A Good Day To Die
Stories
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Contents
What's Up This Week
A Story to Live By: "A Good Day to Die?"
Shining Moments: "A Rock of Refuge" by Jody E. Felton
Good Stories: "A Pretty Little Room" by Jo Perry-Sumwalt
Scrap Pile: "Telemachus, the Martyr"
What's Up This Week
We remember Stephen as the first Christian martyr. We marvel at his great faith as, like Jesus, he forgives his murderers and asks God not to hold their sin against them. This is a good Sunday to remember other martyrs of the faith like Telemachus, the monk who stopped the popular gladiatorial games in ancient Rome. See his story in this week's Scrap Pile. And check out the story of a modern martyr on a motorcycle in A Story to Live By. Jo's "Pretty Little Room" tale is the perfect sermon starter for those preaching on the "I go to prepare a place for you" theme in John's Gospel. And Jody Felton's personal "Rock of Refuge" story is one you will want to file away if you are not preaching on the psalm this week. People will hold in their hearts for a long time, especially those who have loved someone with Alzheimer's.
A Story to Live By
A Good Day to Die?
Then they dragged him out of the city and began to stone him....
Acts 7:58a
It was hot and steamy that August afternoon as Rufus Hadley rode his motorcycle along the bumpy rural road. Dust rising from the road mixed with sweat and moist air to cover him in light mud. In the stifling hot weather, even the movement of air as he sped along offered no relief. A priest of the Columban order, Rufus Hadley passionately cared about the poor. He was especially dedicated to the work of Christian-Muslin reconciliation. His hard-line human rights stand often put him at odds with warring bands of radicals that roamed the Philippine island which had been his home for more than 20 years. As Rev. Hadley rounded a bend on that hot August afternoon, he was flagged down by some men. Always willing to offer what help he could, he stopped his bike. But the men were not looking for help. They dragged the priest from his bike and shot him. Rufus Hadley died on the spot.
(Charles M. Madigan, "It Takes Strong Men to Make Good Priests," Chicago Tribune, March 31, 2002.)
Shining Moments
A Rock of Refuge
by Jody E. Felton
Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me. You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name's sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge. Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.
Psalm 31:2-5
On July 10, 2000, a great man died. The world may not have known a great man died, but his wife knew, his children and his grandchildren knew, and the people who crowded into the church for the memorial service knew. That great man was my father.
Dad died in 2000, but we began losing him to Alzheimer's disease about ten years before. Medication slowed the process, but was still a tragedy that we had to deal with daily -- sometimes with anger, sometimes with tears, sometimes with acceptance, and as often as possible with a sense of humor. My father himself helped us accept his condition. He had been diagnosed at a time when he was still able to understand what it meant to have Alzheimer's. He accepted the diagnosis with his usual grace and good humor. Years before he had started losing his hearing. He was totally deaf without his hearing aids, but he accepted deafness as a fact of life. For him, Alzheimer's was just another fact of life to be accepted.
Actually, for Dad Alzheimer's wasn't so bad. He had moments when he got frustrated, especially in the early stages, when the confusion got too bad or when he struggled to find the right word. However, Dad was one of those people who was unflappable, and those times did not last too long. For Dad, every day was new and every experience was new. He hadn't seen a rerun in years -- every program was new, no matter how many times he had seen it. He, unlike the rest of us, never ate leftovers. Every meal was a new meal. It was harder for us to cope with his Alzheimer's. My dad, as I remember him, almost totally disappeared by six or seven years into the disease. He used to get up every morning and say something like, "Do you know what happened 13 years ago today?" Of course, we never did. But Dad knew. It was always something that had stayed in his mind long after the rest of us had forgotten it... some bit of trivia like "That was the day we bought that old El Camino" or "That was the day the Holstein cow had twins." As the disease progressed he couldn't remember 13 minutes ago, much less 13 years ago.
Dad used to tell wonderful stories about his life. Then the stories got more and more confused. He had trouble forming complete sentences and words often escaped him. Eventually he gave up talking all together. Despite all that, when we gather around the Thanksgiving table I will give thanks for my father -- not just for who he was before Alzheimer's, but for who he became and for the lessons I learned from him as he coped with the disease. For, you see, even though I do not believe God causes tragedy so we can learn lessons and grow, I do believe that God intervenes in every tragedy. If we pay attention, we learn and we grow stronger. Let me share with you what I have to be thankful for from my dad's Alzheimer's, and what I learned about God from it.
Probably the hardest thing to cope with was when Dad began losing people. The first to go was my youngest brother, John. At the time John and his family lived in Ohio. Mom and Dad lived in Pasco, Washington. They rarely saw John... only once or twice a year. Dad forgot that John was his son. He thought John was Mom's son, which is true, but for a while Dad thought Mom was his second wife. Nobody knows why. Despite all that, Dad had a great fondness for John.
During that time my sister and her family lived with Mom and Dad while they made arrangements to buy the house so Mom and Dad could move to a retirement center. Almost daily, after John had been there for a visit, Dad would ask Merrie if she knew John. She would always reply that yes, she knew John. Dad always responded, "I really like John. He is such a nice guy. A peach of a guy. (Dad's highest praise for anyone.) He is so nice. He just likes to be nice."
Over the years Dad lost all five of us. He was always delighted to see us, but he did not know we were his children. Dad was the epitome of "forgetful love." He loved John and the rest of us, even though he did not know we were his children. Dad forgot all the times we were disrespectful, the times we disappointed him, the times we neglected to be grateful for all he was to us. He just remembered that he loved us. He forgot the less than wonderful in us, but remembered the love.
One of the surprises for me was what my father did remember. My daughter Katy got married nine years ago in July. Katy was Dad's oldest grandchild. Dad went to the wedding, the proudest grandpa you've ever seen. The wedding was in Salem, Oregon. When we were going back to Pasco the next day, Dad kept asking me why we were going east. I told him we were going to his house in Pasco. His reply was, "Do I live in Pasco? How long have I lived there?" The answer was "over 30 years."
Dad did not remember where he lived, but he could and did recall small details of the wedding. Over the years after the wedding, when he had forgotten most everything else, he would talk about "the one who got married."
Katy and Brian now have 6-year-old twin daughters... my granddaughters, Dad's great-granddaughters. Dad never knew they were his great-granddaughters, but he always delighted in them and he always remembered them when they visited him. It was as if there was something too important about weddings and babies for Dad to forget.
After more than 50 years of marriage, despite the Alzheimer's, Dad still dearly loved Mom. There came a time when Dad forgot he was married. He would ask Mom, "Do I have a wife?" She answered, "Yes." Then he asked, "Who is my wife?" When she replied that she was his wife, Dad would smile and his whole face beamed with joy. Then he would say, "I'm glad you are my wife." For a while, Dad asked Mom to marry him at least twice a day... just in case she wasn't already his wife.
With Mom, Dad forgot himself in his love for her. He was always reaching out to enfold her in love. Some instinctive part of him knew that love needs to be shared. He wanted to share it with the one who had shared his love for over 50 years, proving that love is stronger than all else, even Alzheimer's. Once when I was visiting Dad, as I got ready to go home, Dad wanted to give me something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little round rock. Then he said to me, "I keep this in my pocket so when I get confused and upset, I just rub it until I feel better. I want you to have it." That rock is my most prized possession. I keep it with me always. Dad told me he loved me in the only way he could. By giving me something precious to him, he was really giving me a piece of himself.
Jody E. Felton is the pastor of First United Methodist Church in The Dalles, Oregon, just east of the Cascade mountains on the banks of the beautiful Columbia river. Her congregation of about 70 members consists of teachers, farmers, and businesspeople, many of whom are retired. She is a member of The Dalles Community Covenant Task Group that seeks to strengthen the community spiritually, emotionally, and physically. She has previously been published in Alive Now under the name Jody Wegener.
Good Stories
A Pretty Little Room
by Jo Perry-Sumwalt
"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also."
John 14:1-3
The old woman, cold and wet in her layers of outdoor clothes, was sure the room before her must be one of those open-eye dreams she had. She remembered having felt drowsy earlier, but what she saw now was too real to be a sleeping dream.
"You gonna run me off from here?" she said gruffly to the man in the room. If this was an open-eye dream he probably wasn't really there anyway.
"No, Mary, this room is all yours. No one will run you off."
She looked at him sharply. No one had called her Mary for 20 years, maybe more. She wanted to ask him how he knew to call her that, but the heat radiating from the little oil burner by the rocking chair was drawing her into the room.
"Such a pretty little room," she sighed, touching the crocheted afghan on the rocker's back as she stretched frostbitten fingers out over the stove's warmth. "I used to have a room years... years ago. I had me some things in it, too. Whose room did you say this is?"
The man's face looked somehow softer, less masculine, now. "Your room, Mary. You can stay here from now on."
"Old Marguerite and Crazy Eddie would bust a gut to see me in this room!" Mary laughed and laughed, then suddenly stopped. "Where are they now, anyway? How did I get here?" Frightened, she tried to remember what had happened before she came to herself in this room.
"Gotta go inside tonight," Old Marguerite had said yesterday. "Cold is comin'. Real cold."
"I ain't gonna go inside," Mary said out loud to the memory of Old Marguerite. "They ask too many questions inside. Want to know what's nobody's business. They take my things away inside, and people are too close together. I ain't goin'. Besides, if real cold is comin', won't be no room anyhow."
Mary jumped as the open-eye dream ended, surprised to still find herself in the warmth of the little room. Her four big department store shopping bags were lined neatly along the wall by a bureau to the left of the door. There were pictures of people hanging on the flowered wallpaper above them, and when she squinted at the faces they seemed familiar.
"Old Marguerite and Crazy Eddie went to the shelters and the hospitals tryin' to get inside last night. I got inside once, in a hospital, and thought I'd never get out again. They took my things away in there, called me by the wrong name, and treated me like I was crazy. I get open-eye dreams sometimes, but I ain't never been crazy."
She touched the rocking chair again. "I had me a little rockin' chair like this once, that sat by a oil stove. Used to put my feet up after work and listen to my radio. I hocked that chair and that radio when I got fired from my store cleanin' job in 1965. Wasn't more than 55 then, but nobody would hire me again. Lived mostly on the street ever since the landlord kicked me out of my little room. Hocked most all my things."
A movement by the door brought Mary back to the present. "You can put your things away here in this room," said the woman standing there. "You can unpack to stay."
Mary's glance fell on the old red velvet sofa on the woman's right. It was the kind that laid out flat to make a bed, and somehow she knew that if she lifted the front, her pillow, crisp white sheets, and blue patchwork quilt would be in the storage compartment below.
"How did I get to this room?" She looked all around it again. "I remember gatherin' newspapers out of trash bins and pullin' that old cardboard down the alley over a manhole cover. I put on all the clothes I had, with my big coat over the top, and a pair of boots I found in a dumpster." She looked down in awe at the black shoes, cotton stockings, print dress, and apron she was wearing now. "I packed all the newspapers around me, but I remember bein' cold... never so cold before in all my life."
Mary paused, walked to the window, raised the shade, and looked down on a frozen alleyway far below. She could just make out her heavy men's boots sticking out of one end of a cardboard tent in the snow. A thermometer out on the windowsill read 31 degrees below zero.
Now Mary knew where she was. She no longer spoke, but moved about the pretty little room, hanging some family pictures from her shopping bags on empty nails among the other pictures on the wall, restoring chipped and cracked knickknacks to their places on the bureau, making up the sofa bed with her pillow, crisp white sheets, and blue patchwork quilt. Then she lowered herself tentatively into the rocker next to the warm stove. The figure in the doorway, no longer male or female, but a hazy, benevolent presence, faded away, as did everything beyond the bounds of the four comforting walls. Mary sighed and smiled as she put her feet up and switched on the radio.
Scrap Pile
Telemachus, the Martyr
Then they dragged him out of the city and began to stone him... While they were stoning Stephen, he prayed, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." Then he knelt down and cried out in a loud voice, "Lord, do not hold this sin against them." When he had said this he died.
Acts 7:58a-60a
This true story is found in the writings of Theodoret, Bishop of Cyrus (393-457 A.D.). Theodoret's Ecclesiastical History covers the period of time up until 429 A.D. (the early fifth century).
"Honorius, who inherited the empire of Europe, put a stop to the gladiatorial combats which had long been held at Rome. The occasion of his doing so arose from the following circumstance. A certain man of the name of Telemachus had embraced the ascetic life. He had set out from the East and for this reason had repaired to Rome. There, when the abominable spectacle was being exhibited, he went himself into the stadium, and stepping down into the arena, endeavored to stop the men who were wielding their weapons against one another. The spectators of the slaughter were indignant, and inspired by the triad fury of the demon who delights in those bloody deeds, stoned the peacemaker to death. When the admirable emperor was informed of this, he numbered Telemachus in the number of victorious martyrs, and put an end to that impious spectacle."
(See "Favorite Monks": http://prayerfoundation.org/favoritemonks/favorite_monks_telemachus_coliseum.htm -- the website tells how this story is often distorted.)
Can you imagine someone interrupting a boxing match or an NFL football game because of the violence? How do you suppose the crowds would react today?
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How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply click here share-a-story@csspub.com and e-mail the story to us.
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New Book
The third book in the vision series, Shining Moments: Visions of the Holy in Ordinary Lives (edited by John Sumwalt), is now available from CSS Publishing Company. (Click on the title for information about how to order.) Among the 60 contributing authors of these Chicken Soup for the Soul-like vignettes are Ralph Milton, Sandra Herrmann, Pamela J. Tinnin, Richard H. Gentzler Jr., David Michael Smith, Anne Sunday, Nancy Nichols, William Lee Rand, Gail Ingle, and Rosmarie Trapp, whose family story was told in the classic movie The Sound of Music. The stories follow the lectionary for Cycle A.
Other Books by John & Jo Sumwalt
Sharing Visions: Divine Revelations, Angels, and Holy Coincidences
Vision Stories: True Accounts of Visions, Angels, and Healing Miracles
Life Stories: A Study in Christian Decision Making
Lectionary Stories: Forty Tellable Tales for Cycle A
Lectionary Stories: Forty Tellable Tales for Cycle B
Lectionary Stories: Forty Tellable Tales for Cycle C
Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit: 62 Stories for Cycle B
You can order any of our books on the CSS website; they are also available from www.amazon.com and at many Christian bookstores. Or simply e-mail your order to orders@csspub.com or phone 1-800-241-4056. (If you live outside the U.S., phone 419-227-1818.)
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About the Editors
John E. Sumwalt is the pastor of Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in Milwaukee, and is the author of eight books for CSS. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), John received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for Parish Ministry from UDTS in 1997. John is known in the Milwaukee area for his one-minute radio spots which always include a brief story. He concludes each spot by saying, "I'm John Sumwalt with 'A Story to Live By' from Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church."
John has done numerous storytelling events for civic, school, and church groups, as well as on radio and television. He has performed at a number of fundraisers for the homeless, the hungry, Habitat for Humanity, and women's shelters. Since the fall of 1999, when he began working on the Vision Stories series, he has led seminars and retreats around the themes "A Safe Place to Tell Visions," "Vision Stories in the Bible and Today," and coming this spring: "Soul Growth: Discovering Lost Spiritual Dimensions." To schedule a seminar or a retreat, write to jsumwalt@naspa.net or phone 414-257-1228.
Joanne Perry-Sumwalt is director of Christian Education at Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in Milwaukee. Jo is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Parkside, with a degree in English and writing. She has co-authored two books with John, Life Stories: A Study In Christian Decision Making and Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit: 62 Stories For Cycle B. Jo writes original curriculum for church classes. She also serves as the secretary of the Wisconsin chapter of the Christian Educators Fellowship (CEF), and is a member of the National CEF.
Jo and John have been married since 1975. They have two grown children, Kathryn and Orrin. They both love reading, movies, long walks with Chloe (their West Highland Terrier), and working on their old farmhouse in southwest Wisconsin.
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StoryShare, April 24, 2005, issue.
Copyright 2005 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.
What's Up This Week
A Story to Live By: "A Good Day to Die?"
Shining Moments: "A Rock of Refuge" by Jody E. Felton
Good Stories: "A Pretty Little Room" by Jo Perry-Sumwalt
Scrap Pile: "Telemachus, the Martyr"
What's Up This Week
We remember Stephen as the first Christian martyr. We marvel at his great faith as, like Jesus, he forgives his murderers and asks God not to hold their sin against them. This is a good Sunday to remember other martyrs of the faith like Telemachus, the monk who stopped the popular gladiatorial games in ancient Rome. See his story in this week's Scrap Pile. And check out the story of a modern martyr on a motorcycle in A Story to Live By. Jo's "Pretty Little Room" tale is the perfect sermon starter for those preaching on the "I go to prepare a place for you" theme in John's Gospel. And Jody Felton's personal "Rock of Refuge" story is one you will want to file away if you are not preaching on the psalm this week. People will hold in their hearts for a long time, especially those who have loved someone with Alzheimer's.
A Story to Live By
A Good Day to Die?
Then they dragged him out of the city and began to stone him....
Acts 7:58a
It was hot and steamy that August afternoon as Rufus Hadley rode his motorcycle along the bumpy rural road. Dust rising from the road mixed with sweat and moist air to cover him in light mud. In the stifling hot weather, even the movement of air as he sped along offered no relief. A priest of the Columban order, Rufus Hadley passionately cared about the poor. He was especially dedicated to the work of Christian-Muslin reconciliation. His hard-line human rights stand often put him at odds with warring bands of radicals that roamed the Philippine island which had been his home for more than 20 years. As Rev. Hadley rounded a bend on that hot August afternoon, he was flagged down by some men. Always willing to offer what help he could, he stopped his bike. But the men were not looking for help. They dragged the priest from his bike and shot him. Rufus Hadley died on the spot.
(Charles M. Madigan, "It Takes Strong Men to Make Good Priests," Chicago Tribune, March 31, 2002.)
Shining Moments
A Rock of Refuge
by Jody E. Felton
Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me. You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name's sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge. Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.
Psalm 31:2-5
On July 10, 2000, a great man died. The world may not have known a great man died, but his wife knew, his children and his grandchildren knew, and the people who crowded into the church for the memorial service knew. That great man was my father.
Dad died in 2000, but we began losing him to Alzheimer's disease about ten years before. Medication slowed the process, but was still a tragedy that we had to deal with daily -- sometimes with anger, sometimes with tears, sometimes with acceptance, and as often as possible with a sense of humor. My father himself helped us accept his condition. He had been diagnosed at a time when he was still able to understand what it meant to have Alzheimer's. He accepted the diagnosis with his usual grace and good humor. Years before he had started losing his hearing. He was totally deaf without his hearing aids, but he accepted deafness as a fact of life. For him, Alzheimer's was just another fact of life to be accepted.
Actually, for Dad Alzheimer's wasn't so bad. He had moments when he got frustrated, especially in the early stages, when the confusion got too bad or when he struggled to find the right word. However, Dad was one of those people who was unflappable, and those times did not last too long. For Dad, every day was new and every experience was new. He hadn't seen a rerun in years -- every program was new, no matter how many times he had seen it. He, unlike the rest of us, never ate leftovers. Every meal was a new meal. It was harder for us to cope with his Alzheimer's. My dad, as I remember him, almost totally disappeared by six or seven years into the disease. He used to get up every morning and say something like, "Do you know what happened 13 years ago today?" Of course, we never did. But Dad knew. It was always something that had stayed in his mind long after the rest of us had forgotten it... some bit of trivia like "That was the day we bought that old El Camino" or "That was the day the Holstein cow had twins." As the disease progressed he couldn't remember 13 minutes ago, much less 13 years ago.
Dad used to tell wonderful stories about his life. Then the stories got more and more confused. He had trouble forming complete sentences and words often escaped him. Eventually he gave up talking all together. Despite all that, when we gather around the Thanksgiving table I will give thanks for my father -- not just for who he was before Alzheimer's, but for who he became and for the lessons I learned from him as he coped with the disease. For, you see, even though I do not believe God causes tragedy so we can learn lessons and grow, I do believe that God intervenes in every tragedy. If we pay attention, we learn and we grow stronger. Let me share with you what I have to be thankful for from my dad's Alzheimer's, and what I learned about God from it.
Probably the hardest thing to cope with was when Dad began losing people. The first to go was my youngest brother, John. At the time John and his family lived in Ohio. Mom and Dad lived in Pasco, Washington. They rarely saw John... only once or twice a year. Dad forgot that John was his son. He thought John was Mom's son, which is true, but for a while Dad thought Mom was his second wife. Nobody knows why. Despite all that, Dad had a great fondness for John.
During that time my sister and her family lived with Mom and Dad while they made arrangements to buy the house so Mom and Dad could move to a retirement center. Almost daily, after John had been there for a visit, Dad would ask Merrie if she knew John. She would always reply that yes, she knew John. Dad always responded, "I really like John. He is such a nice guy. A peach of a guy. (Dad's highest praise for anyone.) He is so nice. He just likes to be nice."
Over the years Dad lost all five of us. He was always delighted to see us, but he did not know we were his children. Dad was the epitome of "forgetful love." He loved John and the rest of us, even though he did not know we were his children. Dad forgot all the times we were disrespectful, the times we disappointed him, the times we neglected to be grateful for all he was to us. He just remembered that he loved us. He forgot the less than wonderful in us, but remembered the love.
One of the surprises for me was what my father did remember. My daughter Katy got married nine years ago in July. Katy was Dad's oldest grandchild. Dad went to the wedding, the proudest grandpa you've ever seen. The wedding was in Salem, Oregon. When we were going back to Pasco the next day, Dad kept asking me why we were going east. I told him we were going to his house in Pasco. His reply was, "Do I live in Pasco? How long have I lived there?" The answer was "over 30 years."
Dad did not remember where he lived, but he could and did recall small details of the wedding. Over the years after the wedding, when he had forgotten most everything else, he would talk about "the one who got married."
Katy and Brian now have 6-year-old twin daughters... my granddaughters, Dad's great-granddaughters. Dad never knew they were his great-granddaughters, but he always delighted in them and he always remembered them when they visited him. It was as if there was something too important about weddings and babies for Dad to forget.
After more than 50 years of marriage, despite the Alzheimer's, Dad still dearly loved Mom. There came a time when Dad forgot he was married. He would ask Mom, "Do I have a wife?" She answered, "Yes." Then he asked, "Who is my wife?" When she replied that she was his wife, Dad would smile and his whole face beamed with joy. Then he would say, "I'm glad you are my wife." For a while, Dad asked Mom to marry him at least twice a day... just in case she wasn't already his wife.
With Mom, Dad forgot himself in his love for her. He was always reaching out to enfold her in love. Some instinctive part of him knew that love needs to be shared. He wanted to share it with the one who had shared his love for over 50 years, proving that love is stronger than all else, even Alzheimer's. Once when I was visiting Dad, as I got ready to go home, Dad wanted to give me something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little round rock. Then he said to me, "I keep this in my pocket so when I get confused and upset, I just rub it until I feel better. I want you to have it." That rock is my most prized possession. I keep it with me always. Dad told me he loved me in the only way he could. By giving me something precious to him, he was really giving me a piece of himself.
Jody E. Felton is the pastor of First United Methodist Church in The Dalles, Oregon, just east of the Cascade mountains on the banks of the beautiful Columbia river. Her congregation of about 70 members consists of teachers, farmers, and businesspeople, many of whom are retired. She is a member of The Dalles Community Covenant Task Group that seeks to strengthen the community spiritually, emotionally, and physically. She has previously been published in Alive Now under the name Jody Wegener.
Good Stories
A Pretty Little Room
by Jo Perry-Sumwalt
"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also."
John 14:1-3
The old woman, cold and wet in her layers of outdoor clothes, was sure the room before her must be one of those open-eye dreams she had. She remembered having felt drowsy earlier, but what she saw now was too real to be a sleeping dream.
"You gonna run me off from here?" she said gruffly to the man in the room. If this was an open-eye dream he probably wasn't really there anyway.
"No, Mary, this room is all yours. No one will run you off."
She looked at him sharply. No one had called her Mary for 20 years, maybe more. She wanted to ask him how he knew to call her that, but the heat radiating from the little oil burner by the rocking chair was drawing her into the room.
"Such a pretty little room," she sighed, touching the crocheted afghan on the rocker's back as she stretched frostbitten fingers out over the stove's warmth. "I used to have a room years... years ago. I had me some things in it, too. Whose room did you say this is?"
The man's face looked somehow softer, less masculine, now. "Your room, Mary. You can stay here from now on."
"Old Marguerite and Crazy Eddie would bust a gut to see me in this room!" Mary laughed and laughed, then suddenly stopped. "Where are they now, anyway? How did I get here?" Frightened, she tried to remember what had happened before she came to herself in this room.
"Gotta go inside tonight," Old Marguerite had said yesterday. "Cold is comin'. Real cold."
"I ain't gonna go inside," Mary said out loud to the memory of Old Marguerite. "They ask too many questions inside. Want to know what's nobody's business. They take my things away inside, and people are too close together. I ain't goin'. Besides, if real cold is comin', won't be no room anyhow."
Mary jumped as the open-eye dream ended, surprised to still find herself in the warmth of the little room. Her four big department store shopping bags were lined neatly along the wall by a bureau to the left of the door. There were pictures of people hanging on the flowered wallpaper above them, and when she squinted at the faces they seemed familiar.
"Old Marguerite and Crazy Eddie went to the shelters and the hospitals tryin' to get inside last night. I got inside once, in a hospital, and thought I'd never get out again. They took my things away in there, called me by the wrong name, and treated me like I was crazy. I get open-eye dreams sometimes, but I ain't never been crazy."
She touched the rocking chair again. "I had me a little rockin' chair like this once, that sat by a oil stove. Used to put my feet up after work and listen to my radio. I hocked that chair and that radio when I got fired from my store cleanin' job in 1965. Wasn't more than 55 then, but nobody would hire me again. Lived mostly on the street ever since the landlord kicked me out of my little room. Hocked most all my things."
A movement by the door brought Mary back to the present. "You can put your things away here in this room," said the woman standing there. "You can unpack to stay."
Mary's glance fell on the old red velvet sofa on the woman's right. It was the kind that laid out flat to make a bed, and somehow she knew that if she lifted the front, her pillow, crisp white sheets, and blue patchwork quilt would be in the storage compartment below.
"How did I get to this room?" She looked all around it again. "I remember gatherin' newspapers out of trash bins and pullin' that old cardboard down the alley over a manhole cover. I put on all the clothes I had, with my big coat over the top, and a pair of boots I found in a dumpster." She looked down in awe at the black shoes, cotton stockings, print dress, and apron she was wearing now. "I packed all the newspapers around me, but I remember bein' cold... never so cold before in all my life."
Mary paused, walked to the window, raised the shade, and looked down on a frozen alleyway far below. She could just make out her heavy men's boots sticking out of one end of a cardboard tent in the snow. A thermometer out on the windowsill read 31 degrees below zero.
Now Mary knew where she was. She no longer spoke, but moved about the pretty little room, hanging some family pictures from her shopping bags on empty nails among the other pictures on the wall, restoring chipped and cracked knickknacks to their places on the bureau, making up the sofa bed with her pillow, crisp white sheets, and blue patchwork quilt. Then she lowered herself tentatively into the rocker next to the warm stove. The figure in the doorway, no longer male or female, but a hazy, benevolent presence, faded away, as did everything beyond the bounds of the four comforting walls. Mary sighed and smiled as she put her feet up and switched on the radio.
Scrap Pile
Telemachus, the Martyr
Then they dragged him out of the city and began to stone him... While they were stoning Stephen, he prayed, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." Then he knelt down and cried out in a loud voice, "Lord, do not hold this sin against them." When he had said this he died.
Acts 7:58a-60a
This true story is found in the writings of Theodoret, Bishop of Cyrus (393-457 A.D.). Theodoret's Ecclesiastical History covers the period of time up until 429 A.D. (the early fifth century).
"Honorius, who inherited the empire of Europe, put a stop to the gladiatorial combats which had long been held at Rome. The occasion of his doing so arose from the following circumstance. A certain man of the name of Telemachus had embraced the ascetic life. He had set out from the East and for this reason had repaired to Rome. There, when the abominable spectacle was being exhibited, he went himself into the stadium, and stepping down into the arena, endeavored to stop the men who were wielding their weapons against one another. The spectators of the slaughter were indignant, and inspired by the triad fury of the demon who delights in those bloody deeds, stoned the peacemaker to death. When the admirable emperor was informed of this, he numbered Telemachus in the number of victorious martyrs, and put an end to that impious spectacle."
(See "Favorite Monks": http://prayerfoundation.org/favoritemonks/favorite_monks_telemachus_coliseum.htm -- the website tells how this story is often distorted.)
Can you imagine someone interrupting a boxing match or an NFL football game because of the violence? How do you suppose the crowds would react today?
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How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply click here share-a-story@csspub.com and e-mail the story to us.
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New Book
The third book in the vision series, Shining Moments: Visions of the Holy in Ordinary Lives (edited by John Sumwalt), is now available from CSS Publishing Company. (Click on the title for information about how to order.) Among the 60 contributing authors of these Chicken Soup for the Soul-like vignettes are Ralph Milton, Sandra Herrmann, Pamela J. Tinnin, Richard H. Gentzler Jr., David Michael Smith, Anne Sunday, Nancy Nichols, William Lee Rand, Gail Ingle, and Rosmarie Trapp, whose family story was told in the classic movie The Sound of Music. The stories follow the lectionary for Cycle A.
Other Books by John & Jo Sumwalt
Sharing Visions: Divine Revelations, Angels, and Holy Coincidences
Vision Stories: True Accounts of Visions, Angels, and Healing Miracles
Life Stories: A Study in Christian Decision Making
Lectionary Stories: Forty Tellable Tales for Cycle A
Lectionary Stories: Forty Tellable Tales for Cycle B
Lectionary Stories: Forty Tellable Tales for Cycle C
Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit: 62 Stories for Cycle B
You can order any of our books on the CSS website; they are also available from www.amazon.com and at many Christian bookstores. Or simply e-mail your order to orders@csspub.com or phone 1-800-241-4056. (If you live outside the U.S., phone 419-227-1818.)
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About the Editors
John E. Sumwalt is the pastor of Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in Milwaukee, and is the author of eight books for CSS. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), John received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for Parish Ministry from UDTS in 1997. John is known in the Milwaukee area for his one-minute radio spots which always include a brief story. He concludes each spot by saying, "I'm John Sumwalt with 'A Story to Live By' from Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church."
John has done numerous storytelling events for civic, school, and church groups, as well as on radio and television. He has performed at a number of fundraisers for the homeless, the hungry, Habitat for Humanity, and women's shelters. Since the fall of 1999, when he began working on the Vision Stories series, he has led seminars and retreats around the themes "A Safe Place to Tell Visions," "Vision Stories in the Bible and Today," and coming this spring: "Soul Growth: Discovering Lost Spiritual Dimensions." To schedule a seminar or a retreat, write to jsumwalt@naspa.net or phone 414-257-1228.
Joanne Perry-Sumwalt is director of Christian Education at Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in Milwaukee. Jo is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Parkside, with a degree in English and writing. She has co-authored two books with John, Life Stories: A Study In Christian Decision Making and Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit: 62 Stories For Cycle B. Jo writes original curriculum for church classes. She also serves as the secretary of the Wisconsin chapter of the Christian Educators Fellowship (CEF), and is a member of the National CEF.
Jo and John have been married since 1975. They have two grown children, Kathryn and Orrin. They both love reading, movies, long walks with Chloe (their West Highland Terrier), and working on their old farmhouse in southwest Wisconsin.
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StoryShare, April 24, 2005, issue.
Copyright 2005 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.
