Cousins
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Cousins" by Keith Hewitt
"A Crying Shame" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * * *
Cousins
by Keith Hewitt
Mark 1:9-15
He looked like my mother.
Not that he looked like a woman but there was something about his eyes, and his nose... when I looked up, that day, and saw him standing on the riverbank, for just a moment I saw my mother. I blinked the memories out of my eyes and raised a hand, held it against the sun while I studied the man. He stood there with the others -- the motley collection of shepherds and farmers who had heard my cries, and a few townspeople from nearby villages who knew of my message or of me -- and looked back steadily.
Was that a faint smile... a look of amusement on that borrowed face? For when he smiled I could almost see the way my mother used to look at me when I had done something well, in the lines of his lips and the way one corner of his mouth tugged to the side a little further than the other, making a lopsided expression.
As I watched, he took off his mantle and lay it on a rock, up away from the water, tucked his tunic up into his belt, and stepped into the water. Still watching me, he stepped down off the sandy bank of the river and into the cool bite of the current, he began to walk toward me as the river rose around him. By the time he stood before me, water brushing past our hips, I knew.
We were barely men, the last time I saw him, and his features had not yet taken on the creases of work and age. But still, there was no question -- I raised both hands, opened them in embrace, "My cousin," I said simply.
His head bobbed slightly, and there was that smile again. "My elder cousin," he answered, and we embraced there in the Jordan. As we hugged, I remembered the last time I had seen him -- we were in Nazareth for a wedding, and they had just arrived back from Jerusalem... an eventful journey that ended with my younger cousin lecturing the priests and elders in the very heart of the Great Temple. I could still hear his father telling about it -- laughing now, as he recounted the expressions on the old men's faces, though his parents had been scared witless until they found him.
He had taught them with wisdom beyond his years -- an understanding that was not natural, according to his father. Joseph had been a simple man, yes, but he knew something unusual when he saw it, and he had not hesitated to share when he was retelling the story.
I looked at him and remembered how his father's tale had sparked another story, this one from his mother, about their journey to register for the tax, before he was born. From there, the family stories had spun off into what I was sure -- at my advanced age of thirteen -- was pure fancy. I did not pass up the opportunity to tease young Jesus about it before we left for home, and he had taken it with good humor -- but there had been something else, there -- something unusual in his eyes, as though he could see not through me, but past me.
I had not thought about that in years... not until I saw him standing before me, again, with that same look in his eyes. Not sure what to say, I teased him quietly, "I don't think I should be baptizing you, Cousin, but rather you should be baptizing me."
He smiled back. "It is as it should be, Cousin," and he bowed his head. Without looking up, he added, "You have spread your message faithfully, Cousin."
Something stirred in my heart and I just nodded back at him. Taking his hand, I led him to a spot in the river where the bottom dipped lower, I pronounced a blessing, and rested a hand on his back while guiding him down into the water. He closed his eyes and with an expression of calm and resolution he lowered himself beneath the surface, letting the living waters close over him for a moment before he rose up out of the water like a Greek god emerging from the sea, water cascading from him in cool droplets that caught the sun, trickling down from his hair and beard in tiny rivulets.
His eyes were open as he emerged, and he looked straight up toward the sun -- high above the west bank. Most people would shiver when they rose out of the water, but he stood there, still, staring at the sky, transfixed by something -- those eyes again -- and looking for all the world as though he was being bathed in warmth.
As I watched, hesitating, not sure what to do next, I think -- I think -- I heard a voice... not his, nor anyone on shore... but I think I heard it, though I could not make out what it said. I just know that after it spoke, he smiled with utter contentment, even joy, and took a deep breath before nodding to the sky.
Some moments later he turned to me and embraced me once more. "Thank you, Cousin."
I hugged him silently, feeling his cold skin against mine and marveled at how he did not shiver, then released him and let him turn away, walking back toward the bank and his future. As he climbed out of the water and stood on the shore, I knew that something had ended -- and something had begun.
I had thought he looked like my mother but I was wrong.
He looked like the Messiah... and my heart sang.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
A Crying Shame
by John Sumwalt
Psalm 25:1-10
To you, O Lord, I left up my soul. O my God, in you I trust; do not let me be put to shame... Do not remember the sins of my youth...
-- Psalm 25:1, 7a
Earl had not thought about the great shame of his life since before he graduated from high school. He had put it out of his mind and since no one else knew about it, except Mrs. Thurby, who had been killed in an auto accident three years after the incident, there was no one alive to remind him of what he had done. Now, 79 years later, it was all he could think about as he lay in his bed, day after day, looking out the window of his room in the palliative care wing at Willow Bluff Hospice.
Earl's three adult children had helped him stay in his home until just after his 94th birthday, when the pain from the cancer became more than he could bear. He hadn't resisted the hospice suggestion. It made practical sense but part of his soul was back in the big ranch house he had built after the war and shared with his dear Edith for 64 years. It wasn't the same after her passing but there had been comfort in the many wonderful memories it held and room for all the children, the grandchildren, and the great-grand baby when they all came to visit. They still came to his room regularly, in shifts, but he missed the big family dinners and the sounds of their voices ringing throughout the house.
The morphine helped numb the pain. Earl had been surprised that they allowed him to control it himself, "whenever you need it," they had said. He tried to take just enough to give relief without numbing his senses. It was Earl's conscience that could not be palliated. It gnawed at him as he drew closer to the inevitable moment.
The doctor had told Earl that he had only a few weeks at most, "...time to say his good-byes and to make his peace with this world." And that was the problem. Weeks had turned into months and Earl was still hanging on, praying for forgiveness, but not able to let go of that one incident that he feared had ruined his life despite all the good that had come after.
One morning, as Chaplain Sarah was preparing to leave after praying with him, she paused at the door and said, "Earl, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?" Earl said, "No, please go ahead."
The chaplain came back and sat down again in the chair next to his bed. "Earl," she said, speaking slowly as she chose her words carefully, "you have been here for a long time, longer than most. I know you are a person of faith. You have talked about Edith waiting for you. Is there something that is keeping you from moving on?"
Earl didn't hesitate. He poured out the whole story, his crush on Mrs. Thurby, his math teacher, how beautiful she was, the day she had asked him to stay after class to help him with some math problems, the smell of her hair as she leaned over his desk, her hand brushing his shoulder as she reached around him and put her cheek close to his. Every detail came back. He told Chaplain Sarah how Mrs. Thurby had continued to invite him to stay late and how they had grown closer and closer. Then about the day she had suggested that they meet down by the river just after dark, how he was surprised to see that she had brought a blanket. Tears flowed as he described the mixed feelings he had about what has come next, and the terrible guilt he had felt for loving her so much, especially when he saw her with Mr. Thurby in church.
Earl said, "She told me never to tell anyone, and I never did, not even Edith." Now there were heaving sobs and more tears and finally a long sigh, as he said, "It was all so long ago but I know it was wrong. I should not have let it happen."
Chaplain Sarah pulled her chair closer to the bed and took hold of one of Earl's gnarled hands with both of hers. Then looking him in the eyes she said, "Earl, you were just fifteen years old. This should never have happened to you. It was not your fault. Your teacher was an adult. She had a responsibility to protect you and instead she took advantage of your boyish crush to meet her own needs."
Earl was quiet for a long time before he said, "I never thought of it that way before." Then he squeezed the chaplain's hands and said, "Thank you." As she got up to leave, Earl said, "I'm very tired. I think I will sleep for a while." When he opened his eyes Edith was there, beaming like the day they were married. She was surrounded by his parents, his sisters and brothers, and a host of other family members and friends. But what surprised him was that Mrs. Thurby was there too and without any words passing between them, he knew how sorry she was and that he had forgiven her and himself.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 22, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
"Cousins" by Keith Hewitt
"A Crying Shame" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * * *
Cousins
by Keith Hewitt
Mark 1:9-15
He looked like my mother.
Not that he looked like a woman but there was something about his eyes, and his nose... when I looked up, that day, and saw him standing on the riverbank, for just a moment I saw my mother. I blinked the memories out of my eyes and raised a hand, held it against the sun while I studied the man. He stood there with the others -- the motley collection of shepherds and farmers who had heard my cries, and a few townspeople from nearby villages who knew of my message or of me -- and looked back steadily.
Was that a faint smile... a look of amusement on that borrowed face? For when he smiled I could almost see the way my mother used to look at me when I had done something well, in the lines of his lips and the way one corner of his mouth tugged to the side a little further than the other, making a lopsided expression.
As I watched, he took off his mantle and lay it on a rock, up away from the water, tucked his tunic up into his belt, and stepped into the water. Still watching me, he stepped down off the sandy bank of the river and into the cool bite of the current, he began to walk toward me as the river rose around him. By the time he stood before me, water brushing past our hips, I knew.
We were barely men, the last time I saw him, and his features had not yet taken on the creases of work and age. But still, there was no question -- I raised both hands, opened them in embrace, "My cousin," I said simply.
His head bobbed slightly, and there was that smile again. "My elder cousin," he answered, and we embraced there in the Jordan. As we hugged, I remembered the last time I had seen him -- we were in Nazareth for a wedding, and they had just arrived back from Jerusalem... an eventful journey that ended with my younger cousin lecturing the priests and elders in the very heart of the Great Temple. I could still hear his father telling about it -- laughing now, as he recounted the expressions on the old men's faces, though his parents had been scared witless until they found him.
He had taught them with wisdom beyond his years -- an understanding that was not natural, according to his father. Joseph had been a simple man, yes, but he knew something unusual when he saw it, and he had not hesitated to share when he was retelling the story.
I looked at him and remembered how his father's tale had sparked another story, this one from his mother, about their journey to register for the tax, before he was born. From there, the family stories had spun off into what I was sure -- at my advanced age of thirteen -- was pure fancy. I did not pass up the opportunity to tease young Jesus about it before we left for home, and he had taken it with good humor -- but there had been something else, there -- something unusual in his eyes, as though he could see not through me, but past me.
I had not thought about that in years... not until I saw him standing before me, again, with that same look in his eyes. Not sure what to say, I teased him quietly, "I don't think I should be baptizing you, Cousin, but rather you should be baptizing me."
He smiled back. "It is as it should be, Cousin," and he bowed his head. Without looking up, he added, "You have spread your message faithfully, Cousin."
Something stirred in my heart and I just nodded back at him. Taking his hand, I led him to a spot in the river where the bottom dipped lower, I pronounced a blessing, and rested a hand on his back while guiding him down into the water. He closed his eyes and with an expression of calm and resolution he lowered himself beneath the surface, letting the living waters close over him for a moment before he rose up out of the water like a Greek god emerging from the sea, water cascading from him in cool droplets that caught the sun, trickling down from his hair and beard in tiny rivulets.
His eyes were open as he emerged, and he looked straight up toward the sun -- high above the west bank. Most people would shiver when they rose out of the water, but he stood there, still, staring at the sky, transfixed by something -- those eyes again -- and looking for all the world as though he was being bathed in warmth.
As I watched, hesitating, not sure what to do next, I think -- I think -- I heard a voice... not his, nor anyone on shore... but I think I heard it, though I could not make out what it said. I just know that after it spoke, he smiled with utter contentment, even joy, and took a deep breath before nodding to the sky.
Some moments later he turned to me and embraced me once more. "Thank you, Cousin."
I hugged him silently, feeling his cold skin against mine and marveled at how he did not shiver, then released him and let him turn away, walking back toward the bank and his future. As he climbed out of the water and stood on the shore, I knew that something had ended -- and something had begun.
I had thought he looked like my mother but I was wrong.
He looked like the Messiah... and my heart sang.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
A Crying Shame
by John Sumwalt
Psalm 25:1-10
To you, O Lord, I left up my soul. O my God, in you I trust; do not let me be put to shame... Do not remember the sins of my youth...
-- Psalm 25:1, 7a
Earl had not thought about the great shame of his life since before he graduated from high school. He had put it out of his mind and since no one else knew about it, except Mrs. Thurby, who had been killed in an auto accident three years after the incident, there was no one alive to remind him of what he had done. Now, 79 years later, it was all he could think about as he lay in his bed, day after day, looking out the window of his room in the palliative care wing at Willow Bluff Hospice.
Earl's three adult children had helped him stay in his home until just after his 94th birthday, when the pain from the cancer became more than he could bear. He hadn't resisted the hospice suggestion. It made practical sense but part of his soul was back in the big ranch house he had built after the war and shared with his dear Edith for 64 years. It wasn't the same after her passing but there had been comfort in the many wonderful memories it held and room for all the children, the grandchildren, and the great-grand baby when they all came to visit. They still came to his room regularly, in shifts, but he missed the big family dinners and the sounds of their voices ringing throughout the house.
The morphine helped numb the pain. Earl had been surprised that they allowed him to control it himself, "whenever you need it," they had said. He tried to take just enough to give relief without numbing his senses. It was Earl's conscience that could not be palliated. It gnawed at him as he drew closer to the inevitable moment.
The doctor had told Earl that he had only a few weeks at most, "...time to say his good-byes and to make his peace with this world." And that was the problem. Weeks had turned into months and Earl was still hanging on, praying for forgiveness, but not able to let go of that one incident that he feared had ruined his life despite all the good that had come after.
One morning, as Chaplain Sarah was preparing to leave after praying with him, she paused at the door and said, "Earl, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?" Earl said, "No, please go ahead."
The chaplain came back and sat down again in the chair next to his bed. "Earl," she said, speaking slowly as she chose her words carefully, "you have been here for a long time, longer than most. I know you are a person of faith. You have talked about Edith waiting for you. Is there something that is keeping you from moving on?"
Earl didn't hesitate. He poured out the whole story, his crush on Mrs. Thurby, his math teacher, how beautiful she was, the day she had asked him to stay after class to help him with some math problems, the smell of her hair as she leaned over his desk, her hand brushing his shoulder as she reached around him and put her cheek close to his. Every detail came back. He told Chaplain Sarah how Mrs. Thurby had continued to invite him to stay late and how they had grown closer and closer. Then about the day she had suggested that they meet down by the river just after dark, how he was surprised to see that she had brought a blanket. Tears flowed as he described the mixed feelings he had about what has come next, and the terrible guilt he had felt for loving her so much, especially when he saw her with Mr. Thurby in church.
Earl said, "She told me never to tell anyone, and I never did, not even Edith." Now there were heaving sobs and more tears and finally a long sigh, as he said, "It was all so long ago but I know it was wrong. I should not have let it happen."
Chaplain Sarah pulled her chair closer to the bed and took hold of one of Earl's gnarled hands with both of hers. Then looking him in the eyes she said, "Earl, you were just fifteen years old. This should never have happened to you. It was not your fault. Your teacher was an adult. She had a responsibility to protect you and instead she took advantage of your boyish crush to meet her own needs."
Earl was quiet for a long time before he said, "I never thought of it that way before." Then he squeezed the chaplain's hands and said, "Thank you." As she got up to leave, Earl said, "I'm very tired. I think I will sleep for a while." When he opened his eyes Edith was there, beaming like the day they were married. She was surrounded by his parents, his sisters and brothers, and a host of other family members and friends. But what surprised him was that Mrs. Thurby was there too and without any words passing between them, he knew how sorry she was and that he had forgiven her and himself.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 22, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
