Never Again Separate
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Never Again Separate" by David O. Bales
"Switching Treasures" by Craig Kelly
What's Up This Week
Hospital chaplains offer a different perspective on what it means to witness for Christ in desperate times. "Never Again Separate" shows us how reconciliation can help heal years of anger. "Switching Treasures" reminds us that there are things in life worth pursuing no matter what the cost -- but we have to be careful not to be dazzled by things that only look attractive on the surface.
* * * * * * * * *
Never Again Separate
By David O. Bales
Romans 8:26-39
Ellie made it from the basement parking lot into the elevator and up to the eighth floor without thinking it yet. She passed a crash cart and walked by an open door, where she concluded that someone needed to help a patient off the commode soon. She turned right into another hall and saw the nurses' station ahead. Still, by a masterful exercise of her mind, she pushed the thought away. However, when she saw the RN's head bent down, probably charting a patient, she could no longer keep the thought at bay: I wonder if Tate has died yet?
Maybe, she wondered, when I've been a chaplain for eighteen years instead of nine, I'll be able to protect myself from pain longer. I'll delay the onset of consciousness longer. Maybe I'll stop hurting the moment I step from a patient's room and not hurt until I enter again.
She thought now about Tate, no putting off the pain anymore. She leaned against the counter. The nurse's head was still down. "Betty," Ellie said, "how's Reverend Tate in 21?"
"Ah, let me look. He was Johnson's last night." She shuffled and flipped a few papers, then looked on both sides of her. "There it is." She grabbed a chart and handed it to Ellie. That answered her question. He was still alive.
She instantly turned and followed her training if not her instincts. Do the hardest first. Reverend Tate was the hardest. He'd gotten her into this. He was her pastor ten years ago: Reverend Tate the straightest and most moral arrow ever shot at a congregation. Also the most frustrating and maddening. But he'd discerned Ellie's gifts and potential and encouraged her to become a hospital chaplain.
She rounded the last corner and saw Nurse Johnson coming. Johnson knew what Ellie was going through. As they passed, Johnson reached over and brushed Ellie's shoulder with her hand, grimaced, and said, "He's alive."
He'd lived until Tuesday as Ellie feared he would. This would be the day of the meeting. Ellie took a stutter step, grit her teeth, and turned into 821.
"Ham coming?" was the first thing Reverend Tate said, having turned his head toward Ellie.
"He's coming," she said.
"I'll wait," he said and closed his eyes.
Hamilton Pritchard was the congregation's associate pastor when the congregation asked Reverend Tate to retire at 70. Pritchard stayed on as senior pastor. Since he retired Reverend Tate had never gone back to the congregation nor spoken with Hamilton Pritchard. Publicly he said he remained away in order to give the current pastors "a free hand" in ministry. Ellie, in the confidentiality of serving as hospital chaplain, heard all about his anger and anguish. After his retirement a series of illnesses regularly brought him to the hospital. Now he was dying.
Ellie had phoned Hamilton Pritchard at a denominational meeting Monday evening, telling him of Tate's illness and that Tate wanted to see him. Pritchard said he'd fly home and be to the hospital by morning.
Ellie wouldn't talk with Tate now. She knew he was saving his strength to talk with Hamilton Pritchard. Would his eight years of silent suffering emerge as anger to Pritchard? She stood in the hall, back straight against the wall and prayed.
"Ellie." It was Hamilton Pritchard. He looked tired but concerned. "You okay?"
"Yeah, well, worried about Tate."
"How is he?"
"Alive, and he wants to talk to you."
"Eight years," he looked down and shook his head. "I don't think there's been a day I haven't prayed for him. But I'm still scared to face him."
In Ellie's job people immediately told her the truth. As she watched Hamilton Pritchard enter room 821, she prayed that Tate and Pritchard could speak the truth to one another in love.
* * *
A week later Hamilton Pritchard requested that Ellie read scripture at Reverend Tate's funeral. The order of worship placed the scripture after the sermon.
The sanctuary was half full, many of the new members not having known Reverend Tate. The service was simple. The congregation sang two hymns. Three colleagues of Tate spoke for five minutes each -- all mentioning how important it was for Tate to do the right thing, and above all not to hurt anyone.
Then Reverend Pritchard spoke. "For Nathan Tate this congregation was his family, from which he expected too much. Nathan and I talked about it two days before he died. This congregation wasn't morally perfect in its dealing with an aging pastor. He wasn't morally upright in his response, remaining, as he said, in exile from the congregation.
"But none of us always understands what is ethically required of us and none of us lives in a morally perfect way. If we did, we wouldn't need a Savior.
"Nathan Tate asked me to apologize to you for his eight years of separation. He also asked that a portion of the eighth chapter of Paul's letter to the Romans be read. This text explains our Christian hope and the one solution for our problems in or out of the church."
When he sat, Ellie approached the pulpit. She couldn't push away her pain, yet she could say something deeply true, "Add me to the list of those who hope and pray for the final reunion Paul promises, 'For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.' "
David O. Bales has been a Presbyterian pastor for 30 years. Currently the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, he is also a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching Great Texts, and Interpretation, and he is the author of Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace (CSS). Bales is a graduate of the University of Portland and San Francisco Theological Seminary.
Switching Treasures
Craig Kelly
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52
I... need it....
I need it... so bad....
I need it now....
Now....
"Now!"
He let out a guttural scream that passed through the closed door and down the hallway. Even through a thick, reinforced door designed to muffle outside noise for patient comfort, his scream still turned a few heads twenty feet down the hall. It only held their attention for a moment, however; this was the detox ward. Nothing surprised the nurses and staff here. The sight of two hospital security officers running down the hall to his room didn't even make them flinch.
He had come in a little over a day earlier -- half-conscious, strung out on crack cocaine. It took almost five minutes of repeated questioning to get a name out of him: Kevin. Eventually, hospital security found a beat-up wallet ten yards outside the emergency center entrance. It only gave a few more details, thanks to an expired driver's license inside: Kevin Ryan Talbot, age 26, and the address put him in a wealthy suburb just outside the city. They would later discover that it was his parents' place, and they made it abundantly clear that they wanted nothing to do with their son: "We gave him every chance, and he's still a junkie! We're done! You deal with him," then a loud click followed by a dial tone.
It looked like he was on his own.
It had taken him over four hours to come out of his haze. For living on the streets, he still wasn't terrible to look at. He still had his thick blond hair and enough of his boyish good looks to try to play the nurses for some drugs, but they'd seen it all before and none of them were buying the act. Slowly his charm soured, starting with snappy remarks, descending to insults and profanity, and now, having gone a full day without a fix, it turned into rage. He kicked. He flailed his arms. He spit. He bit. He screamed.
As the two officers ran into the room, they saw three nurses struggling to hold Kevin down. "Get his legs!" one nurse yelled. Immediately the officers pounced on his legs, but even as strong as they were, it was a titanic struggle to keep his legs still long enough for the nurse to apply leather restraints to his ankles. Once they got his legs strapped down, it was an easier task to strap his wrists down to the bed, so long as they didn't mind some spit on their faces.
Finally, they stepped back, letting him grunt and scream, struggling against the leather straps holding him down. One of the nurses, a middle-aged woman, turned to the younger nurse beside her.
"Did you administer lorazepam?" the nurse asked, short of breath.
"Yeah," the other nurse replied, also taking deep breaths, "but it's hard to say what effect, if any, it will have."
"I know, but it's worth a try."
Kevin continued to struggle against the restraints in desperation, yelling obscenities at the nurses as they filed out of the room, leaving him alone with his anger. He screamed for another fifteen minutes, and when his voice gave out, he laid back against his pillow, weeping.
* * *
Kevin squinted as someone turned the light on above his bed. After requesting -- more like demanding -- that the blinds over the windows in his room be kept closed, he had laid in the dark for several hours, only occasionally interrupted by a nurse's aide coming to check his vitals. He liked the dark. The light hurt his eyes. Darkness was comforting, wrapping around him like a blanket. Now that security blanket was gone, dispelled in an instant by one fluorescent light bulb above his bed.
"How are you feeling?" came a voice to his right.
Kevin sighed. "Fine," he curtly replied, hoping it would drive this intruder away. The voice beside him chuckled. "Right." Kevin heard the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor to rest beside his bed. As he was still restrained, this time with foam restraints rather than the tougher leathers, he couldn't turn over to his side to get a good look at the new visitor. Great, the guy's sitting down. His eyes finally adjusted to the light, and he turned and saw a tall black man, late-thirties or early forties, taking a seat beside his bed. He touched a button on the side rail of Kevin's hospital bed, raising the head of the bed, allowing Kevin to converse with him in a sitting position.
"Who are you?" he asked, annoyed.
"My name's Marcus," the stranger said with a smile. "What's your name?"
"Kevin," he said, emotionless.
"Nice to meet you, Kevin. I'm one of the chaplains here. Thought I'd come in and check in on you."
"Doing great, thanks for stopping by." Leave, just leave.
"Still thinking about it, eh?" Marcus said casually.
"Thinking about what?" Kevin asked.
"You know."
"No, I'm not. I'm fine, perfectly fine. I'll never do anything bad ever again. I'm a new man, I tell you." Kevin shot Marcus a dirty look. "Satisfied?"
Marcus chuckled again. "Oh yeah, you're still thinking about it. Will be for a long time, too."
"Your Chaplain's Guide to Junkies tell you that?"
"Not exactly," Marcus replied, "experience did." He pulled up a sleeve and held his arm in the light for Kevin to see. Even in the dim fluorescent light, Kevin could still make it out: track marks.
"So, since you were once a junkie, I should feel a connection, right? You got out, so I can too, right?" Kevin turned his head away.
"Yes and no. No, you don't have to feel a connection. Yes, you can get out," Marcus replied as he sat back down, rolling his sleeve back over his arm.
"Look, just leave me alone, okay? I don't need any of your God talk right now. I'm doing just fine," Kevin said, agitation growing in his voice.
"Doing fine, eh? Strapped to a bed with a chemical addiction. I'd hate to see you doing badly. And by the way, you brought God up. I didn't."
"Look, I just have a couple of problems right now, but I'll work it out."
Marcus smiled. "Well, at least you're admitting you have a problem. That's a good start. Took me forever even to get that far. The question now is how you're going to go about 'working it out.' "
"Yeah, well, let me worry about that."
Marcus nodded. "So you're going to do some treasure hunting, then, eh?"
Kevin gave Marcus a quizzical look. "What?"
Marcus smiled the kind of smile that said, I know you think I'm crazy for saying that, but it's so hilariously simple. "Yeah, treasure hunting. Like the pirates in the stories we'd read as kids. You know, there's an old story of a man who found a treasure like that. It was a pearl so magnificent and beautiful that he sold everything he had to get this pearl. To him, living with this one treasure was greater than living with all the wealth and possessions he had before. That's what I had to do. For me, my treasure was the drugs, the highs, and the 'freedom' I got with them. I was living my own life; no rules, no restrictions, just one quest for a high after another. That was my life - my prize.
"Thing is, though, my 'treasure' was a fraud -- it promised me life, fun, highs, good times, freedom... but the only thing it gave me was a broken life, a family that disowned me, life on the streets, and addiction. Time finally came when I had to look for a new treasure, and when I found it, turns out it cost me everything -- my old life, my drugs, my 'freedom,' everything. It took time, and some things didn't go away easily, but eventually, with help -- both the kind you get down here and the kind you get from up there -" he pointed up with his finger, "I got my new treasure. Seems to me you need to decide if this treasure is good enough for you, or if you want to go looking for that pearl."
Kevin stayed silent. Part of him wanted to spit in his face, telling him where to go and how to get there, but some small part of his mind, back in the shadows, started catching on to what Marcus was saying. Part of him wondered what it would be like to find that pearl. "We'll see," was all he could manage to get out.
Marcus rose to his feet. "Well, you're thinking about it. That's all I can ask. Here's something to help you think about it." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old coin: a quarter. He put it in Kevin's restrained hand. Kevin held the coin between his thumb and index finger, raising his wrist so he could get a look at it.
"That," said Marcus, "is your treasure right now. Your life, and everything that is in it, is your treasure, and that quarter is your life. If you think that quarter is worth keeping, fine. If not, go looking for something better. You may be surprised how easy it is to find it." Marcus softly patted Kevin's shoulder. "Take care out there. God bless you."
He slowly turned and started for the door. As Marcus was about to walk out, Kevin called out to him, "Hey, Marcus?"
Marcus turned in the doorway to look back at him. "Yeah?"
"That pearl story... that in the Bible?"
"Yep... Matthew 13, as a matter of fact. Not a long story, but a good one."
"This guy that found the pearl... does the Bible say that he lived happily ever after?"
Marcus grinned. "You know, it doesn't say for sure what happened. Maybe you'll just have to find out for yourself." With that, he walked out of the room, closing the door. Marcus laid his head against the pillow behind him, alone with his thoughts. At least now, he had something else besides the drugs to think about.
***
A year later, Marcus stepped into his office at the hospital, ready for another day of ministering to the sick and comforting loved ones. It was a small corner office not far from the hospital chapel, but it was enough for him to sit and spend time with God before braving the rest of the hospital.
As he sat at his desk, he noticed a small bubble-wrap envelope addressed simply to "Pastor Marcus" followed by the hospital name and address. The return address was from Emmanuel House, a rehab facility upstate. He opened it and pulled out a piece of paper. Opening it, he first saw an old quarter taped to the paper. Below it was a handwritten note:
Decided to go treasure hunting. Not exactly a pearl, but I think I found what I was looking for. Still selling things off, but I'm happy with the switch. Thanks. Kevin
Marcus smiled broadly. After saying a silent prayer of thanks, he noticed there was still something inside the envelope. He reached inside and pulled out a piece of maple wood. His smile broadened even more. It had been carved, quite beautifully, into a sculpture of baby Jesus in the manger.
After studying it for some time, he set it on his desk, beside his Bible, and walked out to do his rounds, the smile still pasted on his face.
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.
**********************************************
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, July 27, 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
"Never Again Separate" by David O. Bales
"Switching Treasures" by Craig Kelly
What's Up This Week
Hospital chaplains offer a different perspective on what it means to witness for Christ in desperate times. "Never Again Separate" shows us how reconciliation can help heal years of anger. "Switching Treasures" reminds us that there are things in life worth pursuing no matter what the cost -- but we have to be careful not to be dazzled by things that only look attractive on the surface.
* * * * * * * * *
Never Again Separate
By David O. Bales
Romans 8:26-39
Ellie made it from the basement parking lot into the elevator and up to the eighth floor without thinking it yet. She passed a crash cart and walked by an open door, where she concluded that someone needed to help a patient off the commode soon. She turned right into another hall and saw the nurses' station ahead. Still, by a masterful exercise of her mind, she pushed the thought away. However, when she saw the RN's head bent down, probably charting a patient, she could no longer keep the thought at bay: I wonder if Tate has died yet?
Maybe, she wondered, when I've been a chaplain for eighteen years instead of nine, I'll be able to protect myself from pain longer. I'll delay the onset of consciousness longer. Maybe I'll stop hurting the moment I step from a patient's room and not hurt until I enter again.
She thought now about Tate, no putting off the pain anymore. She leaned against the counter. The nurse's head was still down. "Betty," Ellie said, "how's Reverend Tate in 21?"
"Ah, let me look. He was Johnson's last night." She shuffled and flipped a few papers, then looked on both sides of her. "There it is." She grabbed a chart and handed it to Ellie. That answered her question. He was still alive.
She instantly turned and followed her training if not her instincts. Do the hardest first. Reverend Tate was the hardest. He'd gotten her into this. He was her pastor ten years ago: Reverend Tate the straightest and most moral arrow ever shot at a congregation. Also the most frustrating and maddening. But he'd discerned Ellie's gifts and potential and encouraged her to become a hospital chaplain.
She rounded the last corner and saw Nurse Johnson coming. Johnson knew what Ellie was going through. As they passed, Johnson reached over and brushed Ellie's shoulder with her hand, grimaced, and said, "He's alive."
He'd lived until Tuesday as Ellie feared he would. This would be the day of the meeting. Ellie took a stutter step, grit her teeth, and turned into 821.
"Ham coming?" was the first thing Reverend Tate said, having turned his head toward Ellie.
"He's coming," she said.
"I'll wait," he said and closed his eyes.
Hamilton Pritchard was the congregation's associate pastor when the congregation asked Reverend Tate to retire at 70. Pritchard stayed on as senior pastor. Since he retired Reverend Tate had never gone back to the congregation nor spoken with Hamilton Pritchard. Publicly he said he remained away in order to give the current pastors "a free hand" in ministry. Ellie, in the confidentiality of serving as hospital chaplain, heard all about his anger and anguish. After his retirement a series of illnesses regularly brought him to the hospital. Now he was dying.
Ellie had phoned Hamilton Pritchard at a denominational meeting Monday evening, telling him of Tate's illness and that Tate wanted to see him. Pritchard said he'd fly home and be to the hospital by morning.
Ellie wouldn't talk with Tate now. She knew he was saving his strength to talk with Hamilton Pritchard. Would his eight years of silent suffering emerge as anger to Pritchard? She stood in the hall, back straight against the wall and prayed.
"Ellie." It was Hamilton Pritchard. He looked tired but concerned. "You okay?"
"Yeah, well, worried about Tate."
"How is he?"
"Alive, and he wants to talk to you."
"Eight years," he looked down and shook his head. "I don't think there's been a day I haven't prayed for him. But I'm still scared to face him."
In Ellie's job people immediately told her the truth. As she watched Hamilton Pritchard enter room 821, she prayed that Tate and Pritchard could speak the truth to one another in love.
* * *
A week later Hamilton Pritchard requested that Ellie read scripture at Reverend Tate's funeral. The order of worship placed the scripture after the sermon.
The sanctuary was half full, many of the new members not having known Reverend Tate. The service was simple. The congregation sang two hymns. Three colleagues of Tate spoke for five minutes each -- all mentioning how important it was for Tate to do the right thing, and above all not to hurt anyone.
Then Reverend Pritchard spoke. "For Nathan Tate this congregation was his family, from which he expected too much. Nathan and I talked about it two days before he died. This congregation wasn't morally perfect in its dealing with an aging pastor. He wasn't morally upright in his response, remaining, as he said, in exile from the congregation.
"But none of us always understands what is ethically required of us and none of us lives in a morally perfect way. If we did, we wouldn't need a Savior.
"Nathan Tate asked me to apologize to you for his eight years of separation. He also asked that a portion of the eighth chapter of Paul's letter to the Romans be read. This text explains our Christian hope and the one solution for our problems in or out of the church."
When he sat, Ellie approached the pulpit. She couldn't push away her pain, yet she could say something deeply true, "Add me to the list of those who hope and pray for the final reunion Paul promises, 'For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.' "
David O. Bales has been a Presbyterian pastor for 30 years. Currently the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, he is also a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching Great Texts, and Interpretation, and he is the author of Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace (CSS). Bales is a graduate of the University of Portland and San Francisco Theological Seminary.
Switching Treasures
Craig Kelly
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52
I... need it....
I need it... so bad....
I need it now....
Now....
"Now!"
He let out a guttural scream that passed through the closed door and down the hallway. Even through a thick, reinforced door designed to muffle outside noise for patient comfort, his scream still turned a few heads twenty feet down the hall. It only held their attention for a moment, however; this was the detox ward. Nothing surprised the nurses and staff here. The sight of two hospital security officers running down the hall to his room didn't even make them flinch.
He had come in a little over a day earlier -- half-conscious, strung out on crack cocaine. It took almost five minutes of repeated questioning to get a name out of him: Kevin. Eventually, hospital security found a beat-up wallet ten yards outside the emergency center entrance. It only gave a few more details, thanks to an expired driver's license inside: Kevin Ryan Talbot, age 26, and the address put him in a wealthy suburb just outside the city. They would later discover that it was his parents' place, and they made it abundantly clear that they wanted nothing to do with their son: "We gave him every chance, and he's still a junkie! We're done! You deal with him," then a loud click followed by a dial tone.
It looked like he was on his own.
It had taken him over four hours to come out of his haze. For living on the streets, he still wasn't terrible to look at. He still had his thick blond hair and enough of his boyish good looks to try to play the nurses for some drugs, but they'd seen it all before and none of them were buying the act. Slowly his charm soured, starting with snappy remarks, descending to insults and profanity, and now, having gone a full day without a fix, it turned into rage. He kicked. He flailed his arms. He spit. He bit. He screamed.
As the two officers ran into the room, they saw three nurses struggling to hold Kevin down. "Get his legs!" one nurse yelled. Immediately the officers pounced on his legs, but even as strong as they were, it was a titanic struggle to keep his legs still long enough for the nurse to apply leather restraints to his ankles. Once they got his legs strapped down, it was an easier task to strap his wrists down to the bed, so long as they didn't mind some spit on their faces.
Finally, they stepped back, letting him grunt and scream, struggling against the leather straps holding him down. One of the nurses, a middle-aged woman, turned to the younger nurse beside her.
"Did you administer lorazepam?" the nurse asked, short of breath.
"Yeah," the other nurse replied, also taking deep breaths, "but it's hard to say what effect, if any, it will have."
"I know, but it's worth a try."
Kevin continued to struggle against the restraints in desperation, yelling obscenities at the nurses as they filed out of the room, leaving him alone with his anger. He screamed for another fifteen minutes, and when his voice gave out, he laid back against his pillow, weeping.
* * *
Kevin squinted as someone turned the light on above his bed. After requesting -- more like demanding -- that the blinds over the windows in his room be kept closed, he had laid in the dark for several hours, only occasionally interrupted by a nurse's aide coming to check his vitals. He liked the dark. The light hurt his eyes. Darkness was comforting, wrapping around him like a blanket. Now that security blanket was gone, dispelled in an instant by one fluorescent light bulb above his bed.
"How are you feeling?" came a voice to his right.
Kevin sighed. "Fine," he curtly replied, hoping it would drive this intruder away. The voice beside him chuckled. "Right." Kevin heard the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor to rest beside his bed. As he was still restrained, this time with foam restraints rather than the tougher leathers, he couldn't turn over to his side to get a good look at the new visitor. Great, the guy's sitting down. His eyes finally adjusted to the light, and he turned and saw a tall black man, late-thirties or early forties, taking a seat beside his bed. He touched a button on the side rail of Kevin's hospital bed, raising the head of the bed, allowing Kevin to converse with him in a sitting position.
"Who are you?" he asked, annoyed.
"My name's Marcus," the stranger said with a smile. "What's your name?"
"Kevin," he said, emotionless.
"Nice to meet you, Kevin. I'm one of the chaplains here. Thought I'd come in and check in on you."
"Doing great, thanks for stopping by." Leave, just leave.
"Still thinking about it, eh?" Marcus said casually.
"Thinking about what?" Kevin asked.
"You know."
"No, I'm not. I'm fine, perfectly fine. I'll never do anything bad ever again. I'm a new man, I tell you." Kevin shot Marcus a dirty look. "Satisfied?"
Marcus chuckled again. "Oh yeah, you're still thinking about it. Will be for a long time, too."
"Your Chaplain's Guide to Junkies tell you that?"
"Not exactly," Marcus replied, "experience did." He pulled up a sleeve and held his arm in the light for Kevin to see. Even in the dim fluorescent light, Kevin could still make it out: track marks.
"So, since you were once a junkie, I should feel a connection, right? You got out, so I can too, right?" Kevin turned his head away.
"Yes and no. No, you don't have to feel a connection. Yes, you can get out," Marcus replied as he sat back down, rolling his sleeve back over his arm.
"Look, just leave me alone, okay? I don't need any of your God talk right now. I'm doing just fine," Kevin said, agitation growing in his voice.
"Doing fine, eh? Strapped to a bed with a chemical addiction. I'd hate to see you doing badly. And by the way, you brought God up. I didn't."
"Look, I just have a couple of problems right now, but I'll work it out."
Marcus smiled. "Well, at least you're admitting you have a problem. That's a good start. Took me forever even to get that far. The question now is how you're going to go about 'working it out.' "
"Yeah, well, let me worry about that."
Marcus nodded. "So you're going to do some treasure hunting, then, eh?"
Kevin gave Marcus a quizzical look. "What?"
Marcus smiled the kind of smile that said, I know you think I'm crazy for saying that, but it's so hilariously simple. "Yeah, treasure hunting. Like the pirates in the stories we'd read as kids. You know, there's an old story of a man who found a treasure like that. It was a pearl so magnificent and beautiful that he sold everything he had to get this pearl. To him, living with this one treasure was greater than living with all the wealth and possessions he had before. That's what I had to do. For me, my treasure was the drugs, the highs, and the 'freedom' I got with them. I was living my own life; no rules, no restrictions, just one quest for a high after another. That was my life - my prize.
"Thing is, though, my 'treasure' was a fraud -- it promised me life, fun, highs, good times, freedom... but the only thing it gave me was a broken life, a family that disowned me, life on the streets, and addiction. Time finally came when I had to look for a new treasure, and when I found it, turns out it cost me everything -- my old life, my drugs, my 'freedom,' everything. It took time, and some things didn't go away easily, but eventually, with help -- both the kind you get down here and the kind you get from up there -" he pointed up with his finger, "I got my new treasure. Seems to me you need to decide if this treasure is good enough for you, or if you want to go looking for that pearl."
Kevin stayed silent. Part of him wanted to spit in his face, telling him where to go and how to get there, but some small part of his mind, back in the shadows, started catching on to what Marcus was saying. Part of him wondered what it would be like to find that pearl. "We'll see," was all he could manage to get out.
Marcus rose to his feet. "Well, you're thinking about it. That's all I can ask. Here's something to help you think about it." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old coin: a quarter. He put it in Kevin's restrained hand. Kevin held the coin between his thumb and index finger, raising his wrist so he could get a look at it.
"That," said Marcus, "is your treasure right now. Your life, and everything that is in it, is your treasure, and that quarter is your life. If you think that quarter is worth keeping, fine. If not, go looking for something better. You may be surprised how easy it is to find it." Marcus softly patted Kevin's shoulder. "Take care out there. God bless you."
He slowly turned and started for the door. As Marcus was about to walk out, Kevin called out to him, "Hey, Marcus?"
Marcus turned in the doorway to look back at him. "Yeah?"
"That pearl story... that in the Bible?"
"Yep... Matthew 13, as a matter of fact. Not a long story, but a good one."
"This guy that found the pearl... does the Bible say that he lived happily ever after?"
Marcus grinned. "You know, it doesn't say for sure what happened. Maybe you'll just have to find out for yourself." With that, he walked out of the room, closing the door. Marcus laid his head against the pillow behind him, alone with his thoughts. At least now, he had something else besides the drugs to think about.
***
A year later, Marcus stepped into his office at the hospital, ready for another day of ministering to the sick and comforting loved ones. It was a small corner office not far from the hospital chapel, but it was enough for him to sit and spend time with God before braving the rest of the hospital.
As he sat at his desk, he noticed a small bubble-wrap envelope addressed simply to "Pastor Marcus" followed by the hospital name and address. The return address was from Emmanuel House, a rehab facility upstate. He opened it and pulled out a piece of paper. Opening it, he first saw an old quarter taped to the paper. Below it was a handwritten note:
Decided to go treasure hunting. Not exactly a pearl, but I think I found what I was looking for. Still selling things off, but I'm happy with the switch. Thanks. Kevin
Marcus smiled broadly. After saying a silent prayer of thanks, he noticed there was still something inside the envelope. He reached inside and pulled out a piece of maple wood. His smile broadened even more. It had been carved, quite beautifully, into a sculpture of baby Jesus in the manger.
After studying it for some time, he set it on his desk, beside his Bible, and walked out to do his rounds, the smile still pasted on his face.
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.
**********************************************
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, July 27, 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.
