Storyshare

A Story to Live By

Do Not Submit
For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.
Galatians 5:1

Senator John McCain spent five and one-half years as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam during the Vietnam War. He tells of one man with whom he was imprisoned, Lt. Cmdr. Mike Christian. Mike had collected scraps of white and red cloth, and had sewed the scraps together into an American flag. He then sewed this makeshift flag to the inside of his blue pajama top. The men would hang Mike's pajama top on a wall each night and say the Pledge of Allegiance to it. It was a ritual that brought them all together and reminded them of their purpose. One day, the guards happened to catch the men saying the pledge. They dragged Mike away and beat him brutally. But that very night when Mike returned to his cell, he began gathering pieces of cloth again. He was already starting on another flag.

(Brian Atwood, Leadership, Fall 1998)

Shining Moments

Editor's Note: My sister-in-law Linda called last week to tell me that her co-worker and friend Gail Ingle was near death in a nearby hospital, and that she had mentioned she would like to meet me. I went the next day, because Gail is the contributor of two marvelous personal stories to the Visions series and I was eager to meet her. Linda told me that Gail was at peace and full of love and light. She was right. I have never met anyone about to pass over who was so full of joy. Gail blessed me immediately with a warm smile. She thanked me for the opportunity to publish her stories. I told her what a blessing her brave witness has been to the many, many souls who have already read her "Dreams" story in Sharing Visions, and who will read "Metacosmic Light" in Shining Moments: Visions of the Holy in Ordinary Lives, which will be released by CSS this summer.

Gail passed on June 13. We celebrated her life a few hours ago on a perfect summer evening in her church in the beautiful village of Genesee, Wisconsin. Her family and friends told of her great love for all of the people who crossed her path. One of her colleagues at Waukesha West High School, where Gail taught for over 20 years, related how much she was loved by her students, how many graduates would return with their children to introduce them to their favorite teacher. I give thanks to God for a life "full of loving."

Metacosmic Light
by Gail Ingle

As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind to heaven.
2 Kings 2:11

I have been interested in spiritual matters for a long time. On May 19, 1989, I had a spiritual experience that I will never forget. I was at my friends' home to participate in a prayer/healing circle. We were all standing in a darkened room lit only with candles. My arms felt weightless and they involuntarily began to rise until they were above my head. Suddenly, I felt something like a bolt of lightning enter my head and go through my body. I began to cry. My friends asked me if I was all right, and I nodded silently. They told me they could see the colors violet and green surrounding me. I must have stood there for about five minutes with my arms straight up in the air before they slowly returned to my side. I felt extremely peaceful long into the night. When I got home, I sat down and wrote the poem "Metacosmic Light."

Metacosmic Light
Little white candles flicker
As the smooth pink crystals glow.
My arms lose all their feeling
When the energy starts to flow.
My wrists are pulled by magnets,
The force too much to bear;
I raise my arms to heaven
To seek the mystery there.
My hands stretch out and upward,
Stretch as far as they will go.
The light comes crashing through me
Like an arrow from a bow.
As the tears flow down my cheeks,
Friends are reaching out to me,
But I want nothing from them,
So they step back graciously.
When all the light has pierced my brain,
My arms shine violet and green.
My friends applaud my courage,
Delighted by what they've seen.
Now, my arms, demagnetized,
Fall silently to my side.
The warmth of love surrounds me,
For a part of me has died.
The little white candles burn down,
Though the crystals will always glow.
My heart is full of loving.
My life has begun to grow.

Good Stories

For Freedom
by John Sumwalt
For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.
Galatians 5:1

It is the Fourth of July. An old veteran puts on his medals and makes his way to the park where Independence Day celebrations have already begun. He is greeted by the inviting aroma of hamburgers and bratwurst cooking on portable grills, and by the sounds of happy voices floating out over the grass on a warm summer breeze. The park is full of picnickers gathered around tables and sitting on blankets under the trees. Children are playing on the swings and slides, and chasing each other around the merry-go-round. There is a softball game on the diamond in the far corner, and splashing can be heard as swimmers cavort in the waves along the beach. A band begins to play patriotic songs from a stage which has been set up next to a statue in the center of the park. Later there will be fireworks.

The old veteran smiles as he takes it all in, and then he carefully maneuvers himself to a spot where he will have a good view of all the activities. He takes out a sandwich and a small thermos of coffee. Then he settles back into his chair to watch and enjoy.

After a while a group of young people comes by. They select a spot under a maple tree, not far from the old veteran, and spread an American flag on the ground. He knows immediately that they intend to use it as a picnic blanket. Anger wells up inside of him. How could they use the flag that way? They take out food and beverage and pass it around over the flag. Then they begin to eat and drink and talk and laugh.

The old veteran is not alone in his anger. Others nearby have noticed the young people and their flag. Murmurs of disapproval are heard all around. Soon a group of irate picnickers comes over to confront the young people. One man yells out, "I fought for that flag! I will not see it abused like that!"

"Hey, man, it's the Fourth of July. We're just showing the colors."

"Not like that, you're not. The flag is not supposed to touch the ground."

The sound of their impassioned voices can be heard all through the park. People come from every direction to see what the fuss is about. Before long there is a large crowd gathered around the flag. The shouting continues, with both sides getting louder and louder. Someone goes to call the police.

The old veteran can stand it no longer. He rolls his wheelchair in the direction of the angry crowd. There are so many people now that those on the outskirts cannot see the flag. Latecomers are not sure what the argument is about. The old veteran pushes his way into the center and shouts, "Enough!"

The crowd becomes quiet, more from the unexpected sight of an old man in a wheelchair than the sound of his booming voice. Their eyes go immediately to the stumps that stick out over the seat just above the place where his knees used to be. And then they see the medals pinned to his jacket -- the Purple Heart and Silver Star. They watch in awe as he raises himself up out of his seat with arm muscles hardened by years of pushing and pulling the wheels on the chair which has been his home every waking hour of every day. When his head is almost even with the faces of those who are standing over him, his eyes look down at the flag and he says, "This is not what it's about. It's what it stands for. Freedom. Freedom to choose. Freedom to be."

Then he lowers himself back into his seat, and as the crowd parts he wheels away back to his original spot.

The picnickers go quietly and quickly back to their families. The young people continue their meal around the flag, and the old veteran watches and waits. Soon it is dusk and the fireworks begin. The dark sky explodes with color as rockets go up, one after another. Then comes their noise... boom, boom, boom. Somewhere out on the lake someone sets off a string of firecrackers. Their ack, ack, ack hits the old veteran's ears like the sound of machine gun fire he remembers from the war almost 60 years ago. For a moment he is back in the battle with shells exploding all around him. He hears the cries of the wounded and sees the faces of the dying. He comes to himself in time to see the grand finale, the colors red, white, and blue emblazoned across the sky in the form of a flag. "Yes," he whispers to himself, "for freedom."


Scrap Pile

Telling the Difference

Once upon a time there was a Presbyterian family that moved into town, and they bought a house next door to a family that went to the Lutheran church. One day, the two families got together and went to a park for a picnic. When they got there, the 6-year-old Lutheran girl took the 5-year-old Presbyterian boy by the hand and led him down to the lake to go wading. But since their parents had told them not to get their clothes wet, the girl figured that the only way that was possible was for her to take her clothes off. When she did, the little boy's eyes went wide open and he said, "Boy, my parents were right. There really is a difference between Presbyterians and Lutherans!"

"For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the Beatitudes. But often, with tears in their eyes, they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings. And, of course, that's Moses, not Jesus. I haven't heard one of them demand that the Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes, be posted anywhere." (Kurt Vonnegut; from SojoMail Quote of the Week, http://www.sojo.net)

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StoryShare, June 27, 2004, issue.

Copyright 2004 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., P.O. Box 4503, Lima, Ohio 45802-4503.