The Crazy Woman With The Perfume
Stories
Object:
Based on Revised Common Lectionary texts:
Isaiah 43:16-21
Philippians 3:4b-14
John 12:1-8
Psalm 126
Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Crazy Woman with the Perfume" by Sandra Herrmann
"Off the Beaten Path" by Keith Hewitt
"Panic and Recovery" by Sandra Herrmann
What's Up This Week
When Mary anoints Jesus with expensive perfume in this week's gospel text, Judas chides her for her extravagant wastefulness. Many of us can identify with that point of view, for Mary's action seemed to make no sense to those who didn't grasp what Jesus was soon to face -- and when the actions of others don't align with the way we think things ought to be, we all know that people will talk. Sandra Herrmann reminds us of that universal human weakness in this week's edition of StoryShare, when she has the neighborhood gossip tell the story of that crazy woman with the perfume -- and of that strange Jesus who claims to be the Messiah.
Some might think that Mary has lost her mind -- but what do we do when we have really lost the most important things? Keith Hewitt shares a striking tale of a cross-country skier who has become lost... and who forges on, unsure of his signposts. Are we sure of the signposts in our lives? And speaking of feeling adrift, Sandra Herrmann relates the panic we all feel when we've lost a wallet. Like the lost skier, we try to retrace our steps and figure out where we might find what we're looking for -- and, if we're fortunate enough to find it, our joy and gratitude.
* * * * * * * * *
The Crazy Woman with the Perfume
by Sandra Herrmann
John 12:1-8
Stupid, foolish Mary! What on earth is the matter with this woman? I mean, I realize that Jesus is a good friend of the family, but this excess is so typical of Lazarus' sister. You know what they say about her -- that Jesus cleansed her of seven demons.
Well, I don't know about that. Seems to me she's not exactly rid of the demons, if you get what I mean. She's forever embarrassing the family, and this time is no exception. She absolutely ruined a wonderful meal.
What? You didn't hear this story? Well, sit right down and I'll tell you.
You know, of course, that these sisters told everyone that their brother had died a few months back. They wrapped the body and put it in their family tomb, and all the neighbors came and sat with them and wailed. They brought food and everything. Then this Jesus shows up and makes them take him out to the tomb, and even open it.
Now Martha -- that's the sane sister, a lovely woman, keeps a beautiful home for her brother ever since her husband died -- she told him it had been three days since they buried him, and the odor would be sickening, but he insisted. I thought he must be a little nuts himself, you know. Didn't get there in time to doctor the man, and then wants the tomb opened. But we all traipsed out to the tomb and stood around while some neighbors rolled the stone back.
Oh no, the smell wasn't so awful as I thought it would be. Then we found out that Lazarus was actually alive! No kidding -- Jesus stood there and cried, but then he told Lazarus to come out, and sure enough, here he came, shuffling out of the tomb!
Oh, don't be silly. Of course he didn't raise the dead. You know that's impossible. It must be something Lazarus and Jesus had cooked up to gain some political power. You know Lazarus was always saying that Jesus was the Messiah, don't you?
Oh yes. The Messiah. He was going to overthrow the Romans -- and the High Priest, to hear Lazarus tell it -- and establish God's kingdom on earth. No, I don't believe it. Jesus is some sort of preacher, and maybe a healer too, but he's no Messiah. Messiah will come from the house of David, right in this area my husband says, and he ought to know. He spends enough time studying with the rabbi. This Jesus comes from Nazareth. Not at all what the scriptures tell us.
Well, anyway, they were having a big party at Lazarus' house. They wanted everyone to meet Jesus, "the man who brought me back from death," Lazarus was telling everybody. I hear it was really quite a feast they were laying out when the crazy sister, Mary, comes into the room.
She's crying and bowing and scraping to Jesus, and the next thing you know she's cracked open a jar of nard! No kidding -- a half-liter of the stuff! -- and pours it on Jesus' feet. Well, you can imagine the smell! All that perfume just drowned out the smell of the food. Lamb, couscous, figs, dates, fish, freshly baked bread, all those wonderful things, and all you could smell was perfume.
I don't know what Lazarus said. Nor poor Martha, who had all the work of getting that meal planned and cooked! I hear she just stood there in shock. Well, I can imagine. You know how the smell of nard clings. Oh, you don't? Well, my Caleb brought me a little bottle of nard a few years ago and I put just the tiniest bit on, but you could smell it for days. Caleb loved it.
Well, anyway, it wasn't Lazarus or Martha who caused the stir! I guess they're used to Mary's shenanigans. But one of Jesus' inner circle said it best when he said, "What a waste! That perfume is worth a year's wages. It should at least have been sold and the money given to the poor!" I understand he's the treasurer for Jesus' ministry. When you look at him, you can see he knows the value of a drachma! And he was right. No real religious leader would allow such waste. Besides, he told a man not too long ago that he should sell all he had and give it away and only then could he be a disciple. So I guess that fellow knows he was right to walk away.
Oh, Jesus. Yes, he had something to say. "Leave her alone," he said. "This was planned for my burial. You'll always have the poor to take care of, but you won't always have me." Now what kind of a thing was that to say? "You'll always have the poor." Well, we probably will. So what good would it do to sell all you have and give it to the poor?
So you and I don't measure up, you see? But this crazy woman pours out half a liter of perfume, and she's doing a good thing. I swear, the world gets crazier every day. And this Jesus isn't helping at all.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana.
Off the Beaten Path
by Keith Hewitt
Philippians 3:4b-14
He was middle-aged... as long as he lived to be a hundred-and-something. With thinning gray hair, pale skin, and a build that might charitably be described as "unathletic," Tom was the sort of man who excelled at not standing out -- but he was a fixture at church: third pew from the back ("I don't want to be one of those folks who sits all the way at the back," he had once explained) on the right side of the sanctuary (not directly in front of the pulpit) every Sunday, rain or shine. He also seemed to know everybody -- always taking time for a greeting, to shake hands, or exchange a bit of small talk.
That morning Bill sought him out after the service, catching him near the front of the sanctuary, headed for the door that led to the fellowship hall and classrooms. He carried a Bible and a spiral notebook with a cheap stick pen stuck in the spiral, and shifted them to his other hand so he could shake Bill's hand. "Morning, Bill. How are you this week?"
"Good enough, good enough," Bill answered cheerily. "Listen, I wanted to catch you before you left. There's a group of us going to the diner for breakfast. I was hoping you'd join us."
Tom hesitated for just a moment and glanced at the clock, then back at Bill. "Sorry, I can't. I'm in training."
It was Bill's turn to hesitate then. "For what?" he blurted, then caught himself. "I'm sorry -- I mean... really?"
Tom just smiled. "I'm in training for the race."
"What race?"
Tom tapped the cover of his Bible. "You know, the race Paul talks about in Philippians: 'I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize.' "
Bill considered the answer for a couple of seconds and shook his head. "I guess I'm not sure what you're worried about. You're in church every Sunday."
Tom started to answer but stopped and was silent for a bit... then he gently touched Bill's arm to urge him off to the side, out of the way of the rest of the congregation as they talked. "It's like this," he began, once they were out of the flow of traffic. "Let me tell you about someone I know of who was in a long-distance race. Have you ever gone cross-country skiing?"
Bill shook his head.
"There's a race every year up through a couple of the smaller state parks -- it's called the Nordic Ninety. It's a 90-kilometer cross-country race along parts of the glacier trail -- the course used to change every year, but it was always beautiful. The race is in early January, when it's about as cold as it can get..."
He was somewhat new to cross-country skiing, but the Nordic Ninety had been a goal of his since he started. He trained as much as he could for all of one winter and the first couple of months of the next, and knew that he was ready for the challenge. On an early January morning he drove to the small park where the race would start, paid his fee, and was issued a map and a number.
He was actually a little late -- most of the skiers had already left, but he was not in it to race against them. He was in it to prove he could do it. So with a Walkman strapped to his waist and a half-dozen mix cassettes in a small pouch on his other hip, he set out on the course.
Everything went well at first. The trail was smooth, the landscape was awesome, and the air was crisp. The miles slid by quickly beneath his skis and he lost himself in the moment, lost himself in the music, lost himself in the rhythm that was cross-country skiing, lost himself...
It was well into the afternoon when he realized that he hadn't seen anyone for at least an hour, and the trail seemed to have faded away into the hard-packed snow. He glided to a stop at the base of a low hill, pulled out the map, and tried to place himself on it. He had made that turn there, and then that one there after the long straightaway. He traced a few more turns, links to other trails on the spiderweb that was the glacier trail network, and realized with a sinking feeling that he had no idea which way he had turned at one particular junction. And then he had gone on, not noticing that the trail had gone from perfect to somewhat groomed to not groomed at all.
The wind sweeping down off the hill reached through his clothes and traced icy paths along his arms and legs; snow blew across the slope like ghosts. His heart started to race, but he forced himself to consider the situation calmly. Yes, he was lost. No, there was no sign of people nearby. But he was in Wisconsin, not Alaska, for heaven's sake! There had to be somebody not too far away, there had to be some shelter if he needed it...
"Wait a minute," Bill interrupted. "Why didn't he just call someone on his cell? Or use GPS?"
Tom looked at his young friend with amused pity. "Cell phones in those days were the size of bricks, and just about as reliable. And GPS was a map from Rand McNally. He was lost. L-O-S-T, lost..."
He looked at the map again, oriented it so the direction he faced was at the top of the map, and tried to make some reasonable estimates of distance and time. If he went back the way he had come -- well, the way he was pretty sure he had come -- he would probably pick up the trail an hour or so back that way. And from there it would be another 15 miles or so of groomed trails to the finish. He looked to his left; the formerly beautiful landscape looked cold and uninviting.
He looked back at the map. If he just struck out south -- that way -- he should pick up the next branch of the course in an hour, maybe an hour and a half. He would have probably missed two or three checkpoints by then so his time wouldn't be valid anymore, but that really wasn't the issue. It would probably cut a couple of hours off his time, rather than doubling back and picking up the trail that way and then following it.
It was an easy decision -- so why did he feel hollow inside when he made it? He tucked the map back into his pocket (and his misgivings with it), then he looked in the direction he wanted to go until he picked out a particularly tall tree about as far away as he could see and started toward it. He went on like that, choosing a new landmark each time he reached one along his chosen line of bearing.
He was still doing it when night fell, taking the last landmark with it. The batteries in his Walkman had long since died by the time the sun had dipped below the horizon. He stopped outside a stand of trees in the dark, his heart racing, and breathed heavily as the last patches of light faded from the sky -- high, wispy bits of nothing that had reflected the rays of the fleeing sun. Now what, he wondered, and he knew the answer: keep going. There were no real clouds, and the first stars were already twinkling overhead -- and no clouds meant the precious little warmth that had been his in the daylight would vanish almost at once.
So his choice was to sit still and freeze to death, or to keep following his line of travel as best he could by moonlight, knowing that he would eventually pick up that trail that lay to his south. It had just been farther than he thought, looking at the map. Or he had been more lost than he thought. He breathed deeply, flushing out his lungs with air that stung his throat like needles and made him cough, then pulled down his goggles and started picking his way through the trees that stood like sentries in his path.
And if he had thought about it for even a minute, he would have realized that the sun had gone down to his left...
"So he wasn't headed south at all!" Bill exclaimed. "He was going north!"
Tom nodded. "North, and deeper into the woods -- away from the course, away from the trails, away from anything. And that's what I'm talking about. You said I'm in church every week, and that's true. And I think I'm on the right path to finish the race. But I need to keep learning, keep working at staying on course. I don't want to be like that skier."
"I suppose," Bill agreed, not really sure.
"Sunday school, Bible study -- they all help keep me on the trail. And help me recognize if I start to wander off. I don't want to get to a point in my life where I'm standing out there on my own, trying to figure out what to do next. So I'll pass on breakfast, thanks -- but you all are welcome to join the class." He smiled. "Maybe pick up a few pointers about cross-country navigation."
Bill hesitated. "Thanks, but... the others are waiting." He turned away, took a step, and then turned back. "So tell me -- how long did it take you to find out you were going in the wrong direction?"
Tom looked puzzled.
"That was you out there, right? The skier?"
Tom nodded then, suddenly understanding. "I see. No, that wasn't me -- but I was the ranger who found his body four days later." He smiled again, clapped Bill on the shoulder as he brushed by, and said softly, "Enjoy your breakfast."
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.
Panic and Recovery
by Sandra Herrmann
Psalm 126
Many of us have experienced the total panic that ensues when we discover that our wallet has been lost -- or, God forbid, stolen. We frantically search our various pockets or purses. We check the bedroom -- maybe when I undressed yesterday I dropped it? Maybe it fell off the dresser or table? Well, before moving furniture I'll go out and look in the car. It would be easy enough for it to fall out as I got into the car or out of it.
Once out at the car, we have to check under the seats. If your wallet is thinner than mine, you'll run your hand between the seat and the back. Check the back seat too, because if it fell out in the car it could have slid through to the backseat. Be sure to run your hand as far under as you can reach.
Well, this is distressing. If it's not in the car, and it wasn't where it should have been in the house, where could it be? Now it's time to sit down, breathe a little, and think. Where do you last remember seeing it?
The last time I had this experience, I had been at church. I remembered taking it out of my pocket/purse to pay for supper. At the time I was concerned because I thought I had taken the money I got at the ATM and put it in my wallet, but the cash wasn't there. I had to write a check. I checked my purse again, and found the checkbook still in my purse.
I had stopped to get gas after that. Did I have my wallet then? I realized that I wasn't sure if I had the wallet, because I had discovered the ATM money in my coat pocket. But I hadn't reached for my wallet at the time -- I just paid with cash.
Oh dear. Well, time to call the gas station. Was my wallet turned in? No? Are you sure? Okay, thanks.
Called church. Was a wallet like mine turned in to the secretary? Did the pastor see it by chance? No. But the secretary will pray for me to find it. That's nice of her. Maybe that will even work.
I went back to the bedroom and tracked my movements of the night before as best I could. Oh Lord, help me find that wallet. One good thing: I know there wasn't cash in it. Just my credit cards, driver's license, blood bank card, two gift cards I haven't used yet, insurance cards, my ID for the Y, my MedicAlert© card with half my life's information, my ATM card. (Oh, I'd better check my pockets! Do I remember putting it back in my wallet, or is it with the cash in my pocket?) It's in the wallet. Well, at least no one can get my money without the PIN.
The more I think about how bad this whole thing is, the less sure I am of anything. And I'm starting to worry about contacting all those companies to get my cards stopped, just in case it was stolen. I'm starting to pace, worrying, looking in places I've already looked just in case.
So I hopped in the car and drove only slightly above the speed limit to get to the church so I could search there. It's not in the coat area. Not under the couch where I'd sat and talked with a friend. If it had been under any of the tables or chairs, someone would have taken it to the secretary's office, or even called me, because I had accurate identification in there.
Then I realize -- I went into the sound room to talk to the techs about getting a CD of the Sunday service. I'd sat down for a minute while they got out the CD and put it in a case. Could the wallet be in there? Last chance. If it's not here, it's really gone, and maybe stolen. From the church, of all places. But when I bent over and looked, there it was, hiding under a chair in the sound room. Whew!
I went back to the secretary's office and said, "Rejoice with me, for the lost is found!" And she did. I laughed, and we talked about the panic that ensues when you can't find your wallet or your keys. I'm babbling about this event. I realize that I'm positively giddy.
Since I've never been a refugee, never been torn from my home and family and carried away to a foreign land against my will, I will never know how those returning from Babylon felt. But in the words of this psalm and my words: "You restored my fortune, O Lord, and I, who was terrified, have reaped with a song of joy. Thank you, God, for helping me find my life again."
I sang hymns of praise all the way back home.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
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StoryShare, March 21, 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.
Isaiah 43:16-21
Philippians 3:4b-14
John 12:1-8
Psalm 126
Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Crazy Woman with the Perfume" by Sandra Herrmann
"Off the Beaten Path" by Keith Hewitt
"Panic and Recovery" by Sandra Herrmann
What's Up This Week
When Mary anoints Jesus with expensive perfume in this week's gospel text, Judas chides her for her extravagant wastefulness. Many of us can identify with that point of view, for Mary's action seemed to make no sense to those who didn't grasp what Jesus was soon to face -- and when the actions of others don't align with the way we think things ought to be, we all know that people will talk. Sandra Herrmann reminds us of that universal human weakness in this week's edition of StoryShare, when she has the neighborhood gossip tell the story of that crazy woman with the perfume -- and of that strange Jesus who claims to be the Messiah.
Some might think that Mary has lost her mind -- but what do we do when we have really lost the most important things? Keith Hewitt shares a striking tale of a cross-country skier who has become lost... and who forges on, unsure of his signposts. Are we sure of the signposts in our lives? And speaking of feeling adrift, Sandra Herrmann relates the panic we all feel when we've lost a wallet. Like the lost skier, we try to retrace our steps and figure out where we might find what we're looking for -- and, if we're fortunate enough to find it, our joy and gratitude.
* * * * * * * * *
The Crazy Woman with the Perfume
by Sandra Herrmann
John 12:1-8
Stupid, foolish Mary! What on earth is the matter with this woman? I mean, I realize that Jesus is a good friend of the family, but this excess is so typical of Lazarus' sister. You know what they say about her -- that Jesus cleansed her of seven demons.
Well, I don't know about that. Seems to me she's not exactly rid of the demons, if you get what I mean. She's forever embarrassing the family, and this time is no exception. She absolutely ruined a wonderful meal.
What? You didn't hear this story? Well, sit right down and I'll tell you.
You know, of course, that these sisters told everyone that their brother had died a few months back. They wrapped the body and put it in their family tomb, and all the neighbors came and sat with them and wailed. They brought food and everything. Then this Jesus shows up and makes them take him out to the tomb, and even open it.
Now Martha -- that's the sane sister, a lovely woman, keeps a beautiful home for her brother ever since her husband died -- she told him it had been three days since they buried him, and the odor would be sickening, but he insisted. I thought he must be a little nuts himself, you know. Didn't get there in time to doctor the man, and then wants the tomb opened. But we all traipsed out to the tomb and stood around while some neighbors rolled the stone back.
Oh no, the smell wasn't so awful as I thought it would be. Then we found out that Lazarus was actually alive! No kidding -- Jesus stood there and cried, but then he told Lazarus to come out, and sure enough, here he came, shuffling out of the tomb!
Oh, don't be silly. Of course he didn't raise the dead. You know that's impossible. It must be something Lazarus and Jesus had cooked up to gain some political power. You know Lazarus was always saying that Jesus was the Messiah, don't you?
Oh yes. The Messiah. He was going to overthrow the Romans -- and the High Priest, to hear Lazarus tell it -- and establish God's kingdom on earth. No, I don't believe it. Jesus is some sort of preacher, and maybe a healer too, but he's no Messiah. Messiah will come from the house of David, right in this area my husband says, and he ought to know. He spends enough time studying with the rabbi. This Jesus comes from Nazareth. Not at all what the scriptures tell us.
Well, anyway, they were having a big party at Lazarus' house. They wanted everyone to meet Jesus, "the man who brought me back from death," Lazarus was telling everybody. I hear it was really quite a feast they were laying out when the crazy sister, Mary, comes into the room.
She's crying and bowing and scraping to Jesus, and the next thing you know she's cracked open a jar of nard! No kidding -- a half-liter of the stuff! -- and pours it on Jesus' feet. Well, you can imagine the smell! All that perfume just drowned out the smell of the food. Lamb, couscous, figs, dates, fish, freshly baked bread, all those wonderful things, and all you could smell was perfume.
I don't know what Lazarus said. Nor poor Martha, who had all the work of getting that meal planned and cooked! I hear she just stood there in shock. Well, I can imagine. You know how the smell of nard clings. Oh, you don't? Well, my Caleb brought me a little bottle of nard a few years ago and I put just the tiniest bit on, but you could smell it for days. Caleb loved it.
Well, anyway, it wasn't Lazarus or Martha who caused the stir! I guess they're used to Mary's shenanigans. But one of Jesus' inner circle said it best when he said, "What a waste! That perfume is worth a year's wages. It should at least have been sold and the money given to the poor!" I understand he's the treasurer for Jesus' ministry. When you look at him, you can see he knows the value of a drachma! And he was right. No real religious leader would allow such waste. Besides, he told a man not too long ago that he should sell all he had and give it away and only then could he be a disciple. So I guess that fellow knows he was right to walk away.
Oh, Jesus. Yes, he had something to say. "Leave her alone," he said. "This was planned for my burial. You'll always have the poor to take care of, but you won't always have me." Now what kind of a thing was that to say? "You'll always have the poor." Well, we probably will. So what good would it do to sell all you have and give it to the poor?
So you and I don't measure up, you see? But this crazy woman pours out half a liter of perfume, and she's doing a good thing. I swear, the world gets crazier every day. And this Jesus isn't helping at all.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana.
Off the Beaten Path
by Keith Hewitt
Philippians 3:4b-14
He was middle-aged... as long as he lived to be a hundred-and-something. With thinning gray hair, pale skin, and a build that might charitably be described as "unathletic," Tom was the sort of man who excelled at not standing out -- but he was a fixture at church: third pew from the back ("I don't want to be one of those folks who sits all the way at the back," he had once explained) on the right side of the sanctuary (not directly in front of the pulpit) every Sunday, rain or shine. He also seemed to know everybody -- always taking time for a greeting, to shake hands, or exchange a bit of small talk.
That morning Bill sought him out after the service, catching him near the front of the sanctuary, headed for the door that led to the fellowship hall and classrooms. He carried a Bible and a spiral notebook with a cheap stick pen stuck in the spiral, and shifted them to his other hand so he could shake Bill's hand. "Morning, Bill. How are you this week?"
"Good enough, good enough," Bill answered cheerily. "Listen, I wanted to catch you before you left. There's a group of us going to the diner for breakfast. I was hoping you'd join us."
Tom hesitated for just a moment and glanced at the clock, then back at Bill. "Sorry, I can't. I'm in training."
It was Bill's turn to hesitate then. "For what?" he blurted, then caught himself. "I'm sorry -- I mean... really?"
Tom just smiled. "I'm in training for the race."
"What race?"
Tom tapped the cover of his Bible. "You know, the race Paul talks about in Philippians: 'I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize.' "
Bill considered the answer for a couple of seconds and shook his head. "I guess I'm not sure what you're worried about. You're in church every Sunday."
Tom started to answer but stopped and was silent for a bit... then he gently touched Bill's arm to urge him off to the side, out of the way of the rest of the congregation as they talked. "It's like this," he began, once they were out of the flow of traffic. "Let me tell you about someone I know of who was in a long-distance race. Have you ever gone cross-country skiing?"
Bill shook his head.
"There's a race every year up through a couple of the smaller state parks -- it's called the Nordic Ninety. It's a 90-kilometer cross-country race along parts of the glacier trail -- the course used to change every year, but it was always beautiful. The race is in early January, when it's about as cold as it can get..."
He was somewhat new to cross-country skiing, but the Nordic Ninety had been a goal of his since he started. He trained as much as he could for all of one winter and the first couple of months of the next, and knew that he was ready for the challenge. On an early January morning he drove to the small park where the race would start, paid his fee, and was issued a map and a number.
He was actually a little late -- most of the skiers had already left, but he was not in it to race against them. He was in it to prove he could do it. So with a Walkman strapped to his waist and a half-dozen mix cassettes in a small pouch on his other hip, he set out on the course.
Everything went well at first. The trail was smooth, the landscape was awesome, and the air was crisp. The miles slid by quickly beneath his skis and he lost himself in the moment, lost himself in the music, lost himself in the rhythm that was cross-country skiing, lost himself...
It was well into the afternoon when he realized that he hadn't seen anyone for at least an hour, and the trail seemed to have faded away into the hard-packed snow. He glided to a stop at the base of a low hill, pulled out the map, and tried to place himself on it. He had made that turn there, and then that one there after the long straightaway. He traced a few more turns, links to other trails on the spiderweb that was the glacier trail network, and realized with a sinking feeling that he had no idea which way he had turned at one particular junction. And then he had gone on, not noticing that the trail had gone from perfect to somewhat groomed to not groomed at all.
The wind sweeping down off the hill reached through his clothes and traced icy paths along his arms and legs; snow blew across the slope like ghosts. His heart started to race, but he forced himself to consider the situation calmly. Yes, he was lost. No, there was no sign of people nearby. But he was in Wisconsin, not Alaska, for heaven's sake! There had to be somebody not too far away, there had to be some shelter if he needed it...
"Wait a minute," Bill interrupted. "Why didn't he just call someone on his cell? Or use GPS?"
Tom looked at his young friend with amused pity. "Cell phones in those days were the size of bricks, and just about as reliable. And GPS was a map from Rand McNally. He was lost. L-O-S-T, lost..."
He looked at the map again, oriented it so the direction he faced was at the top of the map, and tried to make some reasonable estimates of distance and time. If he went back the way he had come -- well, the way he was pretty sure he had come -- he would probably pick up the trail an hour or so back that way. And from there it would be another 15 miles or so of groomed trails to the finish. He looked to his left; the formerly beautiful landscape looked cold and uninviting.
He looked back at the map. If he just struck out south -- that way -- he should pick up the next branch of the course in an hour, maybe an hour and a half. He would have probably missed two or three checkpoints by then so his time wouldn't be valid anymore, but that really wasn't the issue. It would probably cut a couple of hours off his time, rather than doubling back and picking up the trail that way and then following it.
It was an easy decision -- so why did he feel hollow inside when he made it? He tucked the map back into his pocket (and his misgivings with it), then he looked in the direction he wanted to go until he picked out a particularly tall tree about as far away as he could see and started toward it. He went on like that, choosing a new landmark each time he reached one along his chosen line of bearing.
He was still doing it when night fell, taking the last landmark with it. The batteries in his Walkman had long since died by the time the sun had dipped below the horizon. He stopped outside a stand of trees in the dark, his heart racing, and breathed heavily as the last patches of light faded from the sky -- high, wispy bits of nothing that had reflected the rays of the fleeing sun. Now what, he wondered, and he knew the answer: keep going. There were no real clouds, and the first stars were already twinkling overhead -- and no clouds meant the precious little warmth that had been his in the daylight would vanish almost at once.
So his choice was to sit still and freeze to death, or to keep following his line of travel as best he could by moonlight, knowing that he would eventually pick up that trail that lay to his south. It had just been farther than he thought, looking at the map. Or he had been more lost than he thought. He breathed deeply, flushing out his lungs with air that stung his throat like needles and made him cough, then pulled down his goggles and started picking his way through the trees that stood like sentries in his path.
And if he had thought about it for even a minute, he would have realized that the sun had gone down to his left...
"So he wasn't headed south at all!" Bill exclaimed. "He was going north!"
Tom nodded. "North, and deeper into the woods -- away from the course, away from the trails, away from anything. And that's what I'm talking about. You said I'm in church every week, and that's true. And I think I'm on the right path to finish the race. But I need to keep learning, keep working at staying on course. I don't want to be like that skier."
"I suppose," Bill agreed, not really sure.
"Sunday school, Bible study -- they all help keep me on the trail. And help me recognize if I start to wander off. I don't want to get to a point in my life where I'm standing out there on my own, trying to figure out what to do next. So I'll pass on breakfast, thanks -- but you all are welcome to join the class." He smiled. "Maybe pick up a few pointers about cross-country navigation."
Bill hesitated. "Thanks, but... the others are waiting." He turned away, took a step, and then turned back. "So tell me -- how long did it take you to find out you were going in the wrong direction?"
Tom looked puzzled.
"That was you out there, right? The skier?"
Tom nodded then, suddenly understanding. "I see. No, that wasn't me -- but I was the ranger who found his body four days later." He smiled again, clapped Bill on the shoulder as he brushed by, and said softly, "Enjoy your breakfast."
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.
Panic and Recovery
by Sandra Herrmann
Psalm 126
Many of us have experienced the total panic that ensues when we discover that our wallet has been lost -- or, God forbid, stolen. We frantically search our various pockets or purses. We check the bedroom -- maybe when I undressed yesterday I dropped it? Maybe it fell off the dresser or table? Well, before moving furniture I'll go out and look in the car. It would be easy enough for it to fall out as I got into the car or out of it.
Once out at the car, we have to check under the seats. If your wallet is thinner than mine, you'll run your hand between the seat and the back. Check the back seat too, because if it fell out in the car it could have slid through to the backseat. Be sure to run your hand as far under as you can reach.
Well, this is distressing. If it's not in the car, and it wasn't where it should have been in the house, where could it be? Now it's time to sit down, breathe a little, and think. Where do you last remember seeing it?
The last time I had this experience, I had been at church. I remembered taking it out of my pocket/purse to pay for supper. At the time I was concerned because I thought I had taken the money I got at the ATM and put it in my wallet, but the cash wasn't there. I had to write a check. I checked my purse again, and found the checkbook still in my purse.
I had stopped to get gas after that. Did I have my wallet then? I realized that I wasn't sure if I had the wallet, because I had discovered the ATM money in my coat pocket. But I hadn't reached for my wallet at the time -- I just paid with cash.
Oh dear. Well, time to call the gas station. Was my wallet turned in? No? Are you sure? Okay, thanks.
Called church. Was a wallet like mine turned in to the secretary? Did the pastor see it by chance? No. But the secretary will pray for me to find it. That's nice of her. Maybe that will even work.
I went back to the bedroom and tracked my movements of the night before as best I could. Oh Lord, help me find that wallet. One good thing: I know there wasn't cash in it. Just my credit cards, driver's license, blood bank card, two gift cards I haven't used yet, insurance cards, my ID for the Y, my MedicAlert© card with half my life's information, my ATM card. (Oh, I'd better check my pockets! Do I remember putting it back in my wallet, or is it with the cash in my pocket?) It's in the wallet. Well, at least no one can get my money without the PIN.
The more I think about how bad this whole thing is, the less sure I am of anything. And I'm starting to worry about contacting all those companies to get my cards stopped, just in case it was stolen. I'm starting to pace, worrying, looking in places I've already looked just in case.
So I hopped in the car and drove only slightly above the speed limit to get to the church so I could search there. It's not in the coat area. Not under the couch where I'd sat and talked with a friend. If it had been under any of the tables or chairs, someone would have taken it to the secretary's office, or even called me, because I had accurate identification in there.
Then I realize -- I went into the sound room to talk to the techs about getting a CD of the Sunday service. I'd sat down for a minute while they got out the CD and put it in a case. Could the wallet be in there? Last chance. If it's not here, it's really gone, and maybe stolen. From the church, of all places. But when I bent over and looked, there it was, hiding under a chair in the sound room. Whew!
I went back to the secretary's office and said, "Rejoice with me, for the lost is found!" And she did. I laughed, and we talked about the panic that ensues when you can't find your wallet or your keys. I'm babbling about this event. I realize that I'm positively giddy.
Since I've never been a refugee, never been torn from my home and family and carried away to a foreign land against my will, I will never know how those returning from Babylon felt. But in the words of this psalm and my words: "You restored my fortune, O Lord, and I, who was terrified, have reaped with a song of joy. Thank you, God, for helping me find my life again."
I sang hymns of praise all the way back home.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
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StoryShare, March 21, 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.
