away. He stayed fifteen years. His reputation was tough but fair; disciplined but compassionate; strong but just.
Pastor Wally, as he was known, knew his time on earth was short. He was suffering from lung cancer and he wanted to say good-bye. But how does one say good-bye to old friends? Pastor Wally asked that a worship service be held the coming fall to celebrate the harvest and his eightieth birthday. Plans were being made; it was to be held at his first church.
Pastor Wally was excited. But he was also getting weaker and weaker. It was two months before the service, and he wanted it to be a success. He called his granddaughter, a pastor almost 200 miles away, to help him write the service. Could two of his sons also come and help him? The four collaborated about the litany, focusing on the harvest and the change of seasons from living, yielding crops, to the earth becoming quiet, dormant, and restful. They wrote a poem about being eighty -- not so old, yet not so young either. They wrote the outline for the bulletin together.
Several church members helped get the church ready: the gutters needed to be straightened, the furnace cleaned and readied for the winter, and the front steps needed to be redone. The crack in the wall behind the altar could be fixed and the vestry needed to be cleaned out. There was great anticipation in the air. It was as if they were preparing for a festival.
Women got out scrapbooks and church records. They would make up a little play about notable events when Pastor Wally was their pastor. Like the time he arrived at the church an hour late when he forgot to set his clock. The people had waited patiently but the potluck dinner looked a little limp. They recalled the Sunday when his youngest son had let their new puppy into the church basement during an ice storm and afterward the frightened little dog wouldn't come out from under the basement steps.
There were many great memories. Pastor Wally had been with them through a flood, several tornadoes, deaths, births, baptisms, confirmations, and weddings. He had held their hands when people succumbed to illness, were torn with addictions, and made moves. He was their friend, their pastor, their confidante.
The time got closer and wheat bundles, corn stalks, pumpkins, squash, Indian corn, and other vegetables were arranged at the base of the altar. A banner was made decorated with leaves in red, yellow, gold, and orange falling downward. The pews were oiled and the rugs shampooed. They were ready.
It was a wonderful worship service. The organist was glowing as she played a special number. The litany went well, but his daughter had to lead it: Pastor Wally was just too weak. One grandson sang "How Great Thou Art," and a son read a poem about life as a "PK." It was hilarious. The synod bishop, who had been a classmate with Pastor Wally at seminary, gave the sermon. Finally, it was time for Pastor Wally to give the prayers. He stood up slowly. With great difficulty, he walked to the lectern and said a prayer, giving thanks to God for good memories, good friends, and good times. He thanked God for the guidance he had received as a young pastor, the strong support from his loving wife, for the vision his mentor had when Wally first came to the prairie, and for the opportunity to stay so long among the people. He was truly grateful for the many blessings he had. He encouraged the people in his prayer to continue praying for one another and to pray for their church leaders. "Prayer," he said, "is the most effective part of being a Christian. You can pray for people you know or don't know. You can lift people up even when you can't do anything else for them. It is what has sustained me over all these years."
Pastor Wally asked the people to stand and he raised his hands. "And now may the Lord bless you and keep you, my good friends. May the Lord make his face shine radiantly upon you and be gracious to you as you have been gracious to me. May the Lord look upon you with favor and give you a peace that passes all understanding deep within your hearts. Go in peace and serve the Lord!"
The closing hymn sounded a little quieter than usual as people sniffed quietly and choked back tears. They knew Pastor Wally was tired and very ill: He was going to be missed. It had taken a tremendous amount of energy, but Pastor Wally had given the church two very important gifts: a prayer and a blessing. And a chance to say good-bye.
(Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series III, Constance Berg [CSS Publishing Co., Inc.: Lima, Ohio], 2000)
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StoryShare, May 13 and 16, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 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.
What's Up This Week
"Big Mike and the Harmonica" by Craig M. Kelly
"The Face of God" by Keith Hewitt
"A Prayer and a Blessing" by Constance Berg
What's Up This Week
In the passage from Acts, Paul and Silas find the freedom to praise God even in chains. In Big Mike and the Harmonica, a young corrections officer sees this true freedom in action. There is an old saying that, sometimes, you can't see the forest for the trees. As human beings, we can get so involved in our own lives that it's hard to see any meaning to it all. If that happens, getting a sense of perspective can make all the difference in the world. And sometimes, as The Face of God by Hewitt suggests, getting a perspective of the world can make all the difference…
* * * * * * * * *
Big Mike and the Harmonica
by Craig Kelly
Acts 16:16-34
It's understandable for people to be nervous on their first day on the job -- the new lawyer in a big law firm, the new teacher on the first day of class, the new teller at a big bank -- but to say I was nervous the first day of my job would be an understatement on the level of saying that World War II was a mild disagreement. I was petrified.
I had all the training, and I had some limited experience already, but to go from county prisons to becoming a corrections officer at a maximum security prison… well, I hope one would forgive me if my mouth was a little dry when I first walked through the gate. I remember thinking that all the moisture from my mouth had gone to my palms because I kept wiping the sweat from them onto my new, freshly pressed uniform. Thankfully, the pants were black, so I don't think anyone noticed. I'm hopeful no one noticed my frequent gulping, too.
There's something about seeing people who, according to all societal norms, need to have a steel door operated by remote separating you from them. It's just not a natural situation. Men weren't born to spend their lives in a box. And yet there was something in these individuals that drove society to think that the world was better off with these men tucked away in a box for the rest of their lives. I remember trying to repress a shudder as I walked down the halls. In that line of work, you can't afford to show fear.
Looking back on it, I know I really shouldn't have gotten the job in the first place. I guess it helps when your father is a state senator who happens to know a certain prison warden. I never liked the idea of getting in on Dad's coattails, but a man's got to earn a living, right? On that first day, however, I found myself wondering whether or not Dad actually did me a favor on this one.
After meeting the warden and my other superiors, who gave me the grand tour, I was assigned to Block 14. They wanted to break me in easy, I guess. Most of the inmates in that block were relatively well-behaved -- relatively being the operative word. This block was still filled with murderers, rapists, and gang members, but these ones for some reason decided not to rock the boat too much. Yeah for me.
I remember the first few days, I didn't say anything. I just did my rounds through the block, trying not to listen. Some of the prisoners were sharks in the water. They knew there was some fresh meat swimming among them. For those first few days, I heard them, constantly taunting me, trying to get inside my head, telling me exactly what they thought of me and what they wanted to do to me. It was the only time in my life I remember sweating in December.
As I would help escort the prisoners to the weight room or the mess hall, one man stood out to me. Well, he would stick out to anybody. Being 6'8" will do that. Shoulders like a linebacker and biceps to match. Inmate number 14564-012. Took me a while to find out his name was Michael Toomes, or Big Mike, as he was more commonly known. His story was much like everyone else's: dark past, troubled childhood -- probably -- petty disobedience leading up to some horrific, terrible crime, and now here. Just like everyone else.
Yet he wasn't like everyone else. There was something different enough in him that it made me notice. And it had nothing to do with his height. For one thing, he was quiet. While everyone else tried to assert themselves through the threats they made, Big Mike just sat, quiet, composed. If it were any other person, the inmates would see that trait as weakness, but everyone knew it wasn't worth messing with Big Mike. It would probably take three of them just to get him down.
But there was something more to Mike than just his silence. This was different. Some people are quiet in order to intimidate people. The less those people say, the scarier they can become. But Big Mike had a different feel about him. His silence had more of a peace about it, like the quiet of a still mountain lake. As I was around him more, I became more convinced that even if every other inmate decided to riot around him, he would still sit there, silent, at peace. He was untouchable.
It's an odd thing when a guard becomes jealous of an inmate. I can't imagine it happens very often. But as the weeks turned into months, I kept thinking, What does Big Mike have that I don't? Is it possible for me to have it, too? It seemed like my life was anything but peaceful. I was going through a pretty nasty breakup, I constantly felt like I had my dad looking over my shoulder, and despite my decent pay, my bills kept piling up. I suppose the time I spent at the racetrack probably didn't help. In ways, it seemed like I was more of a prisoner than Big Mike, and I got to walk out of the main gate every night.
It wasn't until one summer evening that I saw where Big Mike's peace came from. I was only an hour from ending my shift, so I was keeping a close eye on my watch. The sooner I could get out of that hellhole, the better. As I walked by Big Mike's cell door, I thought I could hear something. I stopped and stood by the steel gray door. It was faint, but I definitely could hear a stray note or two in the air. Now, these doors were supposed to be soundproof, so I inspected the door to make sure it was locked correctly. Once I was convinced it was shut tight, I looked down and noticed that the door for the meal tray slot was open. That tray slot was only used if prisoners needed to be kept in lockdown. Well, Big Mike was very well-behaved, so we almost never had to use it, but one of the water pipes burst, flooding the mess hall, so every inmate was fed in their cell that day. As I crouched down to look at the slot, I noticed the spring that shut the slot door had rusted, probably from lack of use. That had made just enough of a hole to let the music out.
Now I could have just shrugged it off, got back up, and finished my rounds, making sure to let my supervisor know about the rusted spring. But I suppose my curiosity got the better of me that night. I clicked the talk button on my radio.
"Unit 9 to control."
"Go ahead, unit 9," came the reply.
"Open cell door 14-12."
"10-3, Unit 9." Stand by.
After a minute, I heard the familiar click of the lock on the door, followed by the hum of the motor as the door slid away.
I waked into Big Mike's narrow cell. It was painted the same gray as the door, the halls, the whole prison, actually. Like all the other cells, Big Mike had a cot for a bed, a desk, which was bolted into the wall, a chair, a toilet, a small sink, and that was about it. It was prison, not the Hilton.
"What's your status, unit 9?" came the voice over the radio.
"Code 7, control." The situation was under control.
"10-1. 1941." Acknowledged. They always gave the time before ending their call.
As I stepped in, Big Mike was sitting on his bed with his back against the wall. He looked up at me with that same serene look he always had, although I could see a tinge of worry in his eyes. I could see he was holding something, although his large hands almost covered it up.
"Something wrong, sir?" he asked, his voice deep, yet soft.
I tried to look stern. Couldn't afford to show weakness. "Whatcha holdin', Big Mike?"
For the first time, I saw sadness in his eyes. Slowly, he leaned over to me and opened his hand. In it was a black comb, covered with a piece of wax paper.
"Please, sir," he said softly. "I wasn't trying to make any trouble."
I reached over and slowly picked it up. I hadn't seen anything like this since I was a kid.
"Did you make yourself… a harmonica?"
Big Mike looked down. "Yes sir," he said quietly. "I used to play harmonica on the outside. I hadn't played one since I came in, but I found I missed it. My grandmamma wasn't sure if she could send one to me, so she sent me a comb. One of the guys who worked in the kitchen got me a piece of wax paper. It wasn't much, but it felt a little like I was playing the harp again."
I leaned against the wall. Even being a corrections officer, sometimes I could forget that when you have nothing, when everything is taken away from you, even the smallest thing can be more valuable than gold, even playing a harmonica.
"You love playing music that much, eh?" I asked.
Big Mike also leaned back against the wall. "Well, yeah, I guess," he said after a moment of reflection. "When I first got here, I was so angry, so hateful, that I didn't really give much thought to playing harp. But a couple of years ago, I heard a guy speak at the chapel, and it really got me thinking."
"Oh yeah? Thinking about what?" I asked.
Big Mike let out a long sigh. "About my life, my soul," he said, his mind drifting back. "I won't tell you why I'm here. You can check my file in the warden's office to find that out, but I'll just say that I was full of anger and rage when I was a young man. Back in those days, probably the only non-violent thing I did was play harp. But that rage finally put me in here to serve a life sentence. No parole. But that didn't stop it. I just brought that violence and anger with me in here. Spent most of my first couple of years here in lockdown."
Big Mike in lockdown? From what I had seen, I had a hard time imagining that. "What changed?" I asked.
Mike started to smile. "Me," he said. "When that guy spoke in chapel, it's like God himself was speaking to me. I guess he was. I realized that what Jesus did all those years ago, he did it for me. He took God's punishment on the cross for everything I did wrong, all the violence, all the hate. I just hadn't accepted it for myself. That day was the first day that I really prayed to God. I had asked him to get me out of stuff in the past, but that was the first time that I really prayed to him, surrendering to him, asking his forgiveness. I felt the Spirit of God rush into me that day, and by his grace, I've never looked back."
Mike reached under his cot. I instinctively reached for my baton, but all Mike did was pull out a small, paperback Bible. I relaxed my grip on the baton handle.
I don't think Big Mike noticed me reaching for my baton, because all he did was look at that book. He had a look in his eyes as if he was looking at an old friend.
"A chaplain gave me this not long after I was saved," Mike said. "One of the great things about being here is that I have a lot of time to myself. I've probably read this book cover to cover at least ten times now." It certainly looked like it. The front cover looked like it was about to fall off and the binding was full of creases from being opened repeatedly. The pages were yellowed along the edges and wrinkled from heavy use. Mike carefully turned to the middle of the book.
"It says here in Psalm 150, 'Praise God with trumpets and all kinds of harps.' There was only one kind of harp I knew how to play, but it was out there, and I was in here. As I've gotten to know God more, I've found myself wanting to sing to him and play for him more. I want to show him how much I love him."
I found myself shaking my head. "But Big Mike, God hasn't taken you out of this prison. As far as the world is concerned, you're going to be locked up here for the rest of your life. What could you possibly have to sing to God about?"
Even with the reminder of his incarceration, the smile never left Big Mike's face. "Sir, I may be locked up in here, but my heart is more free now than it has ever been. I praise God in here because these prison walls can't lock up my heart. The anger and hate did that. But God set me free. I can spend the rest of my days a prisoner here, but I'll live the rest of my life and take my last breath as a free man. I can be chained up here, but no one can stop me from singing and playing music to God."
There wasn't much I could say after that. "I wish I could understand that," I said.
"Just ask God," Mike said. "He'll help you."
I looked down at the comb. Such a simple thing, and yet it had a far deeper significance for Big Mike. I carefully handed it back to him.
"I don't see a problem with you having this," I said. "Don't think you'll be hurting anybody keeping it."
Big Mike let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir, and I won't make too much noise with it. I promise."
"Well, that door is soundproof anyway," I said. "Once we get that door on the tray slot fixed, I don't think you'll have to worry about anyone interrupting you again."
I got up to leave, and I started hearing a hum coming from behind me. Big Mike started to play a song. The notes were familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It seemed like I had heard that melody as a kid, but I couldn't place it.
Then Mike started to sing, his deep baritone voice echoing off the walls, and it all came rushing back to me.
When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul….
I wiped a tear from my eye as I left the room.
"Unit 9 to control," I said, trying to hide a break in my voice.
"Go ahead."
My sin, oh the bliss, of this glorious thought….
"Close door 14-12. Code 7."
My sin, not in part, but the whole, is nailed to the cross and I bear it no more! Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord, O my soul!
"10-1. 1957."
***
A few months later, I accepted a transfer to a smaller, minimum-security prison upstate. But there was one thing I had to do before I left. It took a little convincing for the warden, but he finally went along with it.
When Big Mike came back from the exercise yard that day, there was a small, rectangular, white plastic case on his cot. Inside it was a new Hohner Marine Band C harmonica. Beside it was a black, leather-bound Bible. On the front page was a small inscription:
Thanks for helping me get out of my own prison. From a grateful corrections officer.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
The Face of God
Keith Hewitt
Psalm 97
He sat at ease on his deck, one ankle stacked atop the other on a log bench that alternated service as coffee table, magazine rack, and footrest. It served double duty today, as copies of a handful of news magazines lay on one corner. Most of them were opened to articles inside; the cover of the top one stared back at him -- a familiar face, somewhat less carefully shaved than it was now, the hair shaggier, but split by the same wide grin that had looked back at him often, in the mirror, for many years.
The reason for the grin would have appeared obvious to anyone who knew him -- the picture showed him in an orange pressure suit, reclining, with a space helmet cradled in one elbow, resting on the arm of the chair.
Space helmet -- it was still hard to believe, one of those long and unusually complex dreams that come along ever now and then. It was why he still, in the middle of the night, sometimes pulled out his notebook and flipped through the pictures he had stored there, just to convince himself that it was true. Then, reassured, he would drift off to sleep… and dream of flying.
Footsteps clicked on the wood floor inside, grew louder, paused -- and the screen door slid open, then shut, and a pair of footsteps announced that a visitor had arrived. He didn't look up -- only a handful of people could get this close to him without his security detail alerting him, and of that handful there were perhaps two or three who would intrude on him in this way, without announcing themselves. Of that two or three, only one would cause the footsteps he had heard.
There was no need to look.
"So, would you like to tell me what's going on?" Her voice was soft, but stern -- no, not stern… businesslike. Not judgmental, but not willing to brook any nonsense, either. It was what he imagined his mother might have sounded like if she was asking him about some questionable behavior, gathering facts like the high powered attorney she had been.
He smiled, wondering what she would say if he shared that with her, some day. "I was wondering if they would send you," he answered, and took his foot off the bench long enough to push out the other chair. "Take a load off."
"Thanks." She sat down in the chair next to his, and he glanced over at her. They were the same age, but she managed to look both younger and more mature -- her youthful physical appearance was encased in a carefully crafted shell assembled from no-nonsense business dress, glasses that would have fit a librarian who'd had her sense of fun surgically removed decades ago, and a carefully coiffed hair style calculated to show she was all business.
"What did you expect?" she wondered, catching his eye when he glanced toward her. "The Chairman and CEO of one of the largest avionics firms in the world loses his mind -- of course the Directors are going to send someone to talk to him. And I was the logical choice."
"Do you think I've lost my mind, Emma?"
She looked back at him steadily. "I'm reserving judgment… for now." They looked at one another for another moment or two, each studying the other's expression, trying to read behind the eyes, then she broke contact, looked out toward the lake spread before them. "So, do you want to tell me what happened?"
"What do you mean?"
She looked back at him, raised one eyebrow. "Really? You announce to the Board of Directors that you plan on selling off your entire portfolio of shares in the company -- some eighteen billion dollars worth of stock -- and resigning as President, Chairman, and Genius-in-Residence… and you ask me what I mean?"
"It was a confidential memo, not an announcement. And I think I put together a pretty good plan for selling my portfolio. I'm not going to dump it, and drive the share price down -- I'm going to sell it in stages, so no one should be hurt."
"Yes, I could see you put some thought into it, which brings us back to the original question. What happened? A year ago, you were a titan of industry -- "he smiled at the ironic spin she put on the phrase," -- a certified genius, and as sane a man as any… except for that obsession with going into space." She shook her head. "Really, Andrew, why a grown man would choose to sit on top of a giant Roman candle and ask them to light the fuse is beyond me."
"I know," he said quietly, remembering the long discussions, the months he spent at the Russian training center, getting ready for the flight. He started to speak several times, opening his mouth, then closing it, finally just shook his head. "I don't think I can explain it, Emma. The launch, the flight, the freefall -- it was nothing like I'd imagined it would be… but it was everything I'd thought it would be."
"Spare me," she said simply. "Just tell me, are you running away to join the Space Program? Are you planning to be the old hermit that lives in the International Space Station?"
He smiled. "No, this is something completely different."
He took a sip from a frosted tumbler; the flurry of bubbles coming off the pale brown contents tickled his nose, and he wrinkled it slightly as he lowered the glass. "You've seen the photos, right? The ones I took up there?"
"Dear Heaven, yes -- twice. You're not going to make me look at them again, are you?" she demanded wearily.
He glanced at her quickly, to gauge the feelings behind her answer, and then turned his attention back to the lake, where fish jumped and splashed back into the water, sending out concentric rings of diamonds in the sunlight. "Wouldn't dream of it," he assured her. "But there is one I want to show you, some day. It was along about my eighth or ninth week up there, and I still couldn't believe it when I woke up in the morning."
He raised the glass, took another sip. "Anyway, I was taking pictures as we slid down over the Plains. I guess it was late evening, because the terminator was already on the other side of the Rockies, and I was looking down at the Midwest in the dark -- only it's not really dark. There's the city lights, of course, and the light of the moon reflecting back on the earth. But it's still dark, and there's this big, long band of a deeper dark that went from Minnesota on down through Iowa and Nebraska… clouds, blocking out the lights below. You can never really appreciate how truly massive a storm system is until you can see it all at one time -- from above."
"I've been in a few storms I could appreciate even from the ground, Andrew."
"But not like this. It's like God is reaching down with both hands and spreading them out over a couple of states, blotting them out from view, only you can see it. As we passed over the trailing edge, what I first thought was glare from our navigation beacons -- you know, flashing on the window -- I realized was lightning. These massive clouds, a hundred miles away, were being lit up from the inside. It was like taking a strobe and sticking it inside the biggest blob of cotton candy you ever saw."
"Very picturesque."
"I told you I couldn't really explain it. Do you want me to get my album?"
"No, no," she said hastily. "You're doing a fine job. Like Picasso, with words."
"Look, all I can tell you is this: I looked down at that storm, from up there, a hundred miles up, and I realized that if you took every aircraft we helped build, took every bomb we helped make, and threw them all together and set them off, we couldn't match what was going on down there. And it just kept going on and on -- I could still see it on our next two passes, just not as well. And this is just over one piece of one country -- it happens hundreds of times, all around the world. Thousands of times. That night and every night before -- back through the history of the planet… and on forward 'til the sun eats us for lunch."
"I see," she lied.
"And the things you can see in the daylight -- mountain ranges, rivers, oceans… from down here, you look at these things and you're just a speck, a fly on the wall. But from up there, you get a sense of perspective, a real sense of creation. And awe." He paused, took another sip. "I tell you, it got so I saw the face of God every time I looked out that window."
"Was he trying to tear off a piece of the station -- like that thing on the wing in that old Twilight Zone episode… the one with Shatner?"
He turned his head, rolled his eyes partway up, and looked at her as though he was peering over the tops of glasses he wasn't wearing. "Glad you're taking me seriously, Emma. I'm telling you about power and majesty, a sense of awe and mystery… and you're reflecting back old TV shows. Really?"
She smiled, reached out, and patted his hand reassuringly. "I'm sorry, Andrew. It's just that I've never heard you like this."
"That's because I've never been like this. To me, God was always pretty remote, if I thought about him at all. But seeing this planet the way I did, realizing that there had to be something behind how it all came to be… and realizing the power that it holds, just sort of casually… it made me realize how insignificant we really are. On a planetary scale, nothing I'm ever going to do would even show up -- I'm like a firefly whirling around inside a thunderstorm. It's like I'm not even here."
"I see," she said slowly, and thought she had some glimmer, this time. "You've spent your life thinking you're big stuff -- and now you realize you're not, really."
He raised his glass, tilted it toward her in salute. "Exactly. Thank you for summing up exactly how insignificant I am."
She inclined her head slight, to return the gesture. "No problem, Andrew. Always glad to help." She paused; then shrugged -- a tiny gesture. "But what about divesting your portfolio? What is that all about?"
"Well," he said slowly, "now that I realize everything I've done thus far in my life is irrelevant, I could take that eighteen billion dollars, convert it to stacks of hundred dollar bills, build a nice big pyramid, and set it on fire."
Emma's eyebrow arched slightly. "Don't even joke about that, Andrew. The Directors would have you sedated and straitjacketed before you could say 'cuckoo's nest.' "
"But then I thought, what about those people who work for me? I don't want to put them out of work -- even after I leave the company."
"A reasonable thought."
"And that made me think: if everything I've ever done so far can't light up the world, how about if I help somebody else do it? Somebodies else, I should say -- I'm pretty sure I can find ministries and charities that will do more than I ever could, if they have the resources."
"So you're going to give it away?" she challenged.
"Horrifying, isn't it? You do the math, though: if I take every dime I make off from selling my stock, invest it at 2% in money markets… by my way of thinking, I can give away a million dollars every day of the year and never run out of money." He took another sip, nodded to himself. "I think that could light things up plenty."
"It could at that," she agreed, staring out at the lake as she mentally checked his math. It seemed to work. "But tell me -- if you're so desperate to light the world this way, aren't you still competing with God?"
"If I was doing it to make my mark -- to show my light -- I suppose I would be. But I already know that's a losing battle, so why get into it?" He turned his head, waited until she turned toward him, and held her eyes. "That's why I need you."
"What do you mean?"
"I've never met a better lawyer -- and, underneath that rhino exterior, a better person. So I want your help. If I'm going to do this, I want to make absolutely sure of one thing."
"Yes?"
"Nobody -- nobody -- can ever know I've done it. You can go back and tell the Directors whatever you want -- tell them I'm going to buy the space station and live there the rest of my life. Tell them anything. But then come work for me. Help me do this -- and keep it secret." He smiled, and took her hand. "Who knows," he said, "maybe you'll see the face of God, too."
"Maybe," she agreed quietly.
And suspected that she may have already seen his hand…
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, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
A Prayer and a Blessing
Constance Berg
Acts 1:1-11
Pastor Wallace was loved by many, many people. He had come to a rural, agricultural area and stayed for 41 years. He and his wife Bea had four children, three of whom would become pastors themselves. The fourth was a missionary teacher in Madagascar. Pastor Wallace's second and last call was to another rural church he started only thirty miles away. He stayed fifteen years. His reputation was tough but fair; disciplined but compassionate; strong but just.
Pastor Wally, as he was known, knew his time on earth was short. He was suffering from lung cancer and he wanted to say good-bye. But how does one say good-bye to old friends? Pastor Wally asked that a worship service be held the coming fall to celebrate the harvest and his eightieth birthday. Plans were being made; it was to be held at his first church.
Pastor Wally was excited. But he was also getting weaker and weaker. It was two months before the service, and he wanted it to be a success. He called his granddaughter, a pastor almost 200 miles away, to help him write the service. Could two of his sons also come and help him? The four collaborated about the litany, focusing on the harvest and the change of seasons from living, yielding crops, to the earth becoming quiet, dormant, and restful. They wrote a poem about being eighty -- not so old, yet not so young either. They wrote the outline for the bulletin together.
Several church members helped get the church ready: the gutters needed to be straightened, the furnace cleaned and readied for the winter, and the front steps needed to be redone. The crack in the wall behind the altar could be fixed and the vestry needed to be cleaned out. There was great anticipation in the air. It was as if they were preparing for a festival.
Women got out scrapbooks and church records. They would make up a little play about notable events when Pastor Wally was their pastor. Like the time he arrived at the church an hour late when he forgot to set his clock. The people had waited patiently but the potluck dinner looked a little limp. They recalled the Sunday when his youngest son had let their new puppy into the church basement during an ice storm and afterward the frightened little dog wouldn't come out from under the basement steps.
There were many great memories. Pastor Wally had been with them through a flood, several tornadoes, deaths, births, baptisms, confirmations, and weddings. He had held their hands when people succumbed to illness, were torn with addictions, and made moves. He was their friend, their pastor, their confidante.
The time got closer and wheat bundles, corn stalks, pumpkins, squash, Indian corn, and other vegetables were arranged at the base of the altar. A banner was made decorated with leaves in red, yellow, gold, and orange falling downward. The pews were oiled and the rugs shampooed. They were ready.
It was a wonderful worship service. The organist was glowing as she played a special number. The litany went well, but his daughter had to lead it: Pastor Wally was just too weak. One grandson sang "How Great Thou Art," and a son read a poem about life as a "PK." It was hilarious. The synod bishop, who had been a classmate with Pastor Wally at seminary, gave the sermon. Finally, it was time for Pastor Wally to give the prayers. He stood up slowly. With great difficulty, he walked to the lectern and said a prayer, giving thanks to God for good memories, good friends, and good times. He thanked God for the guidance he had received as a young pastor, the strong support from his loving wife, for the vision his mentor had when Wally first came to the prairie, and for the opportunity to stay so long among the people. He was truly grateful for the many blessings he had. He encouraged the people in his prayer to continue praying for one another and to pray for their church leaders. "Prayer," he said, "is the most effective part of being a Christian. You can pray for people you know or don't know. You can lift people up even when you can't do anything else for them. It is what has sustained me over all these years."
Pastor Wally asked the people to stand and he raised his hands. "And now may the Lord bless you and keep you, my good friends. May the Lord make his face shine radiantly upon you and be gracious to you as you have been gracious to me. May the Lord look upon you with favor and give you a peace that passes all understanding deep within your hearts. Go in peace and serve the Lord!"
The closing hymn sounded a little quieter than usual as people sniffed quietly and choked back tears. They knew Pastor Wally was tired and very ill: He was going to be missed. It had taken a tremendous amount of energy, but Pastor Wally had given the church two very important gifts: a prayer and a blessing. And a chance to say good-bye.
(Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series III, Constance Berg [CSS Publishing Co., Inc.: Lima, Ohio], 2000)
**************
StoryShare, May 13 and 16, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 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.
