Friedensstadt
Stories
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Contents
What's Up This Week
"Friedensstadt" by Keith Hewitt
"Getting Down to Tacks" by C. David McKirachan
"Giving All" by John Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
Sometimes it's difficult to grasp what God's plan is… or even if there is one, given the stress and pain and messiness of our everyday lives. But this week's edition of StoryShare illustrates the often difficult yet sometimes very unexpected places where God inhabits our lives, as Keith Hewitt movingly portrays in our feature story. David McKirachan discusses how we can see God's presence reflected even in the rather risqué story of Ruth and Naomi's seduction of Boaz; and John Sumwalt updates the story of the widow's mite with a brief tale about a modest nurse who selflessly share's God's bounty.
* * * * * * * * *
Friedensstadt
by Keith Hewitt
Psalm 127
Friedensstadt lay in a shallow valley, along a narrow river that wound down from the foothills of the Alps. The neat grain fields ringing it were the shoals of this island of humanity, and the dark green forests were the deep water beyond the shallows. A single two-lane road led in and out of the village, and in the crisp, pure air of early autumn, the red tile roofs of the houses almost glowed in the sunlight, while their whitewashed walls shined bright enough to hurt the eye.
But maybe it wasn't the glare of the sun that caused a tear to roll out of August's eye as the train carried him nearer.
The village was like a picture postcard framed in the train window, and the achingly perfect vision only reminded him that when he left town seven years before, there had been no parting view of the village, no postcard to file away in his memory. There had been only darkness, the dirty inside walls of a cattle car, and the press and sweat of uncounted prisoners around him.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat, lowered his head at the monotonous clickity-clack-clickity-clack of the rails, and breathed in, smelling again the stench of unwashed bodies, feces and urine, fear and hopelessness… the utter helplessness of realizing his wife and son had been shoved onto a different railcar, where they suffered the same and were beyond his comfort, beyond his reassurance. Seven years on, it gnawed at him like a physical thing, deep in his belly where regret lived like a tapeworm that ate hope and excreted despair.
Too scared to think, too tired to stand, and too crowded to sit, he had managed something like sleep on the way to Todeswald -- but it was not sleep, any more than what he lived through for the next four years could be called life.
"Ist etwas falsch?" a voice asked in the darkness.
He pondered the question -- it was not a voice he remembered from the journey, not a part of the memories. Then he realized it was a voice from the present, and he opened his eyes, raised his head with a start, and saw the conductor studying him closely. "Ist etwas falsch?" the man in the gray uniform repeated.
August blinked at him uncertainly; then shook his head. "Nichts ist falsch," he answered gruffly -- "Nothing is wrong." He looked away; the uniform looked nothing like those of the soldiers who had rounded them up or the ones who guarded the camps… but they were all he could see. So many of them had been young, like this one, though his expression was one he had rarely seen on the others. There had been disgust, arrogance, anger, hatred, determination -- even confusion, and a grim sort of detachment. But never concern, like this one.
"Are you sure?" the man pressed.
August squirmed in his seat, cast a furtive glance at him, then looked away and spoke to the window: "I'm fine."
"Very well." The conductor straightened up, unconvinced, and started to make his way down the aisle of the nearly deserted car, swaying in rhythm with its motion. He got perhaps three rows away, then stopped, turned, and made his way back once more to the row where August sat. "You're going to Friedensstadt, aren't you?" he asked, remembering the ticket he had checked hours ago.
"Yes, that's right," August agreed.
"Have you been on this train before?"
August shook his head. "Nein." He almost added not this one, but decided he didn't want to explain. Nor would this young man want to listen. Nobody did. The war had been a shared experience, and many would speak of it now that it was a couple of years removed -- but the camps and the trains, the gas chambers and crematoria, were shared guilt, and nobody spoke of them, save the ones who had survived… and then not often.
"You look familiar."
August glanced out the window, then back to the conductor; this young man was not taking "No" for an answer. He sighed. "I lived there once, a long time ago," he answered, and hoped it would end there.
The conductor considered this, eyes narrowed, and August could see he was trying to place him. After a few moments of silence, the young man said, "I'm from Friedensstadt, Mein Herr, and you do look familiar."
August shrugged and looked out the window. The village was growing closer; smoke curled up from the chimneys in white wisps, and he could smell the autumn perfume of burning wood even now. My God, he thought, it's like nothing has changed. This place has floated in a bubble in time, the years flowing swiftly around it.
"You're the baker!" the conductor said suddenly. "Of course, you had the bakery on Friedrichstrasse. You came to my school and taught my class to make bread."
August felt a twinge in his chest, didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge him.
"I remember it well. You put us to work grinding flour in this little stone mill, and then you showed us how to use that flour to make a loaf of bread." He was excited now, dredging up the memory and brushing it off for display. "I was maybe eight or nine years old, and you came to my class."
August turned to him then, his eyes expressionless. "You were ten," he corrected.
"You remember it, then?"
"It was my son's class, young man. And he was ten."
"I remember your son!" the conductor said excitedly. "He always said that when he grew up he would be a baker too." He stopped suddenly and stared at the old man on the seat, whose eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. "Oh my God," he murmured, and August knew that he had realized the truth, for not long after that visit to his son's class, his son had stopped going to school… and the bakery ovens had gone cold… and half a dozen families had disappeared from the sleepy village of Friedensstadt, gone in the night aboard a train no one saw.
And even a ten-year-old must have thought it odd…
The grown boy in front of him went pale, tried to speak, then turned and hurried away, stumbling once against the motion of the train. August watched him leave the car; then turned back to the window. They had crossed the river now, and would be pulling into the station very soon. He collected the carpet bag from the seat next to him, picked up a heavy wool overcoat, and draped it over one arm, ready to move as soon as the train came to a halt. Soon enough the brakes gasped and the train slowed, finally stopping along a short wooden platform, and August stood up, shuffling toward the door.
The train would be in the station for 84 minutes. It would be time enough for him to do what he needed to do and return. From here, he would go back to the place that had become home -- the place where he had ended up after being freed from Todeswald -- where no one knew him and where he had hoped the ghosts might not find him. And in the confusion that was post-war Germany, where displaced people drifted from town to town and finally took root wherever fate dropped them, wherever their resources ran out as they tried to find family and put together pieces of their old lives, it might have been possible to lose an ordinary ghost.
But he had carried his with him.
He stepped down onto the platform, almost under the freshly painted sign that proclaimed Friedensstadt in blue letters against a white background. He looked up and down the track, confused by the familiarity that surrounded him. He had expected… he thought about his feelings, tried to make sense of them… the last seven years had changed him profoundly, changed so much of the world he moved through, that he had assumed Friedensstadt would be changed as well.
It was so familiar that it was odd.
He looked back to his left and found the conductor staring at him. August looked back at him steadily, until the young man averted his eyes and crossed the platform into the tiny station. Uncomfortable, he thought. Good. A few other people stepped down off the train and met loved ones or acquaintances with hugs or handshakes -- but there was no one for him, of course. This town held nothing for him except memories of another life, and he was here to exorcise those.
When he left this town again -- of his own volition, this time -- he would shake the dust of it from his feet and never return.
His steps took him to the other end of the platform, then past the station and toward the center of the village. The cobblestones beneath his feet, the sight of the neat little homes, and then the compact businesses that replaced the homes as he got closer to the center of town -- even the air was familiar as he drew it in, and his heart quivered. How could it be so much the same as it had been when he was so very different? How could the jumping-off point to hell impersonate a quiet little village so convincingly?
There was the florist's shop, with its rack of flowerpots set on the sidewalk where they could catch more sun -- and perhaps the attention of a passerby. Next to it a candy shop -- and the smell of rich chocolate wafted out through the open door like a baited hook. Across the street was the butcher shop, and on the corner a market, with buckets of apples propped against the wall and a small basket set on the window ledge between, where passersby could pay for them.
He stopped there, standing still in the bright sun, and breathed in, letting the delicate, tasty scent of fresh apples fill his being. God, they smell good, he thought, and started to reach for one -- then hesitated. He wanted nothing from this town, and wanted to leave nothing of himself behind. He pulled back, paused, then reached out again, picked up one firm red apple and studied it; it was lusciously firm and smelled of heaven.
He sighed and passed the apple to his other hand, reached into his pocket and pulled out change, then dropped it in the basket. As he walked, he polished the apple on the sleeve of his shirt, finally taking a bite of it as he came to a small park. The crunch was loud in his ears as his teeth pierced the skin of it and dug down into the flesh -- and if it had smelled of heaven before, it was now heaven with a choir of angels. He inhaled deeply through his nose, held it, then slowly -- almost sensuously -- bit off a piece of it and chewed, slowly at first, then speeding up slightly, finally swallowing when he had drained that bite of all its flavor.
He had seen a man beaten to death for stealing an apple, and he knew now that if it had been an apple like this, he would have risked it himself.
"Good apple, eh?"
The reverie faded, and he turned to see an older man standing next to him. He wanted to ignore him, to turn away, but found himself nodding. "Yes," he agreed, "I think the best I've ever had."
"They say hunger makes everything taste better."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You looked hungry."
August considered this; then shook his head; he had eaten a sandwich aboard the train not two hours before. "I already had lunch," he answered.
"Well, nonetheless you looked hungry."
August shrugged. This was shaping up to be a pointless conversation -- time to move on. But there was still the apple… he shrugged again, took another bite, and let it wash over him.
"I saw you standing here, and I can't help thinking I know you," the other man said. "Are you from here?"
"I used to be, a thousand years ago," August answered quietly, staring across the little park at a row of picture-perfect shops.
The other man paused for a bit; then said, "I must confess -- my son called me from the station. He told me about your conversation on the train."
August looked at him curiously. "Did he, now? I must be quite the celebrity."
"Not exactly. But he remembered you. And I think I know why you are here."
"Do you? I doubt that. I really, really do." August stared across the park, and the little whitewashed shops turned to barracks, and the cobblestones to dirt; the trees became watchtowers, and the housewives with their children faded into soldiers. He let it settle around him; then shirked his shoulders as if to slough off the memory, bit into the apple, and let its scent and flavor draw him back to the present.
"When I left here," he began softly, "no -- when I was forced from here, I didn't know where I was going or what was going to happen. I didn't know enough to imagine what the next four years would be like. I shan't tell you what it was like, because you wouldn't believe me. At first I dreamt of coming back here… and then I only dreamt of surviving… and finally I dreamt of a quick death."
"I understand." The other man's voice was low, almost a whisper.
"No, you don't. Death was my companion, and I began to dream that it was my friend as well. I waited for it eagerly, until I met someone who convinced me that even in that place" -- his voice caught, and he had to take a deep breath before he went on -- "even in that place, there could be hope. There could be hope, because God was there. And I no longer dreamt about death, but tried to feel the presence of God each day."
"And did you succeed?"
"Most days, most days," August said slowly. "I turned my back on a man because he was my enemy -- he asked me to pray for him, and I would not. I'm ashamed of that now. And there were other things -- plenty of reasons for God to abandon me there, but he would not." He took one more bite of the apple and found that there was only a very skinny core left. He looked around for a trash bin, did not find one, and just held onto it for the moment.
The man looked at him, seemed to realize what he was looking for, and nodded toward the other side of the square, where a big, rectangular trash container stood near a tree. He took a step for it, hesitated -- then August fell in step with him, and the two men crossed the square. "Do you believe God kept you alive?" the man asked.
August chanced a slight smile. "I believe my belief in God kept me alive. Is that the same thing?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. But I look back on those years -- what I saw, what I did -- and I wonder. I think of my family -- a man I knew, an American, traced them to Ravensbrück, and there…" he shrugged. "I think of it all, and I wonder why I survived. Not to seem ungrateful, but I wonder what God's point might have been… if he had one."
"I know others that have come back here with the same question," the other man answered slowly. "I don't know the answer, but I suspect there was a point, there was a plan."
August raised his hand, studied the apple core, and tossed it in the basket. "I had hoped that he did, but he never let me know." He sighed and gestured back toward the park. "So I decided to make my own plan -- my own purpose -- and it starts here. Twenty years ago today, my wife and I were married. I could not bring myself to visit her grave at Ravensbrück, so I came here one last time, to honor that day and to say good-bye to her, in the last place I ever saw her." He took a deep breath, straightened up, and stood tall, trying to ignore the memories that flowed around him like a rising river. "After I have honored my first life, perhaps I will be able to move on to my second."
"Perhaps," the other man agreed. He stepped past August, then reached into the trash bin and poked around, found the apple core, and pulled it out. August looked at him curiously as the man flicked a piece of paper off the core and spoke -- at first, without looking at him. "I appreciate the fact that you cannot stay here -- I may even understand it, in some ways. But when you leave again, I'd like you to take two things with you."
"I have my memories, I can't think of anything else I want from here."
The man looked at him, then reached out and offered the apple core. "Take this -- something from your old home that can grow in your new." He reached out and took August's hand, pressing the core into it. He glanced toward a little shop -- a bakery -- just a few steps away, and saw his son at the door.
He turned to August, caught his puzzled eyes, and turned toward the shop; automatically, August followed his gaze as he continued. "The second thing is simple: I want you to take the knowledge that God does have a plan." As he spoke, the young conductor opened the screen door and came out with another young man behind him. August glanced at the conductor and then at the other young man -- his clothes and face were dusted with flour, his expression bewildered. August gulped and swallowed hard, and wondered if this was another dream, for he saw a face he had known from birth… older now, but still the same, for all its difference.
Then the feel of his son's arms as they fell upon one another told him that this was no dream… just a plan.
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.
Getting Down to Tacks
by C. David McKirachan
Ruth 3:1-5; 4:13-17
One of the most common compliments I receive about my sermons and teaching is that I'm down to earth, that I deal with people's everyday issues. I have been criticized for a lot of things, but never for keeping the preached and taught word close to the daily issues of human life. It is challenging. It is pushy to allow God to speak directly into our lives -- it tends to tangle spiritual issues with practical decisions. But this makes Bible stories accounts of real people struggling with doubt, conflict, fear, anxiety -- all the issues that plague our lives.
Our tendency is to take the Bible as monolithic, presenting the protagonists without warts, hangnails, sweat, or passion. We want sitcom scripture. We want stories and teachings that fit into our sound-byte culture. Neat and symmetrical, they are lifted up into the attic of mothballed treasures that can't be used for fear of breaking them. Everything resolved and understandable, they stand apart from how we live. But scripture is built to use, to inform, to breathe the Love and Justice of God into our messy lives.
Ruth and her mother-in-law needed a home. So they set it up to seduce Boaz. Neat? Pretty? Easy to reconcile with honorable and polite behavior? Nope. But real? You bet. It speaks of faithfulness and sacrifice and hope. Would I recommend this behavior to my parishioners? No way. But with discussion and contemplation and honest sharing, we begin to see how our mothers and fathers of faith confronted monsters and hung on to a sense of connection to something important enough to lift them above the messes and into promise.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is: we need to stop protecting scripture and get down to tacks. That's where God lives -- right in the middle of life… our lives.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Giving All
by John Sumwalt
Mark 12:38-44
"Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on."
-- Mark 12:43b-44
Gerald Fitzgerald was the biggest giver at First Redeemer Church. Fitz, as he was called, was the owner of his own business and well-known for his generosity. Because of this, he had often been called on by the leaders in the congregation to head up the annual pledge drive. One year, while going over the pledges from the previous year, Fitz was surprised to discover that the second biggest pledge in the church was almost as much as his pledge. Fitz didn't recognize the name of the pledger, so when it was time to assign the callers for visitation Sunday, he added Midge Griswold's name to the list of persons that he would personally call on.
Fitz was curious about who Midge was. No one on his committee had recognized her name. The pastor said she was a new member who had joined the congregation the year before. Fitz looked forward to meeting Midge. He thought she must be quite a wealthy woman if she was able to give almost as much he did. Perhaps she was an older woman who had inherited money from her husband or her family. She must live in a grand house in a nice neighborhood. Maybe he and his wife could invite her over for dinner sometime. If she was new in the church, she might welcome an opportunity to meet some of the congregation's leaders.
When Fitz pulled up in front of a small apartment building, which according to his directions was where Midge lived, he checked the address twice to make sure he was at the right place. She must own the building, Fitz thought to himself. He told the young woman who answered the door of the very modest apartment that he was looking for Mrs. Griswold. "I'm Midge Griswold," the young woman replied. "What can I do for you?" Fitz was so taken aback that he almost forgot why he had come. Finally he managed to tell her that he was from the church and he had come to pick up her pledge for the next year. "Oh, of course," Midge said, "I've been expecting you. Come and sit down while I fill it out."
Fitz noticed a picture of an older couple on the end table and he asked Midge who they were. "They are my grandparents," Midge said. "They are missionaries in Haiti. That's where I grew up. Grandpa and Grandma raised me after my folks died." Midge handed Fitz her pledge card. She hadn't bothered to put it in an envelope, so Fitz couldn't help but see that Midge's pledge for the next year was substantial. Indeed, it was considerably more than his own. Fitz couldn't help himself. He was startled. How could such a young woman with apparently modest means afford to give so much? Fitz wasn't ordinarily a nosy person, but in this instance he couldn't help himself; he had to know.
"Miss Griswold," Fitz began in a more formal voice than he intended, "I am curious about your pledge." Immediately a look of great concern came over Midge's face, and before Fitz could go on to explain himself she interrupted him and said, "I hope it's enough. I know I'm not giving as much as I should. Nurses make good money here, but the cost of living is so much higher than it is in Haiti. I can't seem to give any more than a tithe. I'm hoping to do better next year. The need in the world is so great, and our church does so much good. I want to help all I can."
"Oh, don't worry," Fitz said. "You're doing just fine. We are very fortunate to have you as a part of our congregation."
With that, Fitz bid Midge a hasty good-bye and left as quickly as he could. He was deeply troubled by Midge's generosity. How can she live like that, Fitz wondered? Giving so much -- it's not practical. But what troubled him most was how much he was going to have to raise his own pledge.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller. 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.
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StoryShare, November 8, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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
"Friedensstadt" by Keith Hewitt
"Getting Down to Tacks" by C. David McKirachan
"Giving All" by John Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
Sometimes it's difficult to grasp what God's plan is… or even if there is one, given the stress and pain and messiness of our everyday lives. But this week's edition of StoryShare illustrates the often difficult yet sometimes very unexpected places where God inhabits our lives, as Keith Hewitt movingly portrays in our feature story. David McKirachan discusses how we can see God's presence reflected even in the rather risqué story of Ruth and Naomi's seduction of Boaz; and John Sumwalt updates the story of the widow's mite with a brief tale about a modest nurse who selflessly share's God's bounty.
* * * * * * * * *
Friedensstadt
by Keith Hewitt
Psalm 127
Friedensstadt lay in a shallow valley, along a narrow river that wound down from the foothills of the Alps. The neat grain fields ringing it were the shoals of this island of humanity, and the dark green forests were the deep water beyond the shallows. A single two-lane road led in and out of the village, and in the crisp, pure air of early autumn, the red tile roofs of the houses almost glowed in the sunlight, while their whitewashed walls shined bright enough to hurt the eye.
But maybe it wasn't the glare of the sun that caused a tear to roll out of August's eye as the train carried him nearer.
The village was like a picture postcard framed in the train window, and the achingly perfect vision only reminded him that when he left town seven years before, there had been no parting view of the village, no postcard to file away in his memory. There had been only darkness, the dirty inside walls of a cattle car, and the press and sweat of uncounted prisoners around him.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat, lowered his head at the monotonous clickity-clack-clickity-clack of the rails, and breathed in, smelling again the stench of unwashed bodies, feces and urine, fear and hopelessness… the utter helplessness of realizing his wife and son had been shoved onto a different railcar, where they suffered the same and were beyond his comfort, beyond his reassurance. Seven years on, it gnawed at him like a physical thing, deep in his belly where regret lived like a tapeworm that ate hope and excreted despair.
Too scared to think, too tired to stand, and too crowded to sit, he had managed something like sleep on the way to Todeswald -- but it was not sleep, any more than what he lived through for the next four years could be called life.
"Ist etwas falsch?" a voice asked in the darkness.
He pondered the question -- it was not a voice he remembered from the journey, not a part of the memories. Then he realized it was a voice from the present, and he opened his eyes, raised his head with a start, and saw the conductor studying him closely. "Ist etwas falsch?" the man in the gray uniform repeated.
August blinked at him uncertainly; then shook his head. "Nichts ist falsch," he answered gruffly -- "Nothing is wrong." He looked away; the uniform looked nothing like those of the soldiers who had rounded them up or the ones who guarded the camps… but they were all he could see. So many of them had been young, like this one, though his expression was one he had rarely seen on the others. There had been disgust, arrogance, anger, hatred, determination -- even confusion, and a grim sort of detachment. But never concern, like this one.
"Are you sure?" the man pressed.
August squirmed in his seat, cast a furtive glance at him, then looked away and spoke to the window: "I'm fine."
"Very well." The conductor straightened up, unconvinced, and started to make his way down the aisle of the nearly deserted car, swaying in rhythm with its motion. He got perhaps three rows away, then stopped, turned, and made his way back once more to the row where August sat. "You're going to Friedensstadt, aren't you?" he asked, remembering the ticket he had checked hours ago.
"Yes, that's right," August agreed.
"Have you been on this train before?"
August shook his head. "Nein." He almost added not this one, but decided he didn't want to explain. Nor would this young man want to listen. Nobody did. The war had been a shared experience, and many would speak of it now that it was a couple of years removed -- but the camps and the trains, the gas chambers and crematoria, were shared guilt, and nobody spoke of them, save the ones who had survived… and then not often.
"You look familiar."
August glanced out the window, then back to the conductor; this young man was not taking "No" for an answer. He sighed. "I lived there once, a long time ago," he answered, and hoped it would end there.
The conductor considered this, eyes narrowed, and August could see he was trying to place him. After a few moments of silence, the young man said, "I'm from Friedensstadt, Mein Herr, and you do look familiar."
August shrugged and looked out the window. The village was growing closer; smoke curled up from the chimneys in white wisps, and he could smell the autumn perfume of burning wood even now. My God, he thought, it's like nothing has changed. This place has floated in a bubble in time, the years flowing swiftly around it.
"You're the baker!" the conductor said suddenly. "Of course, you had the bakery on Friedrichstrasse. You came to my school and taught my class to make bread."
August felt a twinge in his chest, didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge him.
"I remember it well. You put us to work grinding flour in this little stone mill, and then you showed us how to use that flour to make a loaf of bread." He was excited now, dredging up the memory and brushing it off for display. "I was maybe eight or nine years old, and you came to my class."
August turned to him then, his eyes expressionless. "You were ten," he corrected.
"You remember it, then?"
"It was my son's class, young man. And he was ten."
"I remember your son!" the conductor said excitedly. "He always said that when he grew up he would be a baker too." He stopped suddenly and stared at the old man on the seat, whose eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. "Oh my God," he murmured, and August knew that he had realized the truth, for not long after that visit to his son's class, his son had stopped going to school… and the bakery ovens had gone cold… and half a dozen families had disappeared from the sleepy village of Friedensstadt, gone in the night aboard a train no one saw.
And even a ten-year-old must have thought it odd…
The grown boy in front of him went pale, tried to speak, then turned and hurried away, stumbling once against the motion of the train. August watched him leave the car; then turned back to the window. They had crossed the river now, and would be pulling into the station very soon. He collected the carpet bag from the seat next to him, picked up a heavy wool overcoat, and draped it over one arm, ready to move as soon as the train came to a halt. Soon enough the brakes gasped and the train slowed, finally stopping along a short wooden platform, and August stood up, shuffling toward the door.
The train would be in the station for 84 minutes. It would be time enough for him to do what he needed to do and return. From here, he would go back to the place that had become home -- the place where he had ended up after being freed from Todeswald -- where no one knew him and where he had hoped the ghosts might not find him. And in the confusion that was post-war Germany, where displaced people drifted from town to town and finally took root wherever fate dropped them, wherever their resources ran out as they tried to find family and put together pieces of their old lives, it might have been possible to lose an ordinary ghost.
But he had carried his with him.
He stepped down onto the platform, almost under the freshly painted sign that proclaimed Friedensstadt in blue letters against a white background. He looked up and down the track, confused by the familiarity that surrounded him. He had expected… he thought about his feelings, tried to make sense of them… the last seven years had changed him profoundly, changed so much of the world he moved through, that he had assumed Friedensstadt would be changed as well.
It was so familiar that it was odd.
He looked back to his left and found the conductor staring at him. August looked back at him steadily, until the young man averted his eyes and crossed the platform into the tiny station. Uncomfortable, he thought. Good. A few other people stepped down off the train and met loved ones or acquaintances with hugs or handshakes -- but there was no one for him, of course. This town held nothing for him except memories of another life, and he was here to exorcise those.
When he left this town again -- of his own volition, this time -- he would shake the dust of it from his feet and never return.
His steps took him to the other end of the platform, then past the station and toward the center of the village. The cobblestones beneath his feet, the sight of the neat little homes, and then the compact businesses that replaced the homes as he got closer to the center of town -- even the air was familiar as he drew it in, and his heart quivered. How could it be so much the same as it had been when he was so very different? How could the jumping-off point to hell impersonate a quiet little village so convincingly?
There was the florist's shop, with its rack of flowerpots set on the sidewalk where they could catch more sun -- and perhaps the attention of a passerby. Next to it a candy shop -- and the smell of rich chocolate wafted out through the open door like a baited hook. Across the street was the butcher shop, and on the corner a market, with buckets of apples propped against the wall and a small basket set on the window ledge between, where passersby could pay for them.
He stopped there, standing still in the bright sun, and breathed in, letting the delicate, tasty scent of fresh apples fill his being. God, they smell good, he thought, and started to reach for one -- then hesitated. He wanted nothing from this town, and wanted to leave nothing of himself behind. He pulled back, paused, then reached out again, picked up one firm red apple and studied it; it was lusciously firm and smelled of heaven.
He sighed and passed the apple to his other hand, reached into his pocket and pulled out change, then dropped it in the basket. As he walked, he polished the apple on the sleeve of his shirt, finally taking a bite of it as he came to a small park. The crunch was loud in his ears as his teeth pierced the skin of it and dug down into the flesh -- and if it had smelled of heaven before, it was now heaven with a choir of angels. He inhaled deeply through his nose, held it, then slowly -- almost sensuously -- bit off a piece of it and chewed, slowly at first, then speeding up slightly, finally swallowing when he had drained that bite of all its flavor.
He had seen a man beaten to death for stealing an apple, and he knew now that if it had been an apple like this, he would have risked it himself.
"Good apple, eh?"
The reverie faded, and he turned to see an older man standing next to him. He wanted to ignore him, to turn away, but found himself nodding. "Yes," he agreed, "I think the best I've ever had."
"They say hunger makes everything taste better."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You looked hungry."
August considered this; then shook his head; he had eaten a sandwich aboard the train not two hours before. "I already had lunch," he answered.
"Well, nonetheless you looked hungry."
August shrugged. This was shaping up to be a pointless conversation -- time to move on. But there was still the apple… he shrugged again, took another bite, and let it wash over him.
"I saw you standing here, and I can't help thinking I know you," the other man said. "Are you from here?"
"I used to be, a thousand years ago," August answered quietly, staring across the little park at a row of picture-perfect shops.
The other man paused for a bit; then said, "I must confess -- my son called me from the station. He told me about your conversation on the train."
August looked at him curiously. "Did he, now? I must be quite the celebrity."
"Not exactly. But he remembered you. And I think I know why you are here."
"Do you? I doubt that. I really, really do." August stared across the park, and the little whitewashed shops turned to barracks, and the cobblestones to dirt; the trees became watchtowers, and the housewives with their children faded into soldiers. He let it settle around him; then shirked his shoulders as if to slough off the memory, bit into the apple, and let its scent and flavor draw him back to the present.
"When I left here," he began softly, "no -- when I was forced from here, I didn't know where I was going or what was going to happen. I didn't know enough to imagine what the next four years would be like. I shan't tell you what it was like, because you wouldn't believe me. At first I dreamt of coming back here… and then I only dreamt of surviving… and finally I dreamt of a quick death."
"I understand." The other man's voice was low, almost a whisper.
"No, you don't. Death was my companion, and I began to dream that it was my friend as well. I waited for it eagerly, until I met someone who convinced me that even in that place" -- his voice caught, and he had to take a deep breath before he went on -- "even in that place, there could be hope. There could be hope, because God was there. And I no longer dreamt about death, but tried to feel the presence of God each day."
"And did you succeed?"
"Most days, most days," August said slowly. "I turned my back on a man because he was my enemy -- he asked me to pray for him, and I would not. I'm ashamed of that now. And there were other things -- plenty of reasons for God to abandon me there, but he would not." He took one more bite of the apple and found that there was only a very skinny core left. He looked around for a trash bin, did not find one, and just held onto it for the moment.
The man looked at him, seemed to realize what he was looking for, and nodded toward the other side of the square, where a big, rectangular trash container stood near a tree. He took a step for it, hesitated -- then August fell in step with him, and the two men crossed the square. "Do you believe God kept you alive?" the man asked.
August chanced a slight smile. "I believe my belief in God kept me alive. Is that the same thing?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. But I look back on those years -- what I saw, what I did -- and I wonder. I think of my family -- a man I knew, an American, traced them to Ravensbrück, and there…" he shrugged. "I think of it all, and I wonder why I survived. Not to seem ungrateful, but I wonder what God's point might have been… if he had one."
"I know others that have come back here with the same question," the other man answered slowly. "I don't know the answer, but I suspect there was a point, there was a plan."
August raised his hand, studied the apple core, and tossed it in the basket. "I had hoped that he did, but he never let me know." He sighed and gestured back toward the park. "So I decided to make my own plan -- my own purpose -- and it starts here. Twenty years ago today, my wife and I were married. I could not bring myself to visit her grave at Ravensbrück, so I came here one last time, to honor that day and to say good-bye to her, in the last place I ever saw her." He took a deep breath, straightened up, and stood tall, trying to ignore the memories that flowed around him like a rising river. "After I have honored my first life, perhaps I will be able to move on to my second."
"Perhaps," the other man agreed. He stepped past August, then reached into the trash bin and poked around, found the apple core, and pulled it out. August looked at him curiously as the man flicked a piece of paper off the core and spoke -- at first, without looking at him. "I appreciate the fact that you cannot stay here -- I may even understand it, in some ways. But when you leave again, I'd like you to take two things with you."
"I have my memories, I can't think of anything else I want from here."
The man looked at him, then reached out and offered the apple core. "Take this -- something from your old home that can grow in your new." He reached out and took August's hand, pressing the core into it. He glanced toward a little shop -- a bakery -- just a few steps away, and saw his son at the door.
He turned to August, caught his puzzled eyes, and turned toward the shop; automatically, August followed his gaze as he continued. "The second thing is simple: I want you to take the knowledge that God does have a plan." As he spoke, the young conductor opened the screen door and came out with another young man behind him. August glanced at the conductor and then at the other young man -- his clothes and face were dusted with flour, his expression bewildered. August gulped and swallowed hard, and wondered if this was another dream, for he saw a face he had known from birth… older now, but still the same, for all its difference.
Then the feel of his son's arms as they fell upon one another told him that this was no dream… just a plan.
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.
Getting Down to Tacks
by C. David McKirachan
Ruth 3:1-5; 4:13-17
One of the most common compliments I receive about my sermons and teaching is that I'm down to earth, that I deal with people's everyday issues. I have been criticized for a lot of things, but never for keeping the preached and taught word close to the daily issues of human life. It is challenging. It is pushy to allow God to speak directly into our lives -- it tends to tangle spiritual issues with practical decisions. But this makes Bible stories accounts of real people struggling with doubt, conflict, fear, anxiety -- all the issues that plague our lives.
Our tendency is to take the Bible as monolithic, presenting the protagonists without warts, hangnails, sweat, or passion. We want sitcom scripture. We want stories and teachings that fit into our sound-byte culture. Neat and symmetrical, they are lifted up into the attic of mothballed treasures that can't be used for fear of breaking them. Everything resolved and understandable, they stand apart from how we live. But scripture is built to use, to inform, to breathe the Love and Justice of God into our messy lives.
Ruth and her mother-in-law needed a home. So they set it up to seduce Boaz. Neat? Pretty? Easy to reconcile with honorable and polite behavior? Nope. But real? You bet. It speaks of faithfulness and sacrifice and hope. Would I recommend this behavior to my parishioners? No way. But with discussion and contemplation and honest sharing, we begin to see how our mothers and fathers of faith confronted monsters and hung on to a sense of connection to something important enough to lift them above the messes and into promise.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is: we need to stop protecting scripture and get down to tacks. That's where God lives -- right in the middle of life… our lives.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Giving All
by John Sumwalt
Mark 12:38-44
"Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on."
-- Mark 12:43b-44
Gerald Fitzgerald was the biggest giver at First Redeemer Church. Fitz, as he was called, was the owner of his own business and well-known for his generosity. Because of this, he had often been called on by the leaders in the congregation to head up the annual pledge drive. One year, while going over the pledges from the previous year, Fitz was surprised to discover that the second biggest pledge in the church was almost as much as his pledge. Fitz didn't recognize the name of the pledger, so when it was time to assign the callers for visitation Sunday, he added Midge Griswold's name to the list of persons that he would personally call on.
Fitz was curious about who Midge was. No one on his committee had recognized her name. The pastor said she was a new member who had joined the congregation the year before. Fitz looked forward to meeting Midge. He thought she must be quite a wealthy woman if she was able to give almost as much he did. Perhaps she was an older woman who had inherited money from her husband or her family. She must live in a grand house in a nice neighborhood. Maybe he and his wife could invite her over for dinner sometime. If she was new in the church, she might welcome an opportunity to meet some of the congregation's leaders.
When Fitz pulled up in front of a small apartment building, which according to his directions was where Midge lived, he checked the address twice to make sure he was at the right place. She must own the building, Fitz thought to himself. He told the young woman who answered the door of the very modest apartment that he was looking for Mrs. Griswold. "I'm Midge Griswold," the young woman replied. "What can I do for you?" Fitz was so taken aback that he almost forgot why he had come. Finally he managed to tell her that he was from the church and he had come to pick up her pledge for the next year. "Oh, of course," Midge said, "I've been expecting you. Come and sit down while I fill it out."
Fitz noticed a picture of an older couple on the end table and he asked Midge who they were. "They are my grandparents," Midge said. "They are missionaries in Haiti. That's where I grew up. Grandpa and Grandma raised me after my folks died." Midge handed Fitz her pledge card. She hadn't bothered to put it in an envelope, so Fitz couldn't help but see that Midge's pledge for the next year was substantial. Indeed, it was considerably more than his own. Fitz couldn't help himself. He was startled. How could such a young woman with apparently modest means afford to give so much? Fitz wasn't ordinarily a nosy person, but in this instance he couldn't help himself; he had to know.
"Miss Griswold," Fitz began in a more formal voice than he intended, "I am curious about your pledge." Immediately a look of great concern came over Midge's face, and before Fitz could go on to explain himself she interrupted him and said, "I hope it's enough. I know I'm not giving as much as I should. Nurses make good money here, but the cost of living is so much higher than it is in Haiti. I can't seem to give any more than a tithe. I'm hoping to do better next year. The need in the world is so great, and our church does so much good. I want to help all I can."
"Oh, don't worry," Fitz said. "You're doing just fine. We are very fortunate to have you as a part of our congregation."
With that, Fitz bid Midge a hasty good-bye and left as quickly as he could. He was deeply troubled by Midge's generosity. How can she live like that, Fitz wondered? Giving so much -- it's not practical. But what troubled him most was how much he was going to have to raise his own pledge.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller. 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.
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StoryShare, November 8, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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.
