I Remember
Stories
Object:
Contents
"I Remember" by C. David McKirachan
"The Leash of Love" by C. David McKirachan
"Something…" by C. David McKirachan
"The Night Visitor" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * * *
I Remember
C. David McKirachan
Hosea 11:1-11
When my son was twenty, I told him to leave and not to come back until he was willing to take responsibility for his own life. Looking back on that moment is like looking into the memory of an emergency room after your family's been brought in, battered and bleeding. Pain and fear and heartbreak create an intense static. Little else is there to be heard or seen. What brought us to that moment is a long story, a sad story.
But the saddest and the best parts of that story are moments as clear and bright as the others are confused and dark. They are moments when he held my hand to first stand up; and when he let go to learn to walk, lumps all over his head from collisions with furniture. He used to ride on my shoulders. We did a CROP walk that way. He slept up there.
I look at those moments like treasure. I keep them, cherished, close to the center of what I am. They are some of the best moments in my life. They could never be ignored or discarded. Moments like these help form my identity. To deny them would be to deny basic parts of me. They are who I am.
And so, Hosea spoke God's words of intimacy and redemption. This love of God for these obstreperous people was not abstract; it ran deep into memory and heritage. It was part of what God was.
Perhaps this kind of intimacy is more important than any dispensation or balance or forgiveness. Forgiveness springs from this. It is a symptom of bonds that cannot be destroyed, bonds of a parent's love for their child. And so, our Lord called God, "Abba," daddy. Jesus knew what Hosea proclaimed. He lived by it. It was His confidence and His hope.
My son has never come home. We speak on the phone. We hold each other at a distance. I hope he remembers other moments, when there was no distance. I do.
The Leash of Love
C. David McKirachan
Hosea 11:1-11
I ran away from home when I was five. My mother helped. She actually packed my suitcase for me. It was her idea to take a suitcase. It was her idea to put a sweater in. I protested at the time, about the sweater. After all, it was summer. She told me it would probably be a long time before I came home to visit. By that time, I'd probably need a sweater. Since I wanted to maintain my rage and sense of injustice, I agreed, not to providing a crack in my resolve to do exactly what I wanted to do. "Okay, Mom, put in the sweater."
The peanut butter sandwiches were my idea. I made them. I didn't want her doing that. After all, I was five. I could take care of myself. She suggested we wrap them in wax paper, so the peanut butter wouldn't get on the sweater. I remember thinking, "Hmmm, she does have some good ideas."
I was away for an hour, maybe and hour and a half. I had a place to go. It was under this forsythia bush. I unwrapped and ate the peanut butter sandwiches there. By that time I was convinced that the police had been called, she was wringing her hands, something I never saw her do in her life, my father had arrived from work, and was mobilizing a search party including blood hounds. I was a bit surprised I hadn't heard any of the dogs braying as they picked up my scent.
My arrival was uneventful. No dogs, no police, no Dad, and she wasn't wringing her hands. I announced my presence and was greeted politely. Life went on. So much for rage and injustice.
Freedom is a weird thing. Freedom can't be won, like a prize or a war. It can't be defended with a wall or an army. And sometimes, despite its presence, it seems unattainable. It is very simply our birth right, not as Americans, as children of God. We can't give it to someone. But we can help them learn how to exercise it, to appreciate it, and to learn how precious it is. Try teaching that to someone. It ain't easy.
I asked my mother, years later, why she wasn't worried that in my five-year-old arrogance I might truly take off. She told me that I was under observation the whole time. She and two other mothers never let me out of their sights. They had me on a leash, and I didn't even know it.
I never wore the sweater. But I know that though I never saw her, she did wring her hands over me. She loved me. She was tied to me with bonds of love. And everywhere I went or did or succeeded or failed, she never let me out of her sights.
She wanted me to be free.
Something…
C. David McKirachan
Colossians 3:1-11
I went to seminary in California. I lived in Berkeley during the early 1970s. Stories abound from that time. I learned a lot more than Greek and Hebrew during my sojourn there. There was an atmosphere that went right along with the motto of the Marquis de Lafayette, the patron saint of the college I attended. Cur non, Why not? It is a risky and rather frightening way to live, but then and there, just about anything seemed possible.
I think the tightly drawn boundaries that defined so much of life in the 50s mixed in with material affluence and a comparatively safe society gave rise to a sense that we could and should ask why and why not. And in the process of asking actually give some of the possibilities a try. Why not?
Boundaries are a strange phenomenon. They are so much a part of our reality: property, personal, national, ethical, they keep us separate from each other, in good and not so good ways. It isn't easy to challenge them. But without challenging boundaries, without asking "Why not?" we limit ourselves to attitudes and relationships and behaviors that may have made sense at one point in time, but are they meant to be eternal?
My parents taught me to be rational; at least they tried to, and in the process added a large dollop of idealism that's based on the Christian gospel. With that as a background, it was hard not to challenge boundaries, especially being the sophomoric loudmouth I was then (some would say I still am). But even they were frightened by some of the limbs I climbed out on. And some of those limbs had nothing to do with ideals.
I have retreated from some of those limbs, but I still challenge boundaries. I'm kin to Robert Frost, "Something there is that doesn't like a wall." I think we are too divided and defined and not free enough to grow up into Christ. We're too busy watching our P's and Q's to sing the praises of the most high God, let alone dance before the ark, or be blown away by the Holy Spirit. And, in fear, we reinforce boundaries that keep us and others stuck in patterns that are downright demonic and call on patriotism, or Christianity, or our way of life to justify the barbed wire we use to make sure no one violates our holy boundaries. Call me a fool, but I think our church is called to teach people that special "something" that doesn't like a wall. Think about the boundaries our Lord challenged. Think about the partitions He kicked over. He was pretty scary. But if we are to follow Him, maybe we ought to think less about making the walls stronger and more about being like Him.
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).
* * *
We have checking accounts, savings accounts, mutual funds, and retirement savings. About 2/3 of us own our homes, and if you look at the roads it seems as though almost everyone owns a car. Many of us spend our lives in pursuit of things, a relative few in pursuit of happiness… but how many of us focus on the most important thing? Inspired by Luke 12:13-21, Keith Hewitt looks at the end of one person's quest in his story, "The Night Visitor."
The Night Visitor
Keith Hewitt
Luke 12:13-21
She awoke with a pain in her chest. Decades in a high stress-high reward career had led her to understand that a certain amount of chest pain was normal, so there was nothing new about that.
On this occasion, her chest felt as though someone had slipped a giant oil filter wrench over it, and was now slowly moving the handle in, causing the metal band to squeeze ever tighter -- but that particular sensation had become more frequent of late, so there was nothing particularly new about it, either.
But as she swam out of the darkness, as her eyes slowly focused, she became aware that there was a woman -- or maybe a man -- sitting on the end of her bed.
Now that was new.
"Who are you?" she demanded, clutching her sheet and blanket tightly to her chest. "How did you get in here?"
The woman -- or man, it was so hard to tell in this light -- did not answer the question directly, but instead seemed to be studying a tablet that glowed softly in her/his hand. After a few nods, a couple of finger swipes on the screen to move items or change pages, the stranger looked directly at her, then down at the tablet, then back to her. "Ella McDougal?"
The voice didn't help -- it was soft, well modulated, and in that neutral range that could be either male or female. "Who are you?" she repeated, ignoring the intruder's question.
The answering expression reminded her of every patronizing nurse she had ever dealt with in the hospital. "That's really outside the scope of this conversation," the stranger answered, without answering. "Are you Ella McDougal?"
She sat up, then, still holding the sheet and blanket to her chest -- which, she noted in the back of her mind, had stopped hurting. "If you're going to break into someone's house, you ought to know whose house it is," she retorted frostily.
The figure at the end of her bed blinked once… twice… then touched the tablet with a finger. "I'll take that as a yes. But here, touch this." She/he extended the tablet toward Ella, inclined it so she could see a square in the corner of the tablet that was edged in crimson and glowed a little more brightly than the rest of the tablet.
"What is it?" Ella asked suspiciously, not moving.
"Touch it, please. Doesn't matter which finger."
Ella hesitated -- then, moving almost of its own free will, her right hand unclasped from her bedclothes and reached out toward the pearl glow of the tablet. Tentatively, she touched the corner with her index finger. The screen was warm to the touch, and ripples of a slightly darker shade radiated away from the fingertip as she pressed down. They reached the four corners of the square, half a dozen succeeding ripples chased them off the screen, and then it was featureless once more. She pulled her finger away, and in its place, in bold black print at the center of that square, was the word CONFIRMED, and under that her name and Social Security Number.
She barely had time to take that in before the stranger firmly took the tablet out of her hands, glanced at it and nodded, smiling. "There you go. It's confirmed, you are Ella."
"What is that? And what do you mean, it's confirmed?"
One of the stranger's eyebrows arched. "Well, now, you wouldn't confirm it for us, would you? So we had to confirm it ourselves." The stranger hesitated and then shrugged. "Truth be told, we would have run your ID through the system anyway, just to make sure. We picked up the wrong person a while back, and it caused no end of trouble. Did you know," she/he went on conversationally, "there was actually a totally different Abraham Lincoln, a coal miner, who was supposed to die in a mining accident back on Good Friday 1865? Who knew? But because of that mix-up, Management got all stressed out and hysterical." The intruder shrugged. "So now we have to go through all these new procedures."
"What do you mean? Who are you?"
The stranger patted Ella's leg through the blanket, in a friendly, slightly distracted fashion. "There, there. I know this is all somewhat of a shock to you -- but you shouldn't be all that shocked, really, should you? I mean, look at how you treated yourself. All that work, not enough exercise, and your diet -- phew! You're lucky we didn't meet ten years ago." She/he looked back at the tablet. "Now, there are a few things we need to go over --"
Ella felt as though the bed had been snatched out from under her, and she was falling ever faster and faster, though she was lying still. Her mind spun. "Wait a minute. Are you -- did you -- are you -- the Angel of Death?" She half-whispered those last words, afraid to say them out loud.
The figure at the end of the bed looked pained, then puzzled. "I -- you know -- that whole 'Angel of Death' thing is such a downer. I don't like to look at it that way. That makes it sound like, you know, the end. And it's not. This is really just the beginning -- you've got all of eternity ahead of you, Ella. This sixty or seventy years you spend in the flesh is really nothing, compared to what's coming next. I prefer to think of myself as a facilitator for eternity -- not an angel of death." She/he used fingers to put air quotes around the last phrase.
"But -- I'm dead?" Ella pressed.
"Well -- you got me there. Yes, you are dead. Did you notice your chest doesn't hurt anymore? I'm afraid that last grabber you had was what old man Sanford would have called the 'big one.' " Ella stared back at the intruder blankly. "You never watched 'Sanford and Son?' Oh, that's right -- you were too busy making your first million."
"But this has to be some kind of mistake," Ella said desperately -- acutely aware that her chest not only didn't hurt… but her body, itself, seemed to be detached from her. It was like she was sitting near it, but not in it.
The figure smiled. "If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could have retired after the First Punic War. Everybody always thinks there's been a mistake. Like they're going to be the first person in history to not die. I would think after the first fifty or sixty billion people died, you wouldn't be surprised anymore." She/he shrugged. "What can I tell you? Now, as I said, we've got a few things we have to take care of."
Ella was still reeling, and didn't hear the next question. She suddenly realized the stranger had stopped talking, and was looking at her expectantly. "I'm sorry," she murmured, "I didn't hear the question."
"That's what I thought. Your memories -- childhood, adulthood, everything you've ever done. Do you have all your memories?"
Ella chuckled in spite of herself -- a curious sound in the stillness of her room. "Whoever you are, it's been a lot of years since I had all my memories. I'm not senile or anything, but there's an awful lot that I just don't remember, anymore." She tapped the side of her head. "Not enough disk space."
"Try. What's something you've forgotten? How about your first day of school?"
"That was so long ago --" She stopped, aware that the memory of that first day of kindergarten was suddenly there, as sharp and clear as her memory of last night's dinner. Clearer -- if she closed her eyes she could see the classroom, old Miss Miller, the kids… there was Becky, and Steve, and that kid, Jack, with the braces on his legs. He used to smash flies and eat them, to make the girls scream. And that smell -- paste, it was, and fresh, cold milk, with graham crackers.
The stranger watched silently; let her have the moment, knowing the answer to the question from the smile and the look of wonder that had washed over Ella's face. After a while, it was necessary to interrupt. "Memories, check," the stranger said, and checked one item off the list with the tip of a finger. "How about love?"
Ella looked puzzled. "Love?"
"The love you've felt in the past -- do you still have it? Can you feel it?"
Ella started to shake her head. "I don't unders--" She stopped in mid-sentence, mid-word, as it suddenly flooded into her thoughts… parents, her aunt, her first husband… the feelings she had had for each of them were suddenly as strong and vibrant in her mind as they had ever had been. Their images passed before her, and the longing to reach out and touch them one more time was a pleasant, burning ache that swelled inside of her. "My God," she murmured, eyes fixed on things only she could see.
The visitor smiled again, touched the tablet. "Love, check." Her eyes twitched, fell across her/him by accident, then focused on the present… reluctantly. "Don't worry," the visitor said, "It all goes with you. And since you brought it up, that brings us to the last item: your relationship with God."
She leaned closer. "Beg your pardon?"
"Your relationship with God. You know--" she/he pointed up with a finger. "-- is that relationship in good order?"
Ella hesitated, waiting to see what might come to her. When nothing came to fill the void she suddenly felt inside of her, she shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I don't really have a relationship with God."
The visitor's lips pursed, and she/he raised her eyebrows "Ah. So you'll be going in the smoking section, then."
The void turned cold, and Ella fought to keep panic out of her voice. "What do you mean? I don't understand? What are you saying?"
"Oh, I think you know."
"I don't! What do you mean?"
The visitor looked down at the tablet again, clucked sadly. "You do know, Ella -- you really do. And you can't be surprised. I mean, look at it from our point of view: you were given 71 years, nine months, and eleven days to work out your relationship with God. It's been -- let me look, here -- it's been 68 years, four months, and two days since you first heard about Jesus. Church, Sunday school, Confirmation -- you did all that, and you still had 58 years and some months to really get squared away. And what did you do with it?"
"Look, I started working when I was fourteen --" Ella began defensively.
"And you never stopped. You worked, and worked -- you spent almost six decades building a career, building up your bank account, growing your investments. How much of that stuff do you think you're going to take along?" She/he raised a hand, thumb and forefinger meeting, forming an O. "This is what you take with you, Ella. There are no banks in Heaven -- no ATMs, no brokerage houses. You've got your memories, you've got the love you experienced -- the real love -- and you've got your relationship with God that gets you in the door. Only you…" She/he trailed off.
"But I didn't know!"
"How many times did God get put in your path, Ella -- only to have you brush him aside, make him second place? Or third? Or none?"
The void inside her seemed to take on mass, now, like a black hole that threatened to suck her in -- to drag in everything that was her, and drop it into nothingness, never to be seen again. "But this can't be! There has to be a way!"
Her visitor looked at her with compassion, started to speak, hesitated… then said quietly, "Look, you had plenty of warning. I don't make the final decisions. That's up to Management. But if it's any comfort, I'll tell you this: Management doesn't like to lose. I can't say what's going to happen next, but maybe, just maybe, there's one more stop along the way. One last way station before your final destination." She/he shrugged. "I can't say for sure -- but for whatever reason; he sure does love you people, and it wouldn't surprise me if you get one more chance."
Ella grabbed at that statement like a life ring thrown in a raging river. "So there's a chance!"
But her visitor just touched the tablet one last time, then looked at her and shrugged as it stopped glowing. Ella tried to shout one last question, one last plea -- but the words didn't come before she collapsed into the void inside her and vanished from this plane of existence. The visitor sighed as she receded to a tiny pinprick of light, and then vanished altogether.
And what came next… only God would know.
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.
**************
StoryShare, August 1, 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.
"I Remember" by C. David McKirachan
"The Leash of Love" by C. David McKirachan
"Something…" by C. David McKirachan
"The Night Visitor" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * * *
I Remember
C. David McKirachan
Hosea 11:1-11
When my son was twenty, I told him to leave and not to come back until he was willing to take responsibility for his own life. Looking back on that moment is like looking into the memory of an emergency room after your family's been brought in, battered and bleeding. Pain and fear and heartbreak create an intense static. Little else is there to be heard or seen. What brought us to that moment is a long story, a sad story.
But the saddest and the best parts of that story are moments as clear and bright as the others are confused and dark. They are moments when he held my hand to first stand up; and when he let go to learn to walk, lumps all over his head from collisions with furniture. He used to ride on my shoulders. We did a CROP walk that way. He slept up there.
I look at those moments like treasure. I keep them, cherished, close to the center of what I am. They are some of the best moments in my life. They could never be ignored or discarded. Moments like these help form my identity. To deny them would be to deny basic parts of me. They are who I am.
And so, Hosea spoke God's words of intimacy and redemption. This love of God for these obstreperous people was not abstract; it ran deep into memory and heritage. It was part of what God was.
Perhaps this kind of intimacy is more important than any dispensation or balance or forgiveness. Forgiveness springs from this. It is a symptom of bonds that cannot be destroyed, bonds of a parent's love for their child. And so, our Lord called God, "Abba," daddy. Jesus knew what Hosea proclaimed. He lived by it. It was His confidence and His hope.
My son has never come home. We speak on the phone. We hold each other at a distance. I hope he remembers other moments, when there was no distance. I do.
The Leash of Love
C. David McKirachan
Hosea 11:1-11
I ran away from home when I was five. My mother helped. She actually packed my suitcase for me. It was her idea to take a suitcase. It was her idea to put a sweater in. I protested at the time, about the sweater. After all, it was summer. She told me it would probably be a long time before I came home to visit. By that time, I'd probably need a sweater. Since I wanted to maintain my rage and sense of injustice, I agreed, not to providing a crack in my resolve to do exactly what I wanted to do. "Okay, Mom, put in the sweater."
The peanut butter sandwiches were my idea. I made them. I didn't want her doing that. After all, I was five. I could take care of myself. She suggested we wrap them in wax paper, so the peanut butter wouldn't get on the sweater. I remember thinking, "Hmmm, she does have some good ideas."
I was away for an hour, maybe and hour and a half. I had a place to go. It was under this forsythia bush. I unwrapped and ate the peanut butter sandwiches there. By that time I was convinced that the police had been called, she was wringing her hands, something I never saw her do in her life, my father had arrived from work, and was mobilizing a search party including blood hounds. I was a bit surprised I hadn't heard any of the dogs braying as they picked up my scent.
My arrival was uneventful. No dogs, no police, no Dad, and she wasn't wringing her hands. I announced my presence and was greeted politely. Life went on. So much for rage and injustice.
Freedom is a weird thing. Freedom can't be won, like a prize or a war. It can't be defended with a wall or an army. And sometimes, despite its presence, it seems unattainable. It is very simply our birth right, not as Americans, as children of God. We can't give it to someone. But we can help them learn how to exercise it, to appreciate it, and to learn how precious it is. Try teaching that to someone. It ain't easy.
I asked my mother, years later, why she wasn't worried that in my five-year-old arrogance I might truly take off. She told me that I was under observation the whole time. She and two other mothers never let me out of their sights. They had me on a leash, and I didn't even know it.
I never wore the sweater. But I know that though I never saw her, she did wring her hands over me. She loved me. She was tied to me with bonds of love. And everywhere I went or did or succeeded or failed, she never let me out of her sights.
She wanted me to be free.
Something…
C. David McKirachan
Colossians 3:1-11
I went to seminary in California. I lived in Berkeley during the early 1970s. Stories abound from that time. I learned a lot more than Greek and Hebrew during my sojourn there. There was an atmosphere that went right along with the motto of the Marquis de Lafayette, the patron saint of the college I attended. Cur non, Why not? It is a risky and rather frightening way to live, but then and there, just about anything seemed possible.
I think the tightly drawn boundaries that defined so much of life in the 50s mixed in with material affluence and a comparatively safe society gave rise to a sense that we could and should ask why and why not. And in the process of asking actually give some of the possibilities a try. Why not?
Boundaries are a strange phenomenon. They are so much a part of our reality: property, personal, national, ethical, they keep us separate from each other, in good and not so good ways. It isn't easy to challenge them. But without challenging boundaries, without asking "Why not?" we limit ourselves to attitudes and relationships and behaviors that may have made sense at one point in time, but are they meant to be eternal?
My parents taught me to be rational; at least they tried to, and in the process added a large dollop of idealism that's based on the Christian gospel. With that as a background, it was hard not to challenge boundaries, especially being the sophomoric loudmouth I was then (some would say I still am). But even they were frightened by some of the limbs I climbed out on. And some of those limbs had nothing to do with ideals.
I have retreated from some of those limbs, but I still challenge boundaries. I'm kin to Robert Frost, "Something there is that doesn't like a wall." I think we are too divided and defined and not free enough to grow up into Christ. We're too busy watching our P's and Q's to sing the praises of the most high God, let alone dance before the ark, or be blown away by the Holy Spirit. And, in fear, we reinforce boundaries that keep us and others stuck in patterns that are downright demonic and call on patriotism, or Christianity, or our way of life to justify the barbed wire we use to make sure no one violates our holy boundaries. Call me a fool, but I think our church is called to teach people that special "something" that doesn't like a wall. Think about the boundaries our Lord challenged. Think about the partitions He kicked over. He was pretty scary. But if we are to follow Him, maybe we ought to think less about making the walls stronger and more about being like Him.
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).
* * *
We have checking accounts, savings accounts, mutual funds, and retirement savings. About 2/3 of us own our homes, and if you look at the roads it seems as though almost everyone owns a car. Many of us spend our lives in pursuit of things, a relative few in pursuit of happiness… but how many of us focus on the most important thing? Inspired by Luke 12:13-21, Keith Hewitt looks at the end of one person's quest in his story, "The Night Visitor."
The Night Visitor
Keith Hewitt
Luke 12:13-21
She awoke with a pain in her chest. Decades in a high stress-high reward career had led her to understand that a certain amount of chest pain was normal, so there was nothing new about that.
On this occasion, her chest felt as though someone had slipped a giant oil filter wrench over it, and was now slowly moving the handle in, causing the metal band to squeeze ever tighter -- but that particular sensation had become more frequent of late, so there was nothing particularly new about it, either.
But as she swam out of the darkness, as her eyes slowly focused, she became aware that there was a woman -- or maybe a man -- sitting on the end of her bed.
Now that was new.
"Who are you?" she demanded, clutching her sheet and blanket tightly to her chest. "How did you get in here?"
The woman -- or man, it was so hard to tell in this light -- did not answer the question directly, but instead seemed to be studying a tablet that glowed softly in her/his hand. After a few nods, a couple of finger swipes on the screen to move items or change pages, the stranger looked directly at her, then down at the tablet, then back to her. "Ella McDougal?"
The voice didn't help -- it was soft, well modulated, and in that neutral range that could be either male or female. "Who are you?" she repeated, ignoring the intruder's question.
The answering expression reminded her of every patronizing nurse she had ever dealt with in the hospital. "That's really outside the scope of this conversation," the stranger answered, without answering. "Are you Ella McDougal?"
She sat up, then, still holding the sheet and blanket to her chest -- which, she noted in the back of her mind, had stopped hurting. "If you're going to break into someone's house, you ought to know whose house it is," she retorted frostily.
The figure at the end of her bed blinked once… twice… then touched the tablet with a finger. "I'll take that as a yes. But here, touch this." She/he extended the tablet toward Ella, inclined it so she could see a square in the corner of the tablet that was edged in crimson and glowed a little more brightly than the rest of the tablet.
"What is it?" Ella asked suspiciously, not moving.
"Touch it, please. Doesn't matter which finger."
Ella hesitated -- then, moving almost of its own free will, her right hand unclasped from her bedclothes and reached out toward the pearl glow of the tablet. Tentatively, she touched the corner with her index finger. The screen was warm to the touch, and ripples of a slightly darker shade radiated away from the fingertip as she pressed down. They reached the four corners of the square, half a dozen succeeding ripples chased them off the screen, and then it was featureless once more. She pulled her finger away, and in its place, in bold black print at the center of that square, was the word CONFIRMED, and under that her name and Social Security Number.
She barely had time to take that in before the stranger firmly took the tablet out of her hands, glanced at it and nodded, smiling. "There you go. It's confirmed, you are Ella."
"What is that? And what do you mean, it's confirmed?"
One of the stranger's eyebrows arched. "Well, now, you wouldn't confirm it for us, would you? So we had to confirm it ourselves." The stranger hesitated and then shrugged. "Truth be told, we would have run your ID through the system anyway, just to make sure. We picked up the wrong person a while back, and it caused no end of trouble. Did you know," she/he went on conversationally, "there was actually a totally different Abraham Lincoln, a coal miner, who was supposed to die in a mining accident back on Good Friday 1865? Who knew? But because of that mix-up, Management got all stressed out and hysterical." The intruder shrugged. "So now we have to go through all these new procedures."
"What do you mean? Who are you?"
The stranger patted Ella's leg through the blanket, in a friendly, slightly distracted fashion. "There, there. I know this is all somewhat of a shock to you -- but you shouldn't be all that shocked, really, should you? I mean, look at how you treated yourself. All that work, not enough exercise, and your diet -- phew! You're lucky we didn't meet ten years ago." She/he looked back at the tablet. "Now, there are a few things we need to go over --"
Ella felt as though the bed had been snatched out from under her, and she was falling ever faster and faster, though she was lying still. Her mind spun. "Wait a minute. Are you -- did you -- are you -- the Angel of Death?" She half-whispered those last words, afraid to say them out loud.
The figure at the end of the bed looked pained, then puzzled. "I -- you know -- that whole 'Angel of Death' thing is such a downer. I don't like to look at it that way. That makes it sound like, you know, the end. And it's not. This is really just the beginning -- you've got all of eternity ahead of you, Ella. This sixty or seventy years you spend in the flesh is really nothing, compared to what's coming next. I prefer to think of myself as a facilitator for eternity -- not an angel of death." She/he used fingers to put air quotes around the last phrase.
"But -- I'm dead?" Ella pressed.
"Well -- you got me there. Yes, you are dead. Did you notice your chest doesn't hurt anymore? I'm afraid that last grabber you had was what old man Sanford would have called the 'big one.' " Ella stared back at the intruder blankly. "You never watched 'Sanford and Son?' Oh, that's right -- you were too busy making your first million."
"But this has to be some kind of mistake," Ella said desperately -- acutely aware that her chest not only didn't hurt… but her body, itself, seemed to be detached from her. It was like she was sitting near it, but not in it.
The figure smiled. "If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could have retired after the First Punic War. Everybody always thinks there's been a mistake. Like they're going to be the first person in history to not die. I would think after the first fifty or sixty billion people died, you wouldn't be surprised anymore." She/he shrugged. "What can I tell you? Now, as I said, we've got a few things we have to take care of."
Ella was still reeling, and didn't hear the next question. She suddenly realized the stranger had stopped talking, and was looking at her expectantly. "I'm sorry," she murmured, "I didn't hear the question."
"That's what I thought. Your memories -- childhood, adulthood, everything you've ever done. Do you have all your memories?"
Ella chuckled in spite of herself -- a curious sound in the stillness of her room. "Whoever you are, it's been a lot of years since I had all my memories. I'm not senile or anything, but there's an awful lot that I just don't remember, anymore." She tapped the side of her head. "Not enough disk space."
"Try. What's something you've forgotten? How about your first day of school?"
"That was so long ago --" She stopped, aware that the memory of that first day of kindergarten was suddenly there, as sharp and clear as her memory of last night's dinner. Clearer -- if she closed her eyes she could see the classroom, old Miss Miller, the kids… there was Becky, and Steve, and that kid, Jack, with the braces on his legs. He used to smash flies and eat them, to make the girls scream. And that smell -- paste, it was, and fresh, cold milk, with graham crackers.
The stranger watched silently; let her have the moment, knowing the answer to the question from the smile and the look of wonder that had washed over Ella's face. After a while, it was necessary to interrupt. "Memories, check," the stranger said, and checked one item off the list with the tip of a finger. "How about love?"
Ella looked puzzled. "Love?"
"The love you've felt in the past -- do you still have it? Can you feel it?"
Ella started to shake her head. "I don't unders--" She stopped in mid-sentence, mid-word, as it suddenly flooded into her thoughts… parents, her aunt, her first husband… the feelings she had had for each of them were suddenly as strong and vibrant in her mind as they had ever had been. Their images passed before her, and the longing to reach out and touch them one more time was a pleasant, burning ache that swelled inside of her. "My God," she murmured, eyes fixed on things only she could see.
The visitor smiled again, touched the tablet. "Love, check." Her eyes twitched, fell across her/him by accident, then focused on the present… reluctantly. "Don't worry," the visitor said, "It all goes with you. And since you brought it up, that brings us to the last item: your relationship with God."
She leaned closer. "Beg your pardon?"
"Your relationship with God. You know--" she/he pointed up with a finger. "-- is that relationship in good order?"
Ella hesitated, waiting to see what might come to her. When nothing came to fill the void she suddenly felt inside of her, she shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I don't really have a relationship with God."
The visitor's lips pursed, and she/he raised her eyebrows "Ah. So you'll be going in the smoking section, then."
The void turned cold, and Ella fought to keep panic out of her voice. "What do you mean? I don't understand? What are you saying?"
"Oh, I think you know."
"I don't! What do you mean?"
The visitor looked down at the tablet again, clucked sadly. "You do know, Ella -- you really do. And you can't be surprised. I mean, look at it from our point of view: you were given 71 years, nine months, and eleven days to work out your relationship with God. It's been -- let me look, here -- it's been 68 years, four months, and two days since you first heard about Jesus. Church, Sunday school, Confirmation -- you did all that, and you still had 58 years and some months to really get squared away. And what did you do with it?"
"Look, I started working when I was fourteen --" Ella began defensively.
"And you never stopped. You worked, and worked -- you spent almost six decades building a career, building up your bank account, growing your investments. How much of that stuff do you think you're going to take along?" She/he raised a hand, thumb and forefinger meeting, forming an O. "This is what you take with you, Ella. There are no banks in Heaven -- no ATMs, no brokerage houses. You've got your memories, you've got the love you experienced -- the real love -- and you've got your relationship with God that gets you in the door. Only you…" She/he trailed off.
"But I didn't know!"
"How many times did God get put in your path, Ella -- only to have you brush him aside, make him second place? Or third? Or none?"
The void inside her seemed to take on mass, now, like a black hole that threatened to suck her in -- to drag in everything that was her, and drop it into nothingness, never to be seen again. "But this can't be! There has to be a way!"
Her visitor looked at her with compassion, started to speak, hesitated… then said quietly, "Look, you had plenty of warning. I don't make the final decisions. That's up to Management. But if it's any comfort, I'll tell you this: Management doesn't like to lose. I can't say what's going to happen next, but maybe, just maybe, there's one more stop along the way. One last way station before your final destination." She/he shrugged. "I can't say for sure -- but for whatever reason; he sure does love you people, and it wouldn't surprise me if you get one more chance."
Ella grabbed at that statement like a life ring thrown in a raging river. "So there's a chance!"
But her visitor just touched the tablet one last time, then looked at her and shrugged as it stopped glowing. Ella tried to shout one last question, one last plea -- but the words didn't come before she collapsed into the void inside her and vanished from this plane of existence. The visitor sighed as she receded to a tiny pinprick of light, and then vanished altogether.
And what came next… only God would know.
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.
**************
StoryShare, August 1, 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.
