As For Me And My House
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"As for Me and My House" by Craig Kelly
"Angie's Grand Adventure" by Timothy J. Smith
What's Up This Week
No matter how much we prepare ourselves and our families, there are events that take us totally unaware. We reach into our souls seeking some bit of strength to pull us through. "Give ear, O my people, to my teaching..." A few words of scripture rise to our brains and our strength begins to deepen once again... "rise up and tell [God's law] to [your] children so that they should set their hope in God." We face our dilemma and work hard to place God in our children's hearts to build their strength in the future.
* * * * * * * * *
As for Me and My House... By Craig Kelly Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25
I've always been told that if you train a child in the way he should go, when he's old he won't be departed... or something like that. Basically, it means if you do right by your kids, they'll do right when they get older. I know it's in the Bible, but I can't begin to tell you where right now.
Well, there were times when I believed that. I just figured if I could raise my two kids with the right values and the right direction, they would turn out all right. Course, being a widower working at the local GM factory didn't exactly make things easy, what with having to drop kids off at babysitters or leaving notes for them to read after school letting them know there were TV dinners in the freezer for them when I worked second shift, but somehow, we seemed to make it through. Even took them to church every week, getting the good book into them, making sure they knew about God and his love and what the Bible says is right and wrong. My daughter even sang in the church choir for most of her teen years. Most beautiful soprano voice I've ever heard.
My son was an altar boy - even got to read the scriptures every now and then. He was good at speaking in public like that. I always thought that between that and his skills on the basketball court, he'd end up in the NBA and then doing TV commentary when he got older. He always said he wanted to play for the Bulls... be just like Michael Jordan. If things had gone differently, maybe he would have.
Seems like those days were a couple of lifetimes ago, now. Now, I'm here, sitting in a waiting area here at the county jail, waiting to pick up my son. Amazing what getting in the wrong crowd will do to you. Started innocently enough. My son needed a new basketball to practice at home with. I couldn't get one - plant was on shutdown and money was tight - so some punk kid at school bought him one - plus new basketball shoes. Once he gained my son's confidence and friendship, it didn't take long to see where this kid was getting his money from. Once he got my son into doing some dealing for him, it just went all downhill. Drug dealing, drinking, fights with other dealers, finally leading to that terrible day.
Can you imagine how torn you would feel, watching your son being wrestled to the ground in your own home by police officers? It's your son, your flesh and blood, and everything in you wants to jump in there and fight off his attackers, and yet you know that what they're doing to him is right. For the good of society, they need to pull his arms behind his back, handcuff him, and lead him away. I never felt so helpless in all my life.
I remember as they lifted him up off the ground, he began screaming and cursing at them, kicking up his legs vainly trying to get away. At one point, he lost his balance, slamming his shoulder against the kitchen wall. The force of the impact sent a decorative plate down to the ground, breaking it in three pieces. Things were so crazy, I didn't even notice it till my daughter and I got back from the station. It was given to my wife and I by her mother on our wedding day, inscribed with my wife's favorite scripture: "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord." Seemed oddly appropriate that it was now broken, given the circumstances. I remember picking up what was left of the plate and slowly walking to the trash bin. I just figured it was time to clean up and move on.
"Dad! What are you doing? You told us that was Mom's favorite plate!"
It seemed like my daughter was instantly beside me, her hand on my shoulder.
"Look, it's time to clean up. No sense keeping a broken plate."
"What are you talking about? Just because it's broken doesn't mean you throw it away. If we work at it, it can be fixed." I still wonder if she was really talking about the plate.
She worked well into the night, carefully applying the crazy glue, gently working the pieces back into place. The next morning, I walked into the kitchen to find the plate back upon the wall, back in one piece. The only way you would know it was broken is the three fine lines that run through the plate, but you have to be looking closely to find them.
As I wait here for my son to be released, I wonder if our own family can come back together as easily.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an opening door at the end of the room. My daughter and I stand together nervously, waiting to see who comes through. I don't know whether or not the man who comes through the door will be the same boy I raised... or if he'll be someone else.
Slowly, my son walks through the door, head down. He doesn't look like he's aged a day, and yet he looks older at the same time. As he lifts his head and spots us, I can see tears pooling in his eyes and I feel those same tears forming in my own. Suddenly he breaks out into a run, collapsing into me, sobbing. I join him. Never thought I'd sob in the open like this, but somehow it doesn't seem to matter right now. The three of us join in a tearful hug. It's over now. Finally over.
"Dad, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm ready to change, Dad, I'm ready," he sobs into my chest.
"It's all right, son, it's all right. Come on, let's all go home."
Slowly, we walk out of the room, arm in arm.
Craig Kelly is the Editorial Assistant for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing. This is his first publication.
Angie's Grand Adventure
By Timothy J. Smith
Matthew 25:1-13
Eight-year-old Angie and her family were visiting friends in suburban Washington DC. It was the first time Angie had ever been to a large metropolitan city. She was dazzled by all the people, traffic, and large buildings. Once at their friend's house the children decided to ride bicycles, the two visiting children as well as the two who lived there. Angie's mother told them not to go very far, just around the block a couple of times. After several hours of driving in the car, expending some energy would be the best thing for the children.
Sometime later, when the mothers went looking for the children, all the children were back except for Angie. Upon questioning the other children said they did not know what happened to Angie. They thought she was right behind them on her bike. They turned the corner and waited and waited, but she never turned the corner so they returned home.
The panic-stricken adults quickly got into the car and began driving frantically around the block searching for the missing child. When they did not find Angie around the first block, they expanded their search to the next block and then the next. Her mother kept calling her name, hoping deep down she would hear that familiar voice, "Coming, Mom."
After their failed search, they returned to the house, hoping by now Angie would be back safe and sound. When she was not, they called 911. As they waited for the police, all sorts of terrible thoughts filled their minds.
After 45 agonizing minutes, a police car arrived with Angie in the back seat, followed by an older model car with two elderly women. In the front yard was a joyful reunion as mother and father hugged their wayward daughter and smothered her with kisses.
When asked what happened, Angie explained that she was not sure how long a "block" was so when she separated from the other children she just kept going straight. After what the police estimated as fifteen blocks, she came to an overpass and then realized that maybe she had gone too far. She stood on the corner crying.
Just then the two women happened past. They saw Angie standing on the corner crying, so they stopped to ask her what was wrong. Between sobs she managed to say she was lost and then began to cry even harder. "Don't worry, little girl," one of the women tried to assure her. "We'll take you home. Where do you live, honey?" the other woman asked. "Pennsylvania," Angie replied. The two elderly women just looked at each other.
As the women were talking with her, a police officer spotted them.
This was not the end of the story. By the time the police officer informed everyone what happened, assuring them that Angie was unharmed, one of the elderly women slowly made her way across the lawn. She told the group that her husband had died just two weeks ago. She was sitting home, all alone, feeling sad that afternoon. Her friend called, suggesting that they go for a drive. A drive would do her good, her friend assured her. It would help her take her mind off other things.
The woman told Angie's mother that for the first time since her husband's death she felt better. "It feels good to help someone else," she said. Somehow or other God's hand brought Angie and this woman together that afternoon.
-- from Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit, Series II, Cycle A, by Timothy J. Smith (CSS Publishing Co., Inc.: Lima, Ohio, 1998), pp. 123-124.
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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 email the story to us at storyshare@sermonsuite.com.
**************
StoryShare, November 9, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"As for Me and My House" by Craig Kelly
"Angie's Grand Adventure" by Timothy J. Smith
What's Up This Week
No matter how much we prepare ourselves and our families, there are events that take us totally unaware. We reach into our souls seeking some bit of strength to pull us through. "Give ear, O my people, to my teaching..." A few words of scripture rise to our brains and our strength begins to deepen once again... "rise up and tell [God's law] to [your] children so that they should set their hope in God." We face our dilemma and work hard to place God in our children's hearts to build their strength in the future.
* * * * * * * * *
As for Me and My House... By Craig Kelly Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25
I've always been told that if you train a child in the way he should go, when he's old he won't be departed... or something like that. Basically, it means if you do right by your kids, they'll do right when they get older. I know it's in the Bible, but I can't begin to tell you where right now.
Well, there were times when I believed that. I just figured if I could raise my two kids with the right values and the right direction, they would turn out all right. Course, being a widower working at the local GM factory didn't exactly make things easy, what with having to drop kids off at babysitters or leaving notes for them to read after school letting them know there were TV dinners in the freezer for them when I worked second shift, but somehow, we seemed to make it through. Even took them to church every week, getting the good book into them, making sure they knew about God and his love and what the Bible says is right and wrong. My daughter even sang in the church choir for most of her teen years. Most beautiful soprano voice I've ever heard.
My son was an altar boy - even got to read the scriptures every now and then. He was good at speaking in public like that. I always thought that between that and his skills on the basketball court, he'd end up in the NBA and then doing TV commentary when he got older. He always said he wanted to play for the Bulls... be just like Michael Jordan. If things had gone differently, maybe he would have.
Seems like those days were a couple of lifetimes ago, now. Now, I'm here, sitting in a waiting area here at the county jail, waiting to pick up my son. Amazing what getting in the wrong crowd will do to you. Started innocently enough. My son needed a new basketball to practice at home with. I couldn't get one - plant was on shutdown and money was tight - so some punk kid at school bought him one - plus new basketball shoes. Once he gained my son's confidence and friendship, it didn't take long to see where this kid was getting his money from. Once he got my son into doing some dealing for him, it just went all downhill. Drug dealing, drinking, fights with other dealers, finally leading to that terrible day.
Can you imagine how torn you would feel, watching your son being wrestled to the ground in your own home by police officers? It's your son, your flesh and blood, and everything in you wants to jump in there and fight off his attackers, and yet you know that what they're doing to him is right. For the good of society, they need to pull his arms behind his back, handcuff him, and lead him away. I never felt so helpless in all my life.
I remember as they lifted him up off the ground, he began screaming and cursing at them, kicking up his legs vainly trying to get away. At one point, he lost his balance, slamming his shoulder against the kitchen wall. The force of the impact sent a decorative plate down to the ground, breaking it in three pieces. Things were so crazy, I didn't even notice it till my daughter and I got back from the station. It was given to my wife and I by her mother on our wedding day, inscribed with my wife's favorite scripture: "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord." Seemed oddly appropriate that it was now broken, given the circumstances. I remember picking up what was left of the plate and slowly walking to the trash bin. I just figured it was time to clean up and move on.
"Dad! What are you doing? You told us that was Mom's favorite plate!"
It seemed like my daughter was instantly beside me, her hand on my shoulder.
"Look, it's time to clean up. No sense keeping a broken plate."
"What are you talking about? Just because it's broken doesn't mean you throw it away. If we work at it, it can be fixed." I still wonder if she was really talking about the plate.
She worked well into the night, carefully applying the crazy glue, gently working the pieces back into place. The next morning, I walked into the kitchen to find the plate back upon the wall, back in one piece. The only way you would know it was broken is the three fine lines that run through the plate, but you have to be looking closely to find them.
As I wait here for my son to be released, I wonder if our own family can come back together as easily.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an opening door at the end of the room. My daughter and I stand together nervously, waiting to see who comes through. I don't know whether or not the man who comes through the door will be the same boy I raised... or if he'll be someone else.
Slowly, my son walks through the door, head down. He doesn't look like he's aged a day, and yet he looks older at the same time. As he lifts his head and spots us, I can see tears pooling in his eyes and I feel those same tears forming in my own. Suddenly he breaks out into a run, collapsing into me, sobbing. I join him. Never thought I'd sob in the open like this, but somehow it doesn't seem to matter right now. The three of us join in a tearful hug. It's over now. Finally over.
"Dad, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm ready to change, Dad, I'm ready," he sobs into my chest.
"It's all right, son, it's all right. Come on, let's all go home."
Slowly, we walk out of the room, arm in arm.
Craig Kelly is the Editorial Assistant for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing. This is his first publication.
Angie's Grand Adventure
By Timothy J. Smith
Matthew 25:1-13
Eight-year-old Angie and her family were visiting friends in suburban Washington DC. It was the first time Angie had ever been to a large metropolitan city. She was dazzled by all the people, traffic, and large buildings. Once at their friend's house the children decided to ride bicycles, the two visiting children as well as the two who lived there. Angie's mother told them not to go very far, just around the block a couple of times. After several hours of driving in the car, expending some energy would be the best thing for the children.
Sometime later, when the mothers went looking for the children, all the children were back except for Angie. Upon questioning the other children said they did not know what happened to Angie. They thought she was right behind them on her bike. They turned the corner and waited and waited, but she never turned the corner so they returned home.
The panic-stricken adults quickly got into the car and began driving frantically around the block searching for the missing child. When they did not find Angie around the first block, they expanded their search to the next block and then the next. Her mother kept calling her name, hoping deep down she would hear that familiar voice, "Coming, Mom."
After their failed search, they returned to the house, hoping by now Angie would be back safe and sound. When she was not, they called 911. As they waited for the police, all sorts of terrible thoughts filled their minds.
After 45 agonizing minutes, a police car arrived with Angie in the back seat, followed by an older model car with two elderly women. In the front yard was a joyful reunion as mother and father hugged their wayward daughter and smothered her with kisses.
When asked what happened, Angie explained that she was not sure how long a "block" was so when she separated from the other children she just kept going straight. After what the police estimated as fifteen blocks, she came to an overpass and then realized that maybe she had gone too far. She stood on the corner crying.
Just then the two women happened past. They saw Angie standing on the corner crying, so they stopped to ask her what was wrong. Between sobs she managed to say she was lost and then began to cry even harder. "Don't worry, little girl," one of the women tried to assure her. "We'll take you home. Where do you live, honey?" the other woman asked. "Pennsylvania," Angie replied. The two elderly women just looked at each other.
As the women were talking with her, a police officer spotted them.
This was not the end of the story. By the time the police officer informed everyone what happened, assuring them that Angie was unharmed, one of the elderly women slowly made her way across the lawn. She told the group that her husband had died just two weeks ago. She was sitting home, all alone, feeling sad that afternoon. Her friend called, suggesting that they go for a drive. A drive would do her good, her friend assured her. It would help her take her mind off other things.
The woman told Angie's mother that for the first time since her husband's death she felt better. "It feels good to help someone else," she said. Somehow or other God's hand brought Angie and this woman together that afternoon.
-- from Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit, Series II, Cycle A, by Timothy J. Smith (CSS Publishing Co., Inc.: Lima, Ohio, 1998), pp. 123-124.
**********************************************
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 email the story to us at storyshare@sermonsuite.com.
**************
StoryShare, November 9, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
