Thirsty For Living Water
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Thirsty for Living Water" by Peter Andrew Smith
"Invite the Poor" by Craig Kelly
* * * * * * * * *
In his story "Thirsty for Living Water," Peter Andrew Smith tells of a man who recognizes that something is missing in his life even though he has everything the world can offer.
Thirsty for Living Water
Peter Andrew Smith
Jeremiah 2:4-13
"That's our church." Jim pointed at a large white building with a tall steeple along the street they were walking.
"Wow, that must be a beautiful place to worship," Sam said as they continued past stores and offices. "Who is your pastor?"
"Um. Tall fellow. Pretty good speaker. I think his name is DeSoya or DeSalle something like that." Jim paused in front of the church to squint at the sign. "Oh Desilvo. That's right, that's his name."
Sam chuckled as they resumed their walk. "I guess you don't get to Sunday service very often."
"We went regularly when the kids were in Sunday school. When Mary got sick I was there every week." Jim shrugged. "Since then I guess we got busy. You know with the girls moving out on their own we like to take advantage of the weekends."
"How long has it been since Mary finished chemo?"
"Seven years last March," Jim said. "That was a scary time let me tell you."
Sam patted him on the shoulder. "But you got through it."
"We did." Jim rubbed his eyes. "It was amazing how many people helped. It seemed like everyone I met on the street asked about her and told me they were praying for us. Good people in this town you know."
Sam smiled. "Sure seems like a great place to live and raise a family."
"The absolute best place," Jim said. "It has been a great place to retire too -- you saw the golf course."
They walked in silence for a few moments enjoying the sights of the small town.
"So why are you so unhappy?" Sam asked.
"What do you mean? Life couldn't be better for Mary and me. We've got time, good pensions, and we're both in good health. We're on top of the world."
Sam stopped and looked him up and down. "So why are you so unsettled?"
"Why do you mean?"
"Since Patty and I arrived, I've watched you do everything and nothing. You're up and down and down and up and can't stay still. You were always on the go but now you seem uncomfortable in your own skin."
"Huh." Jim shifted his weight from side to side. "I guess retirement isn't what I expected."
"How so?"
"Something's missing and I can't figure it out. I should be content and satisfied. I've got everything I always worked for but it isn't enough."
"Things okay with Mary?"
"Couldn't be better. Retirement lets us spent time together like before the girls were born."
"The girls doing okay?"
"Better than we imagined. Sally is happily married and expecting her first child and Suzy is setting the world on fire with her job. They both are happy and we couldn't be prouder."
"So what's wrong?"
"I don't know." Jim scratched his head. "Everything is good. Mary's good. The girls are good."
"You miss work?"
Jim laughed. "Not in the least. I love being able to do what I want with my days. We've taken some trips and I've been spending some time painting. But I can't shake the feeling that something is missing in my life.
Sam turned to look back at the way they had come. "Do you think it might be God?"
"What do you mean? I still believe in God."
"I never said you didn't. But how long has it been since you went to church, read your Bible, or prayed? When did you last make time for God in your life?"
Jim blew out his breath. "I guess it's been a while."
"You used to tell me how important it was for you and how you didn't feel the week was right unless you went to church on Sunday."
"Yeah, I always felt something, a peace and certainty, when I went to church." Jim paused and rubbed his chin. "Well, what I felt is hard to put into words and explain."
"Is it hard to explain in the same way that what you feel is missing in your life now?"
Jim nodded and they walked in silence for a few more minutes.
"You and Patty staying until Monday?" Jim asked.
"That's the plan."
"What are you doing Sunday morning?"
"Why?" Sam said. "You have a suggestion about what we could do?"
Jim smiled. "I think I would like to go to church."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
Invite the Poor
Craig Kelly
Luke 14:1, 7-14
He gave a loud sigh of disgust. He knew he would probably be heard, but he didn't care. Taking a white glove out of his pocket, he slipped it over his left hand and gently ran his index finger over the 150-year-old oak fireplace mantle. He could just imagine the dirt and grease that would be left once this riff raff finished pawing everything.
He just hoped the cameras didn't notice him doing it.
The Shermans were one of the wealthiest, most well-respected families in all of Loudoun County, maybe all of northern Virginia. This Victorian home was in the family for four generations. Some of the biggest power brokers in Washington -- senators, congressmen, government officials, and more than one sitting president -- graced this home with their presence. The last Sherman man to own this home, James Sherman Jr., was a longstanding Senator for the Commonwealth of Virginia. But he had been dead for eight years, and now his widow, Edith, had just passed away.
Once a pillar of the Washington elite, Edith had started acting strangely after her husband died. She spent more time at home, leaving only to go to church and occasionally to see family. She also was known to visit some of the more undesirable parts of Washington, although she would never mention why. And now, upon her death, it was discovered that she had willed the home to an inner-city community organization and specified that the residents being helped by that organization had first choice of any items in the home.
And that drove James Sherman III crazy.
As he continued to inspect the house, his anger continued to build. Oh, of course, he had received a good inheritance from his mother's will, but that wasn't the point. This was the Sherman house, a monument to the accomplishments of the family, a beacon of respectability, a gem of the American upper class. Now, for no good reason, his lunatic of a mother was squandering all of it for some dirty, nameless ghetto trash! It was all he could do not to grab these people by their dirty, wrinkled collars and kick them out of the house onto the street where they belonged.
James soon heard the rapid clicking of heels on the wood floor as a woman in her late forties with jet black hair and a black Armani dress to match entered the room. The look on her face, coupled with the rapid clicks of her heels as she walked, indicated she shared James' distaste for the whole affair. Of course, the fact that she was his sister probably helped. When she approached him, he leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"Did you hide the Monet, Joyce?" he asked.
She nodded, the look of irritation still on her face. "Yes, I managed to talk Basil into sneaking it out the back. Say what you will about him, but he was a decent butler, and he knows the value of a Monet."
James nodded in approval, but the anger didn't leave his face, either. "Who knows what would have happened if one of these people got their hands on it? Probably would have pawned it or sold it on eBay."
"I just can't believe this is happening!" Joyce gritted through her teeth. "What was Mother thinking willing her entire home to the lowest of the low, strangers who probably have no idea what half of the items in this house are worth?"
James shook his head as the two of them made their way into the parlor, where many of the city residents were either sitting and talking or deliberating over whether or not they would want to claim various items in the house. This room had always been immaculate. The Victorian furniture was spotless. But now, who knows? Someone may have spilled a drink on the material or walked with muddy boots over the hand-woven Persian rug. Some people had no sense of style or value.
"Sad part is they'll probably sell half of this stuff for drugs," James whispered. "Mother must have been mentally ill. That's the only explanation."
"Any chance we could persuade a judge to think that, too?" Joyce asked.
James continued to scan the room, feeling his neck getting hotter and hotter underneath his tailored collar. "I don't know, but I sure want to try," he whispered so loud that it drew a few looks from the guests. Taking his sister by the arm, he led her into an adjacent room. "I still have some connections on Capitol Hill as well as in the court system, so I can see if I can make something happen." He took one last look in the parlor before he pulled his BlackBerry out of his pocket. "In fact, I think I'll start making some phone calls right now."
As James was just about to enter the number, a small black man, bald with glasses, with about the same shape as Humpty Dumpty, walked up to them from the parlor. He had a salt and pepper goatee on his face, and he wore brown slacks, a faded tan shirt, and brown suspenders. As he approached the siblings, he was holding a small wooden music box and tears were streaming down his eyes. The music box was worthless, just a little piece of junk that their mother had bought at a gift shop some years earlier. But it was clear that this little man was cradling it in his hands as if it were the Hope Diamond. James quietly slipped the BlackBerry back into his pocket.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, ma'am," he said, the gaps in his teeth showing as he spoke, "my name's Eli Waterford, and Mrs. Sherman came to the outreach center and helped a lot of us out down there." New tears formed as he said their mother's name. "Mrs. Sherman talked to my little granddaughter, Shamika, a lot while she was there. Shamika even began callin' her 'Grandma Mrs. Sherman.' " He chuckled a little at the memory. James and Joyce had to stifle a sigh. "Anyway, Mrs. Sherman taught my Shamika all about Jesus and how much he loves her, and she would always bring this little music box with her. It was Shamika's favorite part of the visit."
Carefully, Eli opened the lid of the music box, and a small, pink angel sprung to life, spinning serenely to the tune of "Amazing Grace."
Eli's voice broke as he continued to speak. "Mrs. Sherman said that there was an angel like this one watching over Shamika every day. We live real hard on our street. Don't get nothin' from nobody. Our house has even been shot at a few times. Shamika been livin' with us since her mama's been in jail, and she gets real scared. But when Mrs. Sherman told her about that angel and about Jesus, it made my little girl real brave. She don't get scared no more cause she knows that God loves her and has an angel watchin' her."
Eli looked to be a heartbeat away from sobbing. "Shamika got leukemia right now. She's down in the hospital and she be gettin' real scared. So if it's all right with you, I'll take this music box down to the hospital and let her hear it again. I know it'll be makin' her feel better."
What could the two siblings say to something like that? If they said what they wanted to say to him, the bad press would be irreparable. Plus the music box was just a piece of junk, anyway, so why make a fuss? They simply nodded and tried their best to smile.
Eli started to sob as he reached up and put his arms around both of them. James and Joyce stiffened up, mortified at what would happen when tears, grease, and dirt would soak into their designer clothes. It took everything in them not to shove him away.
After what seemed like an eternity, Eli backed away, wiping his nose on his sleeve, an action that almost made Joyce vomit. "You know," he said after managing to compose himself, "we all knew Mrs. Sherman was rich, but she didn't act rich, you know?" James and Joyce exchanged puzzled looks. "She didn't treat us like we was poor folk who weren't worth the time of day. She got down and dirty with us, treated us like we was real people. That probably means more to me than any of this, all of this stuff. Just to be welcome and treated like a human being, for someone to let me in." Eli looked down at the floor, deep in thought. After a second or two, he scoffed and waved his hand. "Ah, I be just an old man talkin' and makin' no sense. Thanks again for this. I'll be takin' it down to the hospital right now." He placed a hand gently on James' arm. "God bless you both."
James and Joyce watched silently as Eli left the room and walked out the front door. They didn't speak for a minute, just standing in place silently. Joyce finally coughed and straightened her dress.
"I'd, uh, better go and make sure that Monet gets somewhere safe." Without another word, she turned and left.
James smoothed his suit, putting the white glove back in his pocket. He started walking toward the front door, reaching in his inside pocket for his BlackBerry. He paused, then took his hand back out of his pocket, minus the phone.
He would call his contacts tomorrow.
Probably.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
**************
StoryShare, August 29, 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.
"Thirsty for Living Water" by Peter Andrew Smith
"Invite the Poor" by Craig Kelly
* * * * * * * * *
In his story "Thirsty for Living Water," Peter Andrew Smith tells of a man who recognizes that something is missing in his life even though he has everything the world can offer.
Thirsty for Living Water
Peter Andrew Smith
Jeremiah 2:4-13
"That's our church." Jim pointed at a large white building with a tall steeple along the street they were walking.
"Wow, that must be a beautiful place to worship," Sam said as they continued past stores and offices. "Who is your pastor?"
"Um. Tall fellow. Pretty good speaker. I think his name is DeSoya or DeSalle something like that." Jim paused in front of the church to squint at the sign. "Oh Desilvo. That's right, that's his name."
Sam chuckled as they resumed their walk. "I guess you don't get to Sunday service very often."
"We went regularly when the kids were in Sunday school. When Mary got sick I was there every week." Jim shrugged. "Since then I guess we got busy. You know with the girls moving out on their own we like to take advantage of the weekends."
"How long has it been since Mary finished chemo?"
"Seven years last March," Jim said. "That was a scary time let me tell you."
Sam patted him on the shoulder. "But you got through it."
"We did." Jim rubbed his eyes. "It was amazing how many people helped. It seemed like everyone I met on the street asked about her and told me they were praying for us. Good people in this town you know."
Sam smiled. "Sure seems like a great place to live and raise a family."
"The absolute best place," Jim said. "It has been a great place to retire too -- you saw the golf course."
They walked in silence for a few moments enjoying the sights of the small town.
"So why are you so unhappy?" Sam asked.
"What do you mean? Life couldn't be better for Mary and me. We've got time, good pensions, and we're both in good health. We're on top of the world."
Sam stopped and looked him up and down. "So why are you so unsettled?"
"Why do you mean?"
"Since Patty and I arrived, I've watched you do everything and nothing. You're up and down and down and up and can't stay still. You were always on the go but now you seem uncomfortable in your own skin."
"Huh." Jim shifted his weight from side to side. "I guess retirement isn't what I expected."
"How so?"
"Something's missing and I can't figure it out. I should be content and satisfied. I've got everything I always worked for but it isn't enough."
"Things okay with Mary?"
"Couldn't be better. Retirement lets us spent time together like before the girls were born."
"The girls doing okay?"
"Better than we imagined. Sally is happily married and expecting her first child and Suzy is setting the world on fire with her job. They both are happy and we couldn't be prouder."
"So what's wrong?"
"I don't know." Jim scratched his head. "Everything is good. Mary's good. The girls are good."
"You miss work?"
Jim laughed. "Not in the least. I love being able to do what I want with my days. We've taken some trips and I've been spending some time painting. But I can't shake the feeling that something is missing in my life.
Sam turned to look back at the way they had come. "Do you think it might be God?"
"What do you mean? I still believe in God."
"I never said you didn't. But how long has it been since you went to church, read your Bible, or prayed? When did you last make time for God in your life?"
Jim blew out his breath. "I guess it's been a while."
"You used to tell me how important it was for you and how you didn't feel the week was right unless you went to church on Sunday."
"Yeah, I always felt something, a peace and certainty, when I went to church." Jim paused and rubbed his chin. "Well, what I felt is hard to put into words and explain."
"Is it hard to explain in the same way that what you feel is missing in your life now?"
Jim nodded and they walked in silence for a few more minutes.
"You and Patty staying until Monday?" Jim asked.
"That's the plan."
"What are you doing Sunday morning?"
"Why?" Sam said. "You have a suggestion about what we could do?"
Jim smiled. "I think I would like to go to church."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
Invite the Poor
Craig Kelly
Luke 14:1, 7-14
He gave a loud sigh of disgust. He knew he would probably be heard, but he didn't care. Taking a white glove out of his pocket, he slipped it over his left hand and gently ran his index finger over the 150-year-old oak fireplace mantle. He could just imagine the dirt and grease that would be left once this riff raff finished pawing everything.
He just hoped the cameras didn't notice him doing it.
The Shermans were one of the wealthiest, most well-respected families in all of Loudoun County, maybe all of northern Virginia. This Victorian home was in the family for four generations. Some of the biggest power brokers in Washington -- senators, congressmen, government officials, and more than one sitting president -- graced this home with their presence. The last Sherman man to own this home, James Sherman Jr., was a longstanding Senator for the Commonwealth of Virginia. But he had been dead for eight years, and now his widow, Edith, had just passed away.
Once a pillar of the Washington elite, Edith had started acting strangely after her husband died. She spent more time at home, leaving only to go to church and occasionally to see family. She also was known to visit some of the more undesirable parts of Washington, although she would never mention why. And now, upon her death, it was discovered that she had willed the home to an inner-city community organization and specified that the residents being helped by that organization had first choice of any items in the home.
And that drove James Sherman III crazy.
As he continued to inspect the house, his anger continued to build. Oh, of course, he had received a good inheritance from his mother's will, but that wasn't the point. This was the Sherman house, a monument to the accomplishments of the family, a beacon of respectability, a gem of the American upper class. Now, for no good reason, his lunatic of a mother was squandering all of it for some dirty, nameless ghetto trash! It was all he could do not to grab these people by their dirty, wrinkled collars and kick them out of the house onto the street where they belonged.
James soon heard the rapid clicking of heels on the wood floor as a woman in her late forties with jet black hair and a black Armani dress to match entered the room. The look on her face, coupled with the rapid clicks of her heels as she walked, indicated she shared James' distaste for the whole affair. Of course, the fact that she was his sister probably helped. When she approached him, he leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"Did you hide the Monet, Joyce?" he asked.
She nodded, the look of irritation still on her face. "Yes, I managed to talk Basil into sneaking it out the back. Say what you will about him, but he was a decent butler, and he knows the value of a Monet."
James nodded in approval, but the anger didn't leave his face, either. "Who knows what would have happened if one of these people got their hands on it? Probably would have pawned it or sold it on eBay."
"I just can't believe this is happening!" Joyce gritted through her teeth. "What was Mother thinking willing her entire home to the lowest of the low, strangers who probably have no idea what half of the items in this house are worth?"
James shook his head as the two of them made their way into the parlor, where many of the city residents were either sitting and talking or deliberating over whether or not they would want to claim various items in the house. This room had always been immaculate. The Victorian furniture was spotless. But now, who knows? Someone may have spilled a drink on the material or walked with muddy boots over the hand-woven Persian rug. Some people had no sense of style or value.
"Sad part is they'll probably sell half of this stuff for drugs," James whispered. "Mother must have been mentally ill. That's the only explanation."
"Any chance we could persuade a judge to think that, too?" Joyce asked.
James continued to scan the room, feeling his neck getting hotter and hotter underneath his tailored collar. "I don't know, but I sure want to try," he whispered so loud that it drew a few looks from the guests. Taking his sister by the arm, he led her into an adjacent room. "I still have some connections on Capitol Hill as well as in the court system, so I can see if I can make something happen." He took one last look in the parlor before he pulled his BlackBerry out of his pocket. "In fact, I think I'll start making some phone calls right now."
As James was just about to enter the number, a small black man, bald with glasses, with about the same shape as Humpty Dumpty, walked up to them from the parlor. He had a salt and pepper goatee on his face, and he wore brown slacks, a faded tan shirt, and brown suspenders. As he approached the siblings, he was holding a small wooden music box and tears were streaming down his eyes. The music box was worthless, just a little piece of junk that their mother had bought at a gift shop some years earlier. But it was clear that this little man was cradling it in his hands as if it were the Hope Diamond. James quietly slipped the BlackBerry back into his pocket.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, ma'am," he said, the gaps in his teeth showing as he spoke, "my name's Eli Waterford, and Mrs. Sherman came to the outreach center and helped a lot of us out down there." New tears formed as he said their mother's name. "Mrs. Sherman talked to my little granddaughter, Shamika, a lot while she was there. Shamika even began callin' her 'Grandma Mrs. Sherman.' " He chuckled a little at the memory. James and Joyce had to stifle a sigh. "Anyway, Mrs. Sherman taught my Shamika all about Jesus and how much he loves her, and she would always bring this little music box with her. It was Shamika's favorite part of the visit."
Carefully, Eli opened the lid of the music box, and a small, pink angel sprung to life, spinning serenely to the tune of "Amazing Grace."
Eli's voice broke as he continued to speak. "Mrs. Sherman said that there was an angel like this one watching over Shamika every day. We live real hard on our street. Don't get nothin' from nobody. Our house has even been shot at a few times. Shamika been livin' with us since her mama's been in jail, and she gets real scared. But when Mrs. Sherman told her about that angel and about Jesus, it made my little girl real brave. She don't get scared no more cause she knows that God loves her and has an angel watchin' her."
Eli looked to be a heartbeat away from sobbing. "Shamika got leukemia right now. She's down in the hospital and she be gettin' real scared. So if it's all right with you, I'll take this music box down to the hospital and let her hear it again. I know it'll be makin' her feel better."
What could the two siblings say to something like that? If they said what they wanted to say to him, the bad press would be irreparable. Plus the music box was just a piece of junk, anyway, so why make a fuss? They simply nodded and tried their best to smile.
Eli started to sob as he reached up and put his arms around both of them. James and Joyce stiffened up, mortified at what would happen when tears, grease, and dirt would soak into their designer clothes. It took everything in them not to shove him away.
After what seemed like an eternity, Eli backed away, wiping his nose on his sleeve, an action that almost made Joyce vomit. "You know," he said after managing to compose himself, "we all knew Mrs. Sherman was rich, but she didn't act rich, you know?" James and Joyce exchanged puzzled looks. "She didn't treat us like we was poor folk who weren't worth the time of day. She got down and dirty with us, treated us like we was real people. That probably means more to me than any of this, all of this stuff. Just to be welcome and treated like a human being, for someone to let me in." Eli looked down at the floor, deep in thought. After a second or two, he scoffed and waved his hand. "Ah, I be just an old man talkin' and makin' no sense. Thanks again for this. I'll be takin' it down to the hospital right now." He placed a hand gently on James' arm. "God bless you both."
James and Joyce watched silently as Eli left the room and walked out the front door. They didn't speak for a minute, just standing in place silently. Joyce finally coughed and straightened her dress.
"I'd, uh, better go and make sure that Monet gets somewhere safe." Without another word, she turned and left.
James smoothed his suit, putting the white glove back in his pocket. He started walking toward the front door, reaching in his inside pocket for his BlackBerry. He paused, then took his hand back out of his pocket, minus the phone.
He would call his contacts tomorrow.
Probably.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
**************
StoryShare, August 29, 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.
