G P S
Stories
Object:
Contents
"G P S" by Keith Hewitt
"Growing Up" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * * * *
As Paul's life drew to a close, he was able to write joyously of having fought the good fight and finishing the race in good form. But in "GPS," Keith Hewitt takes us to an important moment in the life of another person -- one who has strayed from the race's route, and finds himself in danger of being lost.
G P S
"Hey -- wake up!"
David's eyes opened a millimeter or two, widened at the sight of nothing. Good God, he thought, I've gone blind! There was a moment of stark terror before a strong hand grabbed his wrist and lifted his right arm away from his face, revealing the gloomy confines of his living room. A single light burned at the end of the couch, and the TV was on but muted somewhere in the middle of the latest hour of headline news. As he took inventory, the way he had so many times before, he thought that he had discovered some sort of growth on his right cheek; careful exploration with his fingertips revealed that it was just a slice of pepperoni clinging there, glued by congealed grease and cheese.
Ooh! he thought, pleased at the discovery, Pepperoni! Gingerly, he peeled it off and slipped it into his mouth, chewed it, and let the spices radiate out into his being. Not as cold as I would have expected it to be.
"Are you awake?"
It dawned on him that this same voice had spoken to him before and asked the same question. With almost painful mental effort -- the gears were still not all meshing -- he put the voice together with the phantom hand that had lifted his arm, realized that they were probably related. "I'm awake. What do you want?" he answered -- or at least it sounded that way in his head. To the outside world, it sounded more like, "I-err-uhh-uhh-ant?"
"That's better, that's the Davy I know. Come on, sit up now -- clear your head." The hand tugging on his arm let him know this was a command, not a suggestion. He found himself dragged to an upright position in the middle of the couch, where it sagged between the two cushions -- tried to maintain his balance there and overcompensated, started to sag in the other direction. Hands caught him, held him upright until he could manage on his own. His head seemed to be slightly detached from his body, hovering just behind his eyes; all of the fluid that had apparently built up in his upper body seemed to be draining into his lower half, creating an odd rushing sound in his ears, and a curiously empty feeling in his belly.
He briefly considered throwing up, but then his stomach gurgled and the foul taste in his mouth convinced him that he had no desire to deal with this stuff on the way out, now that it was inside him. He gulped hard and blinked, focused his eyes on the TV. Looked like tanks were moving into somewhere, and the people there didn't like it; it could have been anywhere.
Heck, it could have been anywhen.
"Are you with me, Dave?"
Oh yes, the voice. "I'm fine," he answered, as he looked around curiously. "Where are you?" Who are you would be a better question, but he would wait on that one -- surprise him with it when he wasn't expecting it. He nodded to himself, smugly pleased with the deviousness of his plan.
"I'm in your head, Dave."
The frankness of the answer took him aback, for a moment. Usually, the voices in his head weren't so quick to admit where they were. "What do you want?" Pause. "And if you're only in my head, how did you pull me up?"
Was that a sigh, he heard? "I didn't say I was only in your head, Dave. In your state, it just happens to be the most convenient way for me to manifest myself to communicate with you. I am not tied to a single physical location, or a single physical form. But that doesn't mean I can't interact with you on a physical plane."
All of a sudden, David found himself rising up off the couch, lifting about six inches, hovering for a moment -- then dropping down suddenly. He gulped again, waited for his stomach to settle down in one place again before he nodded. "Okay, I get you. You're some sort of ghost, or something. Or a poltergeist."
"Guess again," the voice answered wearily, then answered its own question. "I'm a Messenger, David. I'm here to give you a message."
"You ever hear of email?" Dave asked pointedly.
"Did you like hovering over the couch? I can do that again."
"No, no -- that's okay," Dave answered hastily. "Sorry."
"I'm here to tell you to get back on the right path."
"And what path would that be?"
"The one God laid out for you when you were born. The one God intended for you to follow from the first time you were able to make your own choices."
"Jeez, are you kidding me? God has a path laid out for me?"
"He does."
"Then I've gotta tell you, he sure does a lousy job of marking the road." He shrugged, held his hands out, palms up. "How's a guy like me supposed to be able to follow God's path when we don't even know what it is?"
"Look, you don't have to know what it is to follow the path. You just have to be willing to let God lead you."
"I don't get you."
"Look at it this way: God is like GPS."
Dave paused, shook his head. "I don't get it."
"If you want to go from here to Portland, Maine --"
"Why would I want to go to Portland, Maine?"
"It's just an example."
"It's a bad example. I don't know anybody in Portland, Maine. I've got no earthly reason to go there."
Another sigh, half-heard. "Where's somewhere you would like to go, that you haven't been, yet?"
"I've always wanted to go to Germany, for Oktoberfest."
"Somewhere in the States."
"Brunswick, New Jersey."
"You give me a hard time about Portland, and you give me New Jersey?"
Dave shrugged. "I'm a complicated man, Mr. Voice-In-My-Head."
"Fine. So if you wanted to drive from here to Brunswick, you could do it two ways. You could lay out a route, on a map."
"Right."
"Or you could use a GPS system. The thing is, planning your own route may look easy, but you don't always know the best way. And, if you don't pay attention, you can get lost along the way."
"Been there," Dave agreed.
"I know. But if you use GPS, it'll tell you how to get there, from wherever you are when you start. You don't necessarily have to be anywhere along the direct route, but the GPS will take you there. And if you take a wrong turn, it'll tell you how to get back on the right path."
"Yeah, I hate it when that thing yells at me -- 'Make the first legal U-turn! Make the first legal U-turn!' "
"Most people do. And a lot of people -- like certain people in this room -- don't take the hint even when they're told to take a U-turn. When that happens, they eventually get far enough away from the path that God has to plot out a whole new path for them, to get them back on the right road. That's what I'm here for."
"To put me on the right path?"
"Nope. That's something you have to do for yourself. But I am here to tell you that God is calling to you -- he wants you to listen to him, and then get yourself on the path back to the road he intended for you."
Dave was silent for a bit and then said softly, "Look, if I'm that far off, then isn't that pretty good evidence that I can't hear him?"
"No -- just that you don't listen well. He's put himself in your path many times, David. Church, back when you were a kid -- and then different people you've met along the way. Different circumstances that could have led you back. But until you want to get back on the road, all of that is just chatter, just background noise -- just the never-ending clatter of what-might-have-been, bumping up against what-is." The voice paused. "What you are, against what you could become."
"Why me? Why now?"
David could almost see the voice shrugging. "I just go where I'm sent, Dave. Looking back at your file, I'd say you've probably got yourself to a critical point here -- but I don't know anything beyond that."
"Like, I'm at the point of no return?"
"There is no point of no return, Dave -- not while you're still breathing. The thing about GPS is that no matter how far off the path you've wandered, it can still get you back on the road again. It's like running a cross country race -- you may not have taken the route that was laid out for you, but as long as you manage to finish the way he wants you to, it doesn't matter where you've been."
"So you're telling me now is the time?"
"It's as good a time as any, Dave. You're never going to get yourself right with God any sooner. But I'm just here to tell you to listen for that GPS -- that voice in your heart that tells you what you should be doing -- and what you shouldn't. Think of it as God's Positioning Service. It'll bring you home, if you let it."
"This is all well and good, warm and fuzzy, but how will I know?" Dave asked plaintively.
"Just run the race God's way, instead of yours," the voice answered faintly, "and I'll look for you at the finish line. We'll be the ones cheering you on." The Messenger's voice faded at the last sentence, and it would be many years before Dave would hear and recognize it again…
At the finish line.
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.
Salvation at the Door
John Sumwalt
Psalm 65
Happy are those whom you choose and bring near to live in your courts. We shall be satisfied with the goodness of your house, your holy temple. By awesome deeds you answer with deliverance, O God of our salvation, you are the hope of all of the ends of the earth...
-- Psalm 65:4-5a
Miguel Ramirez peered nervously through the glass door at the Village Hall of a tiny town somewhere in the middle of the United States of America. He and his family had just arrived from Mexico and he did not have any money to buy food to feed his hungry children. Payday down at the meat packing plant was not until the end of the week. Miguel hoped he could get some food stamps or directions to a food pantry. He could see through the window that some kind of meeting was going on and he could tell by the raised voices that there was a strong disagreement about something.
The great red state, blue state divide came home to Smallville, USA, in a big way that night when alderman Newt Palon made a motion at the monthly meeting of the Town Council that they put a plaque with the ten commandments over the doors of the community building. He said it was time for God fearing, freedom loving, Bible believing, right thinking, English speaking Americans to stand up for the law of God. Alderman Palon didn't say who hadn't been standing up for God's laws in Smallville, but the nodding heads around the table indicated that some members of the council knew exactly what he meant and that there was, indeed, a need to do something about it.
Alderman Reed Bleedingheart and Alderwoman Hilary O'Biden were not among the nodders. They both cried out at once that this was a violation of the separation of church and state. Hilary went on to say that the Buddhists and Muslims in town would be deeply offended by this public display of Judeo-Christian values. No one thought to ask her how many Muslims and Buddhists there were among the 2,600 citizens of Smallville, though if they had she would probably not have mentioned that there were two, both recent converts, who happened to be her own teenage children.
Pastor Lance Peacenickker from the First United Evangelical and Reformed Church of Saint Francis of Assisi, a relatively new member of the Town Council (who everyone in town thought was gay because he was from Massachusetts and lived with a thin, bearded man named Bruce), suggested that it would be more appropriate to put up some of the beatitudes. Perhaps something like "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God" or "Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy." "After all," he added, "Jesus gave a new and deeper interpretation of the laws of Moses." The pastor held up a well-worn copy of the Bible and proceeded to read from chapter 5 of Matthew: "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery. But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart,' " (Matthew 5:7, 9, 27-28).
Reed looked at Hilary, who quickly looked away, and just as quickly moved her foot, which had been nestled up snugly against one of Reed's well-worn Rockport's.
Mayor Rush Beck, who everyone knew was a major in the National Guard and a decorated veteran of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, slammed his hand on the table and said, "What has that got to do with the price of goat's milk in Kandahar? Will someone please call the question?"
Just then Pastor Lance gasped, put his hands to his chest, turned red, and fell off his chair onto the floor. He didn't appear to be breathing. Everyone sat stunned for a few moments until Mayor Beck called out, "Somebody call 911."
Alderwoman O'Biden took out her cell phone and began to frantically punch in the numbers. "Maybe we should call Bruce," Alderman Palon suggested. No one moved to help Pastor Lance, who by then was beginning to turn blue.
Miguel Ramirez, who was still standing at the door, saw Pastor Lance collapse and noticed that no one was doing anything to help him. He burst into the room, ran to the pastor's side, pounded on his chest, and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Pastor Lance was beginning to breathe again when the paramedics arrived five minutes later and the rest of the members of the Town Council were arguing about how much money they should spend on the flowers they agreed should be sent to his hospital room to show their concern.
Weeks passed and Miguel Ramirez was working hard at the meat packing plant and still struggling to earn enough money to put food on the table, to pay the rent for the family's two room shack, to care for medical bills, and to buy enough gasoline for their old pick-up so he could drive to work. He wondered if Pastor Peacenicker had recovered. It never occurred to him that no one had ever thanked him for saving the pastor's life.
Late one night, after his wife and children had gone to bed, Miguel heard a knock on the door. When he opened it he saw before him a tall, thin, bearded man he had not met before. The stranger extended his hand and said, "My name is Bruce. I live with Lance Peacenicker. The paramedics told me what you did for Lance. I just wanted to say thank you."
Miguel noticed that there were tears in Bruce's eyes as he reached out to shake his hand. Neither of them could speak. Before he turned to walk away, Bruce bowed his head and handed Miguel a small wooden cross.
**************
This is a fictional story which might or might not contain some truth. What happened in our congregation last Sunday morning is not fiction though I wish it were. It is a tragic reality that many Christians and others in our country suffer regularly. After the service one of our members told friends and family members sitting around her pew about being assaulted because of her sexual orientation the week before in the town where she attends college. Her young assailants taunted her with anti-gay epithets and one of them hit her in the eye. She has reported the (hate) crime to both the university and local police. She has had nightmares since and has sought counseling.
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.
**************
StoryShare, October 24, 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.
"G P S" by Keith Hewitt
"Growing Up" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * * * *
As Paul's life drew to a close, he was able to write joyously of having fought the good fight and finishing the race in good form. But in "GPS," Keith Hewitt takes us to an important moment in the life of another person -- one who has strayed from the race's route, and finds himself in danger of being lost.
G P S
"Hey -- wake up!"
David's eyes opened a millimeter or two, widened at the sight of nothing. Good God, he thought, I've gone blind! There was a moment of stark terror before a strong hand grabbed his wrist and lifted his right arm away from his face, revealing the gloomy confines of his living room. A single light burned at the end of the couch, and the TV was on but muted somewhere in the middle of the latest hour of headline news. As he took inventory, the way he had so many times before, he thought that he had discovered some sort of growth on his right cheek; careful exploration with his fingertips revealed that it was just a slice of pepperoni clinging there, glued by congealed grease and cheese.
Ooh! he thought, pleased at the discovery, Pepperoni! Gingerly, he peeled it off and slipped it into his mouth, chewed it, and let the spices radiate out into his being. Not as cold as I would have expected it to be.
"Are you awake?"
It dawned on him that this same voice had spoken to him before and asked the same question. With almost painful mental effort -- the gears were still not all meshing -- he put the voice together with the phantom hand that had lifted his arm, realized that they were probably related. "I'm awake. What do you want?" he answered -- or at least it sounded that way in his head. To the outside world, it sounded more like, "I-err-uhh-uhh-ant?"
"That's better, that's the Davy I know. Come on, sit up now -- clear your head." The hand tugging on his arm let him know this was a command, not a suggestion. He found himself dragged to an upright position in the middle of the couch, where it sagged between the two cushions -- tried to maintain his balance there and overcompensated, started to sag in the other direction. Hands caught him, held him upright until he could manage on his own. His head seemed to be slightly detached from his body, hovering just behind his eyes; all of the fluid that had apparently built up in his upper body seemed to be draining into his lower half, creating an odd rushing sound in his ears, and a curiously empty feeling in his belly.
He briefly considered throwing up, but then his stomach gurgled and the foul taste in his mouth convinced him that he had no desire to deal with this stuff on the way out, now that it was inside him. He gulped hard and blinked, focused his eyes on the TV. Looked like tanks were moving into somewhere, and the people there didn't like it; it could have been anywhere.
Heck, it could have been anywhen.
"Are you with me, Dave?"
Oh yes, the voice. "I'm fine," he answered, as he looked around curiously. "Where are you?" Who are you would be a better question, but he would wait on that one -- surprise him with it when he wasn't expecting it. He nodded to himself, smugly pleased with the deviousness of his plan.
"I'm in your head, Dave."
The frankness of the answer took him aback, for a moment. Usually, the voices in his head weren't so quick to admit where they were. "What do you want?" Pause. "And if you're only in my head, how did you pull me up?"
Was that a sigh, he heard? "I didn't say I was only in your head, Dave. In your state, it just happens to be the most convenient way for me to manifest myself to communicate with you. I am not tied to a single physical location, or a single physical form. But that doesn't mean I can't interact with you on a physical plane."
All of a sudden, David found himself rising up off the couch, lifting about six inches, hovering for a moment -- then dropping down suddenly. He gulped again, waited for his stomach to settle down in one place again before he nodded. "Okay, I get you. You're some sort of ghost, or something. Or a poltergeist."
"Guess again," the voice answered wearily, then answered its own question. "I'm a Messenger, David. I'm here to give you a message."
"You ever hear of email?" Dave asked pointedly.
"Did you like hovering over the couch? I can do that again."
"No, no -- that's okay," Dave answered hastily. "Sorry."
"I'm here to tell you to get back on the right path."
"And what path would that be?"
"The one God laid out for you when you were born. The one God intended for you to follow from the first time you were able to make your own choices."
"Jeez, are you kidding me? God has a path laid out for me?"
"He does."
"Then I've gotta tell you, he sure does a lousy job of marking the road." He shrugged, held his hands out, palms up. "How's a guy like me supposed to be able to follow God's path when we don't even know what it is?"
"Look, you don't have to know what it is to follow the path. You just have to be willing to let God lead you."
"I don't get you."
"Look at it this way: God is like GPS."
Dave paused, shook his head. "I don't get it."
"If you want to go from here to Portland, Maine --"
"Why would I want to go to Portland, Maine?"
"It's just an example."
"It's a bad example. I don't know anybody in Portland, Maine. I've got no earthly reason to go there."
Another sigh, half-heard. "Where's somewhere you would like to go, that you haven't been, yet?"
"I've always wanted to go to Germany, for Oktoberfest."
"Somewhere in the States."
"Brunswick, New Jersey."
"You give me a hard time about Portland, and you give me New Jersey?"
Dave shrugged. "I'm a complicated man, Mr. Voice-In-My-Head."
"Fine. So if you wanted to drive from here to Brunswick, you could do it two ways. You could lay out a route, on a map."
"Right."
"Or you could use a GPS system. The thing is, planning your own route may look easy, but you don't always know the best way. And, if you don't pay attention, you can get lost along the way."
"Been there," Dave agreed.
"I know. But if you use GPS, it'll tell you how to get there, from wherever you are when you start. You don't necessarily have to be anywhere along the direct route, but the GPS will take you there. And if you take a wrong turn, it'll tell you how to get back on the right path."
"Yeah, I hate it when that thing yells at me -- 'Make the first legal U-turn! Make the first legal U-turn!' "
"Most people do. And a lot of people -- like certain people in this room -- don't take the hint even when they're told to take a U-turn. When that happens, they eventually get far enough away from the path that God has to plot out a whole new path for them, to get them back on the right road. That's what I'm here for."
"To put me on the right path?"
"Nope. That's something you have to do for yourself. But I am here to tell you that God is calling to you -- he wants you to listen to him, and then get yourself on the path back to the road he intended for you."
Dave was silent for a bit and then said softly, "Look, if I'm that far off, then isn't that pretty good evidence that I can't hear him?"
"No -- just that you don't listen well. He's put himself in your path many times, David. Church, back when you were a kid -- and then different people you've met along the way. Different circumstances that could have led you back. But until you want to get back on the road, all of that is just chatter, just background noise -- just the never-ending clatter of what-might-have-been, bumping up against what-is." The voice paused. "What you are, against what you could become."
"Why me? Why now?"
David could almost see the voice shrugging. "I just go where I'm sent, Dave. Looking back at your file, I'd say you've probably got yourself to a critical point here -- but I don't know anything beyond that."
"Like, I'm at the point of no return?"
"There is no point of no return, Dave -- not while you're still breathing. The thing about GPS is that no matter how far off the path you've wandered, it can still get you back on the road again. It's like running a cross country race -- you may not have taken the route that was laid out for you, but as long as you manage to finish the way he wants you to, it doesn't matter where you've been."
"So you're telling me now is the time?"
"It's as good a time as any, Dave. You're never going to get yourself right with God any sooner. But I'm just here to tell you to listen for that GPS -- that voice in your heart that tells you what you should be doing -- and what you shouldn't. Think of it as God's Positioning Service. It'll bring you home, if you let it."
"This is all well and good, warm and fuzzy, but how will I know?" Dave asked plaintively.
"Just run the race God's way, instead of yours," the voice answered faintly, "and I'll look for you at the finish line. We'll be the ones cheering you on." The Messenger's voice faded at the last sentence, and it would be many years before Dave would hear and recognize it again…
At the finish line.
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.
Salvation at the Door
John Sumwalt
Psalm 65
Happy are those whom you choose and bring near to live in your courts. We shall be satisfied with the goodness of your house, your holy temple. By awesome deeds you answer with deliverance, O God of our salvation, you are the hope of all of the ends of the earth...
-- Psalm 65:4-5a
Miguel Ramirez peered nervously through the glass door at the Village Hall of a tiny town somewhere in the middle of the United States of America. He and his family had just arrived from Mexico and he did not have any money to buy food to feed his hungry children. Payday down at the meat packing plant was not until the end of the week. Miguel hoped he could get some food stamps or directions to a food pantry. He could see through the window that some kind of meeting was going on and he could tell by the raised voices that there was a strong disagreement about something.
The great red state, blue state divide came home to Smallville, USA, in a big way that night when alderman Newt Palon made a motion at the monthly meeting of the Town Council that they put a plaque with the ten commandments over the doors of the community building. He said it was time for God fearing, freedom loving, Bible believing, right thinking, English speaking Americans to stand up for the law of God. Alderman Palon didn't say who hadn't been standing up for God's laws in Smallville, but the nodding heads around the table indicated that some members of the council knew exactly what he meant and that there was, indeed, a need to do something about it.
Alderman Reed Bleedingheart and Alderwoman Hilary O'Biden were not among the nodders. They both cried out at once that this was a violation of the separation of church and state. Hilary went on to say that the Buddhists and Muslims in town would be deeply offended by this public display of Judeo-Christian values. No one thought to ask her how many Muslims and Buddhists there were among the 2,600 citizens of Smallville, though if they had she would probably not have mentioned that there were two, both recent converts, who happened to be her own teenage children.
Pastor Lance Peacenickker from the First United Evangelical and Reformed Church of Saint Francis of Assisi, a relatively new member of the Town Council (who everyone in town thought was gay because he was from Massachusetts and lived with a thin, bearded man named Bruce), suggested that it would be more appropriate to put up some of the beatitudes. Perhaps something like "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God" or "Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy." "After all," he added, "Jesus gave a new and deeper interpretation of the laws of Moses." The pastor held up a well-worn copy of the Bible and proceeded to read from chapter 5 of Matthew: "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery. But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart,' " (Matthew 5:7, 9, 27-28).
Reed looked at Hilary, who quickly looked away, and just as quickly moved her foot, which had been nestled up snugly against one of Reed's well-worn Rockport's.
Mayor Rush Beck, who everyone knew was a major in the National Guard and a decorated veteran of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, slammed his hand on the table and said, "What has that got to do with the price of goat's milk in Kandahar? Will someone please call the question?"
Just then Pastor Lance gasped, put his hands to his chest, turned red, and fell off his chair onto the floor. He didn't appear to be breathing. Everyone sat stunned for a few moments until Mayor Beck called out, "Somebody call 911."
Alderwoman O'Biden took out her cell phone and began to frantically punch in the numbers. "Maybe we should call Bruce," Alderman Palon suggested. No one moved to help Pastor Lance, who by then was beginning to turn blue.
Miguel Ramirez, who was still standing at the door, saw Pastor Lance collapse and noticed that no one was doing anything to help him. He burst into the room, ran to the pastor's side, pounded on his chest, and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Pastor Lance was beginning to breathe again when the paramedics arrived five minutes later and the rest of the members of the Town Council were arguing about how much money they should spend on the flowers they agreed should be sent to his hospital room to show their concern.
Weeks passed and Miguel Ramirez was working hard at the meat packing plant and still struggling to earn enough money to put food on the table, to pay the rent for the family's two room shack, to care for medical bills, and to buy enough gasoline for their old pick-up so he could drive to work. He wondered if Pastor Peacenicker had recovered. It never occurred to him that no one had ever thanked him for saving the pastor's life.
Late one night, after his wife and children had gone to bed, Miguel heard a knock on the door. When he opened it he saw before him a tall, thin, bearded man he had not met before. The stranger extended his hand and said, "My name is Bruce. I live with Lance Peacenicker. The paramedics told me what you did for Lance. I just wanted to say thank you."
Miguel noticed that there were tears in Bruce's eyes as he reached out to shake his hand. Neither of them could speak. Before he turned to walk away, Bruce bowed his head and handed Miguel a small wooden cross.
**************
This is a fictional story which might or might not contain some truth. What happened in our congregation last Sunday morning is not fiction though I wish it were. It is a tragic reality that many Christians and others in our country suffer regularly. After the service one of our members told friends and family members sitting around her pew about being assaulted because of her sexual orientation the week before in the town where she attends college. Her young assailants taunted her with anti-gay epithets and one of them hit her in the eye. She has reported the (hate) crime to both the university and local police. She has had nightmares since and has sought counseling.
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.
**************
StoryShare, October 24, 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.
