A Matter Of Hope
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"A Matter of Hope" by Keith Hewitt
"Don't Cry" by Constance Berg
* * * * * * * * *
A Matter of Hope is a tale of someone who's come to the end of her rope, juggling too many bills and not enough income. Maybe you know her, or maybe you've been her. When times are tough we may find ourselves particularly preoccupied with earthly needs... but maybe those are also the times when we can hear the voice of God most clearly, if we just listen.
A Matter of Hope
Keith Hewitt
1 Kings 17:1-24
The letter was brief and almost brutally to the point; the sum of its contents carried in the first line: "A review of your application has shown that your household income disqualifies you from participation in the USDA Food Stamp program." There was more -- details about the decision criteria, the appeal process, etc. -- but it was window dressing to the bad news delivered in that first sentence. Esther closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she carefully folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope.
"Everything okay?" her father asked, one eye on her, the other on the portable black and white TV that sat on the kitchen counter.
"It's fine," she answered, too quickly.
He turned both eyes to her, then, studied her face for the space of a couple of heartbeats before he turned back to the TV, where another White House aide was being sworn in before the Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities. "That Sam Ervin is a character, isn't he? Reminds me of that rooster in the old Warner Brothers cartoons."
"Leghorn?" she guessed, not really paying attention.
"That's right, Foghorn Leghorn. He was funny." Then, without looking at her, he added, "You're just like your mother."
She went to the refrigerator, opened it -- closed it without taking anything out. There wasn't that much in there and what there was didn't interest her. Not right now. She sat down, picked up an empty cup, turned it slowly in her hands, didn't look at her father. "What do you mean?"
"Whatever else you might want to say about your mother, there's one thing for sure. She was a terrible liar." He took his eye off the Senator, glanced at her, sitting to his left. "I don't mean she lied a lot -- not like these folks--" he nodded toward the TV. "I mean she was a bad liar. I always said there were two reasons your mother would never have an affair, and one of them was because she could never lie about it. Not so's you'd believe her, anyway."
Esther smiled faintly, despite the cold lump in her stomach. "What was the other reason?"
Her father looked surprised, then winked. "She already had the perfect husband, of course. What would be the point?"
"Of course. What was I thinking?"
"I don't know." Pause. "Must be something on your mind, Essie. Want to tell me what it is?"
She shrugged, put the cup down. "I don't want to trouble you, Dad. I'll figure it out."
"And it's not going to trouble me to see my daughter moping around the house like a puppy who's lost her tail?"
She picked up the cup, again, fidgeted with it as she spoke, turning it this way, then that; setting it down, picking it up, finally setting it down and pushing it away. "Look, you know things have been tough. Your Social Security plus my survivor's pension and the kids' benefits don't exactly leave us flush with cash, and it's gotten worse this summer. By the time I finish paying everything, there's not much left for food -- so I decided to apply for food stamps, just to take some of the pressure off."
Her father's face became stiff, unreadable. "Essie, I'm not sure I like this. Our family has never been on Relief."
She sighed, smiled though her eyes were sad. "We're still not. We got turned down -- they say we're too rich."
He extended his arm across the table, patted her hand gently. "You know, I think they might be right."
"Then you better handle the checkbook, Dad, 'cause if we've got money left over, I'm not seeing it."
He shook his head, a quick motion side to side. "I don't think so. Your mother handled ours, I think you'll do at least as well handling it now, now that you've had a year or so to practice."
She shrugged. "I'm serious. I'm at my wits' end."
"Hmmph," he said softly, and pushed back his chair, stood up from the kitchen table. He walked over to the stove, picked up the glass coffee pot and moved it around in a circular motion, sloshing the brew within. Satisfied that there would be enough, he set it down on the burner and turned it up 'til the coil started to redden.
"Let me tell you something," he said, as he watched the pot. "Your mother had her moments, too. Back about ten years after we married, the stock market crashed, and you know what happened after that."
She nodded. "The Depression. I remember it, Dad."
"Maybe," he agreed. "But what you don't know is that your mother got to the point where she couldn't take it anymore, after a few years. My pay kept going down, and there was just never enough paycheck left to do what she wanted it to do."
Esther frowned. "I know we didn't have a lot --" she began.
"We didn't have a pot to… well, we had less than you think. The time came when old Jago told us we had to start paying down our account, or we wouldn't be able to charge food at his store, anymore. When the day came, there was just no money left to pay him."
Esther nodded. "I know the feeling."
"So your mother agonized over it the whole night, then walked up to Jago's store the next day to tell him. And do you know what happened?"
She tried to recall some hint, shook her head when nothing came.
"She found out some man -- some stranger, as far as we know -- paid off the account. She was able to scramble and hold things together, and not long after that, things started to look up."
"I don't remember that, Dad. But believe me, if someone wants to come along and pay off our bills, I'll be more than willing to step aside."
"The point is, your mother never worried -- never really worried -- about how we were going to make ends meet after that. She said that God must be watching out for us, and even if things weren't easy, he would still see to it that there was a way through it. We just had to trust him."
The coffee in the pot started to bubble, and he turned the burner off, took the pot off the stove, offered to pour his daughter a cup. She pushed the cup toward him, and he poured, continuing to talk. "Nobody paid off our account again. There were still weeks when we had to scrounge meals from whatever we had in the house. We still ate our share of butter and sugar sandwiches, and there were even a couple of nights I remember having coffee for dinner, so you kids would be able to have something anyway."
Esther frowned. "If that's God's way of making sure there was a way through it --"
He poured himself a cup, tipping the pot on end to get the last few drops out of it. "We all made it -- you and your sister, your mother and I. The point isn't so much how we did it, but that we did it. That man paying our account -- that was a mighty direct thing. But I don't think God made it happen so we could have food -- he did it so we could have hope." He took a sip, added, "I look at it like a division of labor thing. We take care of the everyday stuff in life, do the best we can with what we're given. And then God is there to make sure we've got the important stuff."
She smiled. "Like hope?"
"Like hope," he agreed, then smiled and raised his cup in toast. "And each other."
Don't Cry
Constance Berg
Luke 7:11-17
Peter sat on the step, crying. His knee was skinned, his pants torn, and his pride hurt. He was trying to ride his bike without its training wheels. He was going to turn six in three weeks and he wanted to be able to show his friends that he could ride his bike without training wheels. Jimmy and Danny and even clumsy old Adam rode their bikes without training wheels. They were coming to his birthday party, and he didn't want them to think he was a baby. But right now his knee stung, and he just wanted to cry.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Timmy, his neighbor, sat down next to Peter. "Why ya cryin'?" he asked. Peter was so embarrassed. Timmy was only five, and he rode his bike without training wheels. "Well, this big dog came out and barked at me and I got scared," Peter said. He felt bad for lying but he couldn't admit to Timmy that he had fallen off his bike. "Is the dog still around here? I better get going now," Timmy said as he walked off. Peter was relieved that Timmy hadn't mentioned Peter's bike lying beside him.
Peter looked at his knee. His mom wouldn't like the tear in his pants. It was right at the knee. His knee stung, but it didn't really hurt. He looked over at his bike. He was going to try it again.
Carefully, Peter stood up and looked around. There was no one around to see him. He walked the bike up to his driveway and pushed off. "Young man!" Peter dropped his leg and skidded to a stop. "Young man!" Peter turned around.
"Young man, may I make a little suggestion?" Mr. Matthews, Peter's neighbor, was watering his roses. He peered at Peter over his little glasses. "If you ride on the sidewalk, it'll be easier. Your driveway's pretty steep. Why don't you try riding along the sidewalk? I think you'll do just fine there."
Peter hopped off his bike and walked to the sidewalk at the end of the driveway. He got on and pushed off. His bike didn't move. He leaned forward. Nothing happened. Suddenly, he felt his bike moving slowly. Mr. Matthews was holding his seat up and pushing his bike forward.
"I bet your bike would behave if you put one foot on the pedal and then kinda kick off with the other. Wanna try it?" Mr. Matthews held the bike steady and pointed to Peter's leg. "This one can step on the pedal and that one can kick off. Try it."
Peter stepped on the pedal. He wobbled a bit but then pushed forward with the other foot. He could feel his bike moving forward. It felt great!
The bike had moved about five feet when suddenly it started to wobble. Suddenly the bike straightened out. Mr. Matthews was running beside him, holding the bike up by the seat. "Sit straight up and pretend those training wheels are still there. There. Doesn't that feel better? Keep going! Now you got it! Yes, you did it! I'm not even holding on!"
They came to the corner. Peter turned around. Mr. Matthews was a few feet behind him. Peter couldn't believe it -- he had done it! He giggled in delight.
"Let's try it again and this time I won't say anything. You try it all by yourself...."
(story from Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit, Series III, Cycle C, Constance Berg [CSS Publishing Co.: Lima, Ohio], 2000)
**************
StoryShare, June 6, 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.
What's Up This Week
"A Matter of Hope" by Keith Hewitt
"Don't Cry" by Constance Berg
* * * * * * * * *
A Matter of Hope is a tale of someone who's come to the end of her rope, juggling too many bills and not enough income. Maybe you know her, or maybe you've been her. When times are tough we may find ourselves particularly preoccupied with earthly needs... but maybe those are also the times when we can hear the voice of God most clearly, if we just listen.
A Matter of Hope
Keith Hewitt
1 Kings 17:1-24
The letter was brief and almost brutally to the point; the sum of its contents carried in the first line: "A review of your application has shown that your household income disqualifies you from participation in the USDA Food Stamp program." There was more -- details about the decision criteria, the appeal process, etc. -- but it was window dressing to the bad news delivered in that first sentence. Esther closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she carefully folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope.
"Everything okay?" her father asked, one eye on her, the other on the portable black and white TV that sat on the kitchen counter.
"It's fine," she answered, too quickly.
He turned both eyes to her, then, studied her face for the space of a couple of heartbeats before he turned back to the TV, where another White House aide was being sworn in before the Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities. "That Sam Ervin is a character, isn't he? Reminds me of that rooster in the old Warner Brothers cartoons."
"Leghorn?" she guessed, not really paying attention.
"That's right, Foghorn Leghorn. He was funny." Then, without looking at her, he added, "You're just like your mother."
She went to the refrigerator, opened it -- closed it without taking anything out. There wasn't that much in there and what there was didn't interest her. Not right now. She sat down, picked up an empty cup, turned it slowly in her hands, didn't look at her father. "What do you mean?"
"Whatever else you might want to say about your mother, there's one thing for sure. She was a terrible liar." He took his eye off the Senator, glanced at her, sitting to his left. "I don't mean she lied a lot -- not like these folks--" he nodded toward the TV. "I mean she was a bad liar. I always said there were two reasons your mother would never have an affair, and one of them was because she could never lie about it. Not so's you'd believe her, anyway."
Esther smiled faintly, despite the cold lump in her stomach. "What was the other reason?"
Her father looked surprised, then winked. "She already had the perfect husband, of course. What would be the point?"
"Of course. What was I thinking?"
"I don't know." Pause. "Must be something on your mind, Essie. Want to tell me what it is?"
She shrugged, put the cup down. "I don't want to trouble you, Dad. I'll figure it out."
"And it's not going to trouble me to see my daughter moping around the house like a puppy who's lost her tail?"
She picked up the cup, again, fidgeted with it as she spoke, turning it this way, then that; setting it down, picking it up, finally setting it down and pushing it away. "Look, you know things have been tough. Your Social Security plus my survivor's pension and the kids' benefits don't exactly leave us flush with cash, and it's gotten worse this summer. By the time I finish paying everything, there's not much left for food -- so I decided to apply for food stamps, just to take some of the pressure off."
Her father's face became stiff, unreadable. "Essie, I'm not sure I like this. Our family has never been on Relief."
She sighed, smiled though her eyes were sad. "We're still not. We got turned down -- they say we're too rich."
He extended his arm across the table, patted her hand gently. "You know, I think they might be right."
"Then you better handle the checkbook, Dad, 'cause if we've got money left over, I'm not seeing it."
He shook his head, a quick motion side to side. "I don't think so. Your mother handled ours, I think you'll do at least as well handling it now, now that you've had a year or so to practice."
She shrugged. "I'm serious. I'm at my wits' end."
"Hmmph," he said softly, and pushed back his chair, stood up from the kitchen table. He walked over to the stove, picked up the glass coffee pot and moved it around in a circular motion, sloshing the brew within. Satisfied that there would be enough, he set it down on the burner and turned it up 'til the coil started to redden.
"Let me tell you something," he said, as he watched the pot. "Your mother had her moments, too. Back about ten years after we married, the stock market crashed, and you know what happened after that."
She nodded. "The Depression. I remember it, Dad."
"Maybe," he agreed. "But what you don't know is that your mother got to the point where she couldn't take it anymore, after a few years. My pay kept going down, and there was just never enough paycheck left to do what she wanted it to do."
Esther frowned. "I know we didn't have a lot --" she began.
"We didn't have a pot to… well, we had less than you think. The time came when old Jago told us we had to start paying down our account, or we wouldn't be able to charge food at his store, anymore. When the day came, there was just no money left to pay him."
Esther nodded. "I know the feeling."
"So your mother agonized over it the whole night, then walked up to Jago's store the next day to tell him. And do you know what happened?"
She tried to recall some hint, shook her head when nothing came.
"She found out some man -- some stranger, as far as we know -- paid off the account. She was able to scramble and hold things together, and not long after that, things started to look up."
"I don't remember that, Dad. But believe me, if someone wants to come along and pay off our bills, I'll be more than willing to step aside."
"The point is, your mother never worried -- never really worried -- about how we were going to make ends meet after that. She said that God must be watching out for us, and even if things weren't easy, he would still see to it that there was a way through it. We just had to trust him."
The coffee in the pot started to bubble, and he turned the burner off, took the pot off the stove, offered to pour his daughter a cup. She pushed the cup toward him, and he poured, continuing to talk. "Nobody paid off our account again. There were still weeks when we had to scrounge meals from whatever we had in the house. We still ate our share of butter and sugar sandwiches, and there were even a couple of nights I remember having coffee for dinner, so you kids would be able to have something anyway."
Esther frowned. "If that's God's way of making sure there was a way through it --"
He poured himself a cup, tipping the pot on end to get the last few drops out of it. "We all made it -- you and your sister, your mother and I. The point isn't so much how we did it, but that we did it. That man paying our account -- that was a mighty direct thing. But I don't think God made it happen so we could have food -- he did it so we could have hope." He took a sip, added, "I look at it like a division of labor thing. We take care of the everyday stuff in life, do the best we can with what we're given. And then God is there to make sure we've got the important stuff."
She smiled. "Like hope?"
"Like hope," he agreed, then smiled and raised his cup in toast. "And each other."
Don't Cry
Constance Berg
Luke 7:11-17
Peter sat on the step, crying. His knee was skinned, his pants torn, and his pride hurt. He was trying to ride his bike without its training wheels. He was going to turn six in three weeks and he wanted to be able to show his friends that he could ride his bike without training wheels. Jimmy and Danny and even clumsy old Adam rode their bikes without training wheels. They were coming to his birthday party, and he didn't want them to think he was a baby. But right now his knee stung, and he just wanted to cry.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Timmy, his neighbor, sat down next to Peter. "Why ya cryin'?" he asked. Peter was so embarrassed. Timmy was only five, and he rode his bike without training wheels. "Well, this big dog came out and barked at me and I got scared," Peter said. He felt bad for lying but he couldn't admit to Timmy that he had fallen off his bike. "Is the dog still around here? I better get going now," Timmy said as he walked off. Peter was relieved that Timmy hadn't mentioned Peter's bike lying beside him.
Peter looked at his knee. His mom wouldn't like the tear in his pants. It was right at the knee. His knee stung, but it didn't really hurt. He looked over at his bike. He was going to try it again.
Carefully, Peter stood up and looked around. There was no one around to see him. He walked the bike up to his driveway and pushed off. "Young man!" Peter dropped his leg and skidded to a stop. "Young man!" Peter turned around.
"Young man, may I make a little suggestion?" Mr. Matthews, Peter's neighbor, was watering his roses. He peered at Peter over his little glasses. "If you ride on the sidewalk, it'll be easier. Your driveway's pretty steep. Why don't you try riding along the sidewalk? I think you'll do just fine there."
Peter hopped off his bike and walked to the sidewalk at the end of the driveway. He got on and pushed off. His bike didn't move. He leaned forward. Nothing happened. Suddenly, he felt his bike moving slowly. Mr. Matthews was holding his seat up and pushing his bike forward.
"I bet your bike would behave if you put one foot on the pedal and then kinda kick off with the other. Wanna try it?" Mr. Matthews held the bike steady and pointed to Peter's leg. "This one can step on the pedal and that one can kick off. Try it."
Peter stepped on the pedal. He wobbled a bit but then pushed forward with the other foot. He could feel his bike moving forward. It felt great!
The bike had moved about five feet when suddenly it started to wobble. Suddenly the bike straightened out. Mr. Matthews was running beside him, holding the bike up by the seat. "Sit straight up and pretend those training wheels are still there. There. Doesn't that feel better? Keep going! Now you got it! Yes, you did it! I'm not even holding on!"
They came to the corner. Peter turned around. Mr. Matthews was a few feet behind him. Peter couldn't believe it -- he had done it! He giggled in delight.
"Let's try it again and this time I won't say anything. You try it all by yourself...."
(story from Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit, Series III, Cycle C, Constance Berg [CSS Publishing Co.: Lima, Ohio], 2000)
**************
StoryShare, June 6, 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.
