Parting Words
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Parting Words" by Keith Hewitt
"The Ketchup Church" by Timothy F. Merrill
* * * * * * * *
Parting Words
by Keith Hewitt
John 13:31-35
It wouldn't be long now.
Nobody said it; nobody had to. She could see it in their eyes, read it in their expressions, just as plainly as though somebody had written it on the small whiteboard to the right of her bed, where the floor nurses wrote their names at shift change: "Norma Freitag is dying soon."
Actually, no, Norma corrected herself. I am dying now... I'm just going to complete the process soon.
The thought made her smile, as she lay still and looked up at the IV bag, dripping comfort into her veins. It was not that she didn't appreciate life, but this dying thing had gone on for too long, already. Pain wasn't so much the issue, anymore, but she was weary of being tired and of all the indignities the disease had inflicted along the way. Catheters, bed pans, sponge baths... it had been more than seventy years since she'd been this helpless, and it was not a state that she relished.
"I'm thirsty." She realized with a small start that she had uttered the words out loud -- a raspy sound in the stillness of the room. She turned her eyes from the IV bag to the man and woman sitting by her bed, one on either side, as though they were afraid she might suddenly sit up and try to get out of bed; she no longer remembered that she had done just that, over the weekend.
They looked uncertainly at her and then at each other before the man found the throwaway plastic pitcher and poured ice water into a cup. He put in a flexible straw, extended his hand toward her when the woman put her hand on his arm and said, "No. The nurses said ice chips only."
"But she's thirsty," he answered, holding the cup just out of her reach. Unseen by either, she tried to raise her head to reach the cup but could only lift it an inch or two before it became too difficult.
"Ice chips," the woman repeated firmly. "And you can use one of those sponge things to moisten her lips and swab her mouth, if she's really thirsty."
"But if she's really thirsty, she's going to want water."
"You can still see me, right?" Norma croaked.
The woman seemed to slump a little, and she barely breathed, "She's getting delirious, now." It wasn't clear if she meant to say it to her companion, or if she was just checking an item off her mental checklist. That would be like her, Norma reflected -- she would have the stages of dying memorized and filed away in her head, along with every instruction a nurse or doctor had given in the last year.
"Not delirious, thirsty," Norma responded a little breathlessly, then ran her tongue over parched lips, moved them around like machine parts that had rusted together and needed to be worked a little bit in order to move. "I need a drink," she rasped, when she could force the words out.
"Sorry," the man said hastily and pushed the cup toward her with one hand and guided the straw to her mouth with the other. She took a couple of sips, closed her eyes at the cold, quenching joy of it -- then coughed as some of it slipped into her airway. As she struggled, the woman eyed the man fiercely; contrite, he set the cup down on the tray, dabbed at her mouth with a tissue.
"Thank you," she said finally, when she could catch her breath again.
"He shouldn't have done that," the woman said, almost under her breath.
"She said she was thirsty," he answered stubbornly.
"But --"
"Sshhhh..." It was a long, drawn out shushing sound from Norma. They both stopped, looked at her, and she shook her head. "How am I supposed to believe the two of you can run the business? After I'm gone?" she asked softly.
He patted her hand; the woman saw it, then self-consciously took Norma's other hand, and said, "Don't you worry about that now, Norma. That's not your problem."
"But it is," Norma insisted. "I chose the two of you years ago. Taught you everything I know. But you two can't get along. Like brother and sister." She talked in spurts, gathering wind and energy between each sentence. "You've been great. Helping me. But I don't know, now. Don't want it to end." Half a century of patiently building a base, educating consumers, growing the business... half a century of success, more or less -- and now?
She shook her head slightly.
"We'll figure it out," the woman promised. "You've taught us well, Norma -- I don't think anybody else knows the business like we do. We can manage it."
"Almost doesn't matter," Norma sighed. "Knowing business almost doesn't matter. You two have to get along. Have to understand each other. Make each other strong, and not fight. You --" she looked at the man, "-- you think with your heart. That can blind you to reality."
The man's eyes flickered away from her and stared at some imagined spot on the wall while she continued.
"And you --" she turned to the woman, "-- you feel with your head. That's not how people work, most of them. You have to know that. You're both strong in your own way. None better. But you have to learn to be strong for each other. Make each other complete. Fill in each other's gaps."
The woman laughed a little, and shook her head, "Norma, we're not getting married. We're business partners."
"Doesn't matter. Love what you do. Care about each other. Call it love if you want, but care. Listen. Support. Carry each other through the tough spots. Celebrate the good. Do that and the business will live. Others will see, and believe in you. If you can't, the company is done. Sooner or later, it's done. A business isn't a product. It's the people behind it."
The man looked across at his companion, then to Norma, and patted her hand. "You rest, now, Norma. We don't argue all that much, you know."
"Argue all you want. But because you care. And then figure out how to move forward."
As those words escaped her lips, she suddenly felt heavy... as though just lying in the bed was a massive effort. She nodded -- a barely perceptible motion to her visitors -- and her eyes closed. Soon, she was breathing slowly and shallowly, her hands slack beneath theirs.
"I think we tired her out," he said wryly, and released her hand. He looked across the bed. "Are you okay?"
She looked puzzled. "Sure. Why do you ask?"
"Because it's hard. It's hard for me to see her like this -- it must be for you too."
She shrugged and released Norma's hand. "I try not to think about it."
He hesitated, then smiled. "I know."
She looked at him quickly -- then smiled, as well. "I know you do. That's why I keep you around."
"Keep me around? I'm the one that keeps you around."
"Right. Keep telling yourself that." She stood up, stretched, and checked her watch. "I need a break. Just for a little bit."
He stood, also, and followed her to the door and opened it, then stepped out into the hallway after her. As the door closed, Norma could hear them bantering. Like brother and sister, she thought and smiled.
Maybe it would work out, after all...
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
The Ketchup Church
by Timothy F. Merrill
Acts 11:1-18
My parents didn't put up with a lot of foolishness. Two rules stand out: At the dinner table, I often heard, "Don't play with your food." At church, still more frequently I heard, "Sit still."
There's a certain amount of logic behind the first rule. If you think of breakfast, lunch, and dinner as those times when you stop to refuel your body, then you should probably get on task, refuel, wash up, and get back to your chores.
If, however, the family meal is thought of as something much more than one of three pit stops during the day to take in organic energy, if it's thought of rather as a time for conversation, connections, and community, then playing with your food isn't nearly so serious.
Playing with your food. Today, corporate food providers are encouraging just that. Food and eating, traditionally so boring, can now be fun, fun, fun. For example, ketchup used to be red, like tomatoes are red. Then Heinz came up with the idea of using yellow and blue dyes to create a new product line called "Blastin' Green" ketchup. Within weeks they'd sold 10 million plastic squirt bottles of the stuff and kids all across America were plastering their burgers with green ketchup and grossing out their parents.
Heinz went on to produce a "Funky Purple" ketchup, and now ConAgra Foods is marketing blue and pink margarine. You can now get Mott's applesauce in turquoise, red, and acid green colors. You can get Oreos with an orange filling which, when dipped in milk and stirred, creates funky swirly patterns.
All of this, of course, is culinary heresy. Most of us know that ketchup is not green; it's red. It's always been red. Margarine is not blue, it's yellow. (Actually it's white, and some of us can remember having to peel open a little yellow dye packet and stir the coloring in.) These basic notions are imprinted on our minds, and squirting green ketchup on our cheeseburger or spreading blue margarine on our toast just doesn't do anything for us. We're not supposed to play with our food.
It's this same mind-set behind my parents' frequent admonitions to sit still in church. Like food, church was a time to refuel spiritually. So even at church, you don't play with your food.
Perhaps. Is it possible that God is trying to break through traditional notions of worship that are imprinted on our consciousness? Go right on down the list from stained glass windows, pipe organs, steeples, pews, to Sunday school, and it becomes clear that these old traditional patterns and experiences, beloved by many, have no appeal to those who like to play with their food.
So the next time you see a drama sketch during worship, or glance over at someone in the chair next to you sipping a Starbucks latte, or watch a video clip from Spiderman, or listen to the keyboard synthesizing some new tunes -- rise, shine, and give God the glory. Children of the Lord -- they're just playing with their food, and God is loving it.
(from Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series IV Cycle C [Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 2003], pp. 74-75)
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 28, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
"Parting Words" by Keith Hewitt
"The Ketchup Church" by Timothy F. Merrill
* * * * * * * *
Parting Words
by Keith Hewitt
John 13:31-35
It wouldn't be long now.
Nobody said it; nobody had to. She could see it in their eyes, read it in their expressions, just as plainly as though somebody had written it on the small whiteboard to the right of her bed, where the floor nurses wrote their names at shift change: "Norma Freitag is dying soon."
Actually, no, Norma corrected herself. I am dying now... I'm just going to complete the process soon.
The thought made her smile, as she lay still and looked up at the IV bag, dripping comfort into her veins. It was not that she didn't appreciate life, but this dying thing had gone on for too long, already. Pain wasn't so much the issue, anymore, but she was weary of being tired and of all the indignities the disease had inflicted along the way. Catheters, bed pans, sponge baths... it had been more than seventy years since she'd been this helpless, and it was not a state that she relished.
"I'm thirsty." She realized with a small start that she had uttered the words out loud -- a raspy sound in the stillness of the room. She turned her eyes from the IV bag to the man and woman sitting by her bed, one on either side, as though they were afraid she might suddenly sit up and try to get out of bed; she no longer remembered that she had done just that, over the weekend.
They looked uncertainly at her and then at each other before the man found the throwaway plastic pitcher and poured ice water into a cup. He put in a flexible straw, extended his hand toward her when the woman put her hand on his arm and said, "No. The nurses said ice chips only."
"But she's thirsty," he answered, holding the cup just out of her reach. Unseen by either, she tried to raise her head to reach the cup but could only lift it an inch or two before it became too difficult.
"Ice chips," the woman repeated firmly. "And you can use one of those sponge things to moisten her lips and swab her mouth, if she's really thirsty."
"But if she's really thirsty, she's going to want water."
"You can still see me, right?" Norma croaked.
The woman seemed to slump a little, and she barely breathed, "She's getting delirious, now." It wasn't clear if she meant to say it to her companion, or if she was just checking an item off her mental checklist. That would be like her, Norma reflected -- she would have the stages of dying memorized and filed away in her head, along with every instruction a nurse or doctor had given in the last year.
"Not delirious, thirsty," Norma responded a little breathlessly, then ran her tongue over parched lips, moved them around like machine parts that had rusted together and needed to be worked a little bit in order to move. "I need a drink," she rasped, when she could force the words out.
"Sorry," the man said hastily and pushed the cup toward her with one hand and guided the straw to her mouth with the other. She took a couple of sips, closed her eyes at the cold, quenching joy of it -- then coughed as some of it slipped into her airway. As she struggled, the woman eyed the man fiercely; contrite, he set the cup down on the tray, dabbed at her mouth with a tissue.
"Thank you," she said finally, when she could catch her breath again.
"He shouldn't have done that," the woman said, almost under her breath.
"She said she was thirsty," he answered stubbornly.
"But --"
"Sshhhh..." It was a long, drawn out shushing sound from Norma. They both stopped, looked at her, and she shook her head. "How am I supposed to believe the two of you can run the business? After I'm gone?" she asked softly.
He patted her hand; the woman saw it, then self-consciously took Norma's other hand, and said, "Don't you worry about that now, Norma. That's not your problem."
"But it is," Norma insisted. "I chose the two of you years ago. Taught you everything I know. But you two can't get along. Like brother and sister." She talked in spurts, gathering wind and energy between each sentence. "You've been great. Helping me. But I don't know, now. Don't want it to end." Half a century of patiently building a base, educating consumers, growing the business... half a century of success, more or less -- and now?
She shook her head slightly.
"We'll figure it out," the woman promised. "You've taught us well, Norma -- I don't think anybody else knows the business like we do. We can manage it."
"Almost doesn't matter," Norma sighed. "Knowing business almost doesn't matter. You two have to get along. Have to understand each other. Make each other strong, and not fight. You --" she looked at the man, "-- you think with your heart. That can blind you to reality."
The man's eyes flickered away from her and stared at some imagined spot on the wall while she continued.
"And you --" she turned to the woman, "-- you feel with your head. That's not how people work, most of them. You have to know that. You're both strong in your own way. None better. But you have to learn to be strong for each other. Make each other complete. Fill in each other's gaps."
The woman laughed a little, and shook her head, "Norma, we're not getting married. We're business partners."
"Doesn't matter. Love what you do. Care about each other. Call it love if you want, but care. Listen. Support. Carry each other through the tough spots. Celebrate the good. Do that and the business will live. Others will see, and believe in you. If you can't, the company is done. Sooner or later, it's done. A business isn't a product. It's the people behind it."
The man looked across at his companion, then to Norma, and patted her hand. "You rest, now, Norma. We don't argue all that much, you know."
"Argue all you want. But because you care. And then figure out how to move forward."
As those words escaped her lips, she suddenly felt heavy... as though just lying in the bed was a massive effort. She nodded -- a barely perceptible motion to her visitors -- and her eyes closed. Soon, she was breathing slowly and shallowly, her hands slack beneath theirs.
"I think we tired her out," he said wryly, and released her hand. He looked across the bed. "Are you okay?"
She looked puzzled. "Sure. Why do you ask?"
"Because it's hard. It's hard for me to see her like this -- it must be for you too."
She shrugged and released Norma's hand. "I try not to think about it."
He hesitated, then smiled. "I know."
She looked at him quickly -- then smiled, as well. "I know you do. That's why I keep you around."
"Keep me around? I'm the one that keeps you around."
"Right. Keep telling yourself that." She stood up, stretched, and checked her watch. "I need a break. Just for a little bit."
He stood, also, and followed her to the door and opened it, then stepped out into the hallway after her. As the door closed, Norma could hear them bantering. Like brother and sister, she thought and smiled.
Maybe it would work out, after all...
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
The Ketchup Church
by Timothy F. Merrill
Acts 11:1-18
My parents didn't put up with a lot of foolishness. Two rules stand out: At the dinner table, I often heard, "Don't play with your food." At church, still more frequently I heard, "Sit still."
There's a certain amount of logic behind the first rule. If you think of breakfast, lunch, and dinner as those times when you stop to refuel your body, then you should probably get on task, refuel, wash up, and get back to your chores.
If, however, the family meal is thought of as something much more than one of three pit stops during the day to take in organic energy, if it's thought of rather as a time for conversation, connections, and community, then playing with your food isn't nearly so serious.
Playing with your food. Today, corporate food providers are encouraging just that. Food and eating, traditionally so boring, can now be fun, fun, fun. For example, ketchup used to be red, like tomatoes are red. Then Heinz came up with the idea of using yellow and blue dyes to create a new product line called "Blastin' Green" ketchup. Within weeks they'd sold 10 million plastic squirt bottles of the stuff and kids all across America were plastering their burgers with green ketchup and grossing out their parents.
Heinz went on to produce a "Funky Purple" ketchup, and now ConAgra Foods is marketing blue and pink margarine. You can now get Mott's applesauce in turquoise, red, and acid green colors. You can get Oreos with an orange filling which, when dipped in milk and stirred, creates funky swirly patterns.
All of this, of course, is culinary heresy. Most of us know that ketchup is not green; it's red. It's always been red. Margarine is not blue, it's yellow. (Actually it's white, and some of us can remember having to peel open a little yellow dye packet and stir the coloring in.) These basic notions are imprinted on our minds, and squirting green ketchup on our cheeseburger or spreading blue margarine on our toast just doesn't do anything for us. We're not supposed to play with our food.
It's this same mind-set behind my parents' frequent admonitions to sit still in church. Like food, church was a time to refuel spiritually. So even at church, you don't play with your food.
Perhaps. Is it possible that God is trying to break through traditional notions of worship that are imprinted on our consciousness? Go right on down the list from stained glass windows, pipe organs, steeples, pews, to Sunday school, and it becomes clear that these old traditional patterns and experiences, beloved by many, have no appeal to those who like to play with their food.
So the next time you see a drama sketch during worship, or glance over at someone in the chair next to you sipping a Starbucks latte, or watch a video clip from Spiderman, or listen to the keyboard synthesizing some new tunes -- rise, shine, and give God the glory. Children of the Lord -- they're just playing with their food, and God is loving it.
(from Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series IV Cycle C [Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 2003], pp. 74-75)
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 28, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
