A Triumph Of The Spirit
Stories
Object:
Contents
A Story to Live By: "A Triumph of the Spirit"
Shining Moments: "The Sandpiper"
Good Stories: "Father Good" by John Sumwalt
Scrap Pile: "Who You Calling Good?" by John Sumwalt
An Invitation to Send Stories
A Story to Live By
A Triumph of the Spirit
Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help. Many bulls encircle me, strong bulls of Bashan surround me; they open wide their mouths at me, like a ravening and roaring lion.
Psalm 22:11-12
One Saturday near the beginning of the Persian Gulf War, just minutes before the U.S. deadline for leaving Kuwait, Saddam Hussein's forces fired a Scud missile at Israel. When the sirens wailed, Zubin Mehta was conducting the Israeli Philharmonic with violinist Isaac Stern in a concert at the Jerusalem theater. The audience donned gas masks, and the orchestra left the stage. But Mr. Stern, with awesome courage, returned to the stage and played an unaccompanied sarabande by Bach. When the all-clear sounded, the concert resumed.
An old Jewish custom holds that if a guest at a wedding is stricken or even dies, the service should continue nonetheless to affirm the primacy of life. In the same spirit, Mr. Stern nobly and dramatically affirmed the primacy of art and civilization, even as the distant cannons thundered and missiles cut a frightening path through the sky.
Shining Moments
The Sandpiper
"Oh, that I knew where I might find him, that I might come even to his dwelling!"
Job 23:3
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.
Psalm 22:1-2
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. "Good-bye joy," I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy ... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The next few days belonged to others -- a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The never-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, "My God, why was I saying this to a little child?"
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty and ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn-looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all -- she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly ..." Her voice faltered. "She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed "A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY." Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words -- one for each year of her life -- that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand -- who taught me the gift of love.
**************************************
This is one of those online stories that is forwarded far and wide, which in no way detracts from the truth or the power of the story. For all we know, some of the parables of Jesus may have been the urban legends of his day, retold with his particular "kingdom of God" spin. We are sharing this story just as it came to us.
However, it should be noted that there is no Robert Peterson. The actual author of this piece is Mary Sherman Hilbert. The full-length version of Hilbert's story appeared in 1978 in a periodical produced by a religious order in Canada, and was subsequently picked up by Reader's Digest and offered in condensed form to its readership in 1980. In that shortened version, which went on to become the widely forwarded piece now part of online culture, the beach walker is identified as Ruth Peterson and the child as Windy.
The Reader's Digest version is prefaced by the following author's statement, one anyone seriously weighing the question of "Is it true?" should pay close attention to:
Several years ago, a neighbor related to me an experience that had happened to
her one winter on a beach in Washington State. The incident stuck in my mind
and I took notes on what she said. Later, at a writer's conference, the
conversation came back to me, and I felt I had to set it down. Here is her story,
as haunting to me now as when I first heard it.
Although the sandpiper tale is written in the first person, its author was not the one who had the encounter with the child; she is merely repeating a story she heard years earlier. For more information, click http://www.snopes.com/glurge/sandpiper.htm
Good Stories
Father Good
by John Sumwalt
... a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, "Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" Jesus said to him, "Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone."
Mark 10:17-18
They called him Father Good, though he was not ordained and he had no natural children. His given name was Christopher Goodson. Everybody had called him Chris when he worked at the filling station uptown. But when he moved to the south side neighborhood, after Mildred died, the kids there started to call him Father Good. Chris said it was because he talked to them about spiritual things. But it was more than that. He was a father figure to a lot of kids who had had little attention from their own fathers, if they even knew who their fathers were.
Chris didn't much like the nickname. "I'm not so good," he used to tell the kids. "If Mildred was here she would set you straight. She knew what kind of guy I really am. And besides," he said, "the Bible says very clearly that only God is good. Jesus wouldn't even let them hang that one on him." But the nickname persisted despite, or perhaps because of, Chris' adamant protestations.
Chris loved two things in life after he lost Mildred: his flowers and all of those kids. He told me that it was on account of the kids that he moved to the south side. He said he was just driving around one day when he came upon this neighborhood with rundown houses and apartment buildings. He said there were broken bottles, pop cans, old tires, magazines, and newspapers blowing in the alleys, hundreds of kids everywhere, and no sign of a tree or a flower within blocks. "That's no way for any child to grow up," Chris said. So he bought the first ramshackle house that came on the market and moved in.
The first thing Chris did was to clean up his own lawn. He hauled away all of the garbage, set out trees, and put in several flowerbeds. He hired some of the kids to help him. When that was done they painted the house, and then he started on the rest of the block. Chris organized a neighborhood association. He got the alderman and the cops on the beat involved. Soon local businessmen and women were taking an interest. Storefronts were painted and parking lots resurfaced. Civic pride was catching. Suddenly there was money available from the city to fix streetlights and to repair curbs and gutters which had been crumbling for years.
The development of Reggie White Park, named after the NFL football hero who lent his support to the neighborhood association, was Chris' proudest achievement. It provided the kids with a safe place to play. Chris solicited funds throughout the city for playground equipment, basketball courts, and a water fountain. He organized teams of kids to water the trees and flowers that he personally planted. It is a beautiful park, a source of pride for everyone on the south side. The last time I saw Chris, he was talking about raising money for scholarships so that some of the kids he loved would have a chance to go to college.
My job took me to another state after that. I lost track of Chris, except for an occasional Christmas card. He wasn't one to write much, and neither am I. Still, I was shocked when a mutual friend called to tell me that Chris had died. I felt like I had lost one of my closest friends, even though we had not seen each other for fifteen years. It didn't seem possible that Chris was 93 years old. I learned that he had spent the last two years in a local nursing home.
I flew back for the funeral, wishing that I would have had the good sense to visit while Chris was still alive. The funeral home was packed with Chris' neighbors and friends. I recognized many more people than I thought I would. But there were many well-dressed young men and women that I didn't remember, until they reminded me that we had met when I used to visit at Chris' house. They were all Chris' kids, come home to give thanks for the old man who had given them so much. They were teachers and lawyers and engineers and nurses and electricians and carpenters and independent businessmen and women. A few of them were raising their families in the old neighborhood and keeping it up as Chris had taught them. Many of them said they had been able to go on to school because Chris helped them to get scholarships.
When the preacher had finished with the sermon, he invited people to stand up and share their memories of Chris, and many did. One well-dressed young man, who was seated between his pretty young wife and his mother, stood up and, with tears in his eyes, said, "How I loved that old man, because he loved me and took care of me like no other man I ever knew. I don't know where I'd be today if it wasn't for Chris. God bless Father Good."
Scrap Pile
Who You Calling Good?
by John Sumwalt
Jesus said to him, "Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone."
Mark 10:18
Are you a good person? Take a good look at yourself in the mirror sometime and ask yourself, "Am I a good person?" Could you answer with a plain yes or no?
I have not taken a survey, but I imagine that most people would say, "Yes, generally speaking, I am a good person." And I imagine that some people would hesitate for a moment and then confess, at least to themselves, that there have been times in their lives when they have been less than good.
A lot of us would probably fall somewhere in between, and say something to the effect, "I'm not sure. I try to be a good person. I want to be a good person, but I have to admit that I'm not always as good as I would like to be."
It is difficult to be objective about our own goodness. However, if I were to ask you to name some of the good people you have known, I am sure that you could easily name several people who would fall into that category. We know what we mean when we say of someone, he or she is a good person. It is a high compliment (often heard at funerals).
A man came up to Jesus one day and said, "Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?"
Jesus said to him, "Who you calling good? Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone."
The man really should have known better. It was a universal doctrine of Judaism that no one was good but God. According to William Barclay, in all of Jewish literature there is no record of any rabbi, no matter how revered, ever being called "good teacher."
Jesus corrected the man, as any good rabbi would have, and then said to him, "You know the commandments: you shall not murder; you shall not commit adultery; you shall not steal; you shall not bear false witness; you shall not defraud; honor your father and mother."
The man said, "Teacher, I have kept all of these since my youth." If this was true, and there is no reason to doubt it, this was a genuinely good man. However, this man gets a lot of bad press, which he may not deserve. He is often referred to as "the rich young ruler." It is difficult for us to sympathize with someone who is well off and a member of an elite ruling class. But consider the possibility that he was a genuinely good man.
Like every good person, this young man had his weaknesses. He had his dark side, the side people don't talk about when a good person dies -- the part of himself that stood in the way of his being everything that God created him to be.
Jesus saw immediately what that was.
Then Mark says, "Jesus looked at him and loved him." Jesus liked this man, instinctively cared for him, and so he would tell him the truth about himself. Jesus said to him, "You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me."
"When he heard this the man was shocked, and went away grieving, for he had many possessions."
In her book The Long Quiet Highway, Natalie Goldberg tells about a special relationship she had with her Zen teacher, a master teacher who loved his students and would never tell them anything but the truth about themselves. Goldberg wrote:
It would never have occurred to him to adjust a talk to please people or not to tell
the truth of his mind. He said to me often, "I'm sorry for you. I do not give you a
piece of candy. I do not give you what you'd like, what would please you, but
would not be true. I do not feed your illusions" (pg. 150).
Jesus did not give this nice young man, this genuinely good man, a piece of candy. He looked at him and loved him, and told him the truth about his life.
And when he heard this, the young man was shocked. In spite of being a genuinely "good" person, he was so attached to his possessions that if he had to let everything he owned go to save his life, he couldn't do it. He hung his head and walked away feeling sorry for himself.
I doubt that Jesus would say the same thing to you and me that he said to this man. But we can be sure that he would look at us with love and tell us the truth about our lives, whatever that might be. Jesus would invite us to let go of whatever it is that keeps us from being whole persons.
Here was a good man, who kept the law (no small thing), but discovered that keeping the law, doing good works, was not enough to save him. Something else was needed and that he was not able to do for himself.
Our own goodness, our own good deeds, are never enough to save us.
We all feel pretty good about the good things our church is doing this year. We are reaching out into the community. We are going to start a new worship service next week, not for ourselves, but for people who do not have a church home. We are about to finish a Habitat for Humanity house.
Millard Fuller, the founder of Habitat for Humanity, once said, "There was no better day in the world than the day I walked up to the woman whose family would move into the first Habitat house. 'Do I ever have good news for you,' I said, holding out the key for her to take."
That was in Americus, Georgia, in 1967. They closed the Habitat office in that county this year. They don't need any more new houses. Every person who needed a house in Americus, Georgia, has a house.
If we keep building houses every year, some of us may live to see a day like that in Milwaukee County. Wouldn't that be something? But even if that day were to come, we would still be in the same boat with that nice young man who kept all the commandments from his youth. Just doing good is not good enough. You have to be able to let go of that and everything else, too.
Heidi Neumark, a nice Lutheran pastor from the South Bronx, warned in The Christian Century this week:
Those of us who are part of the white, middle-class church need to be careful
that the poor do not become a backdrop for our charity. We must take care that
quotas and programs and conferences on women, children, and poverty do not
become a forum for displaying our goodness and compassion while the church
goes about other business dry-eyed and silent. (October 4, 2000, pg. 943)
Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, "How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!" And the disciples were perplexed at these words. But Jesus said to them again, "Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God." They were greatly astounded and said to one another, "Then who can be saved?" Jesus looked at them and said, "For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible."
There are two verses which are the keys to understanding this story, and neither one of them is "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God." That is simple hyperbole, like something the Democrats would say and the Republicans would make a fuss about (or vice versa).
The two key verses are "Jesus looked at him and loved him" (that didn't change after the young man walked away), and "nothing is impossible with God."
Rachel Naomi Remen, in her book My Grandfather's Blessings, tells of a wealthy businessman who learned this at the end of his life:
At the age of 45, George had patented a part of a medical invention. For more
than two decades since then, he was the CEO of a small but successful
company that manufactures and distributes these parts worldwide. George was
a fine businessman and a shrewd investor, a highly sophisticated man who
traveled widely and collected many beautiful things. By most standards, he had
led an enviable life.... George had discovered that he had lung cancer ... and his
physicians had told him that he did not have long.
His diagnosis had shaken George badly. I had expected that he would be
depressed about the hopelessness of his situation, but this was not the case.
There was a lot else on his mind. "I have wasted my life, Rachel," he told me
flatly. "I have two ex-wives and five children. I support all of them but I don't know
any of them. I never took the time to know them or anyone else. I have spent my
life doing business, building my company from an idea in my basement to what
it is today. I do not think they will miss me. I've nothing behind me but a lot of
money." He looked away and shook his head. "What an old fool," he said. "A
stupid old fool."
The thing that George invented and that his company manufactures is a part of a
medical device that has enabled people whose chronic disease was previously
unmanageable to live almost normally. Another of my patients uses this device.
It has changed her life. Before it was available, she had been severely limited by
her disease and almost housebound. Controlling her physical symptoms had
occupied most of her time. She had been unable to work, unable to have any
sort of normal life among people.
Soon after she was fitted with this device, she had gotten a job for the first time.
There she had met people and had begun to have friends. In time she had met
and married a fine man and had a child. "The day they gave me this device, I
was reborn," she had told me. And so she was.
It is a breach of privacy to give one patient's name to another, but I thought that
perhaps Stephanie might be willing to write an anonymous note about her
experience and I could give it to George. I resolved to ask her if she might be
willing to do this.
When she discovered I knew the man whose invention had made her life
possible, Stephanie was speechless. She sat thinking over my request that she
write to him to tell him about the difference his work had made in her life. Shyly
she asked me if I thought he might be willing to come to her home for dinner so
that she could show him the life he had made possible for her. I said that I
would ask.
George was surprised that I knew a patient who used his invention. He was very
touched that she might want to meet him and readily agreed. He offered to take
her and her husband to dinner at one of our most elegant and expensive
restaurants. "I don't think so," I told him. And so, an evening was found, and
George went to dinner at Stephanie's home.
The week after this dinner, he sat in my office shaking his head in wonder. He
had expected to have dinner with this young couple, but when he had arrived,
George was welcomed by Stephanie's whole family. Her mother was there, her
three brothers and sisters, several of her aunts and uncles, and a crowd of
nieces, nephews, and cousins. Her husband's parents were there, too, and
many of her friends and neighbors -- the whole community of people who had
sustained her in the years she was an invalid. They had decorated the little
house with crepe paper, and everyone had cooked. It was an extraordinary meal
and a wonderful celebration.
"But that was not the important part, Rachel," George told me. "They had really
come to tell me a story; they had each played a part in it and had a different side
of it to share. It took them over three hours to tell it. It was the story of Stephanie's
life. I cried most of the time. And at the very end, Stephanie came to me and said
'This is really a story about you, George. We thought you needed to know.' And
I did. I did."
I had tears in my eyes. "How many of these things do you make every year,
George?" I asked him. "Close to ten thousand," he said softly. "I just knew the
numbers, Rachel. I had no idea what they meant."
Jesus looked at him and loved him. Nothing is impossible with God.
(Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., My Grandfather's Blessings: Stories of Strength, Refuge, and Belonging, New York: Riverhead Books, 2000, pgs. 225-227.)
Excerpts from a sermon preached at Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, October 15, 2000.
**********************************************
An Invitation to Send Stories
We are collecting personal stories for a third volume in the vision series, to be released in 2004. The new working title is Shining Moments: Visions of the Holy in Ordinary Lives. If you have any stories to share of your personal experience of the holy, please send them to jsumwalt@naspa.net.
New Book Released
We are happy to report that the second volume in the vision series, Sharing Visions: Divine Revelations, Angels, and Holy Coincidences, is now available from CSS Publishing Company. For more information about the book click here or visit the CSS website at http://www.csspub.com.
Special Pricing for StoryShare Subscribers
Sharing Visions retails for $19.95. CSS has graciously agreed to make the book available to StoryShare subscribers for just $11.97 (plus shipping & handling). To take advantage of this special pricing, you must use the special code SS40SV. Simply e-mail your order to orders@csspub.com or phone 1-800-241-4056. If you live outside the U.S., phone 419-227-1818.
Praise for Sharing Visions
Bishop Richard Wilke, creator of the Disciple Bible Study series, writes: "I am rejoicing as I read the testimonies in Sharing Visions. What an inspiration! I recall my father, an unemotional man, telling me that his mother (who had died some years before) appeared to him in a dream and gave him counsel on a difficult decision he was wrestling with."
StoryShare, October 12, 2003, issue.
Copyright 2003 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., P.O. Box 4503, Lima, Ohio 45802-4503.
A Story to Live By: "A Triumph of the Spirit"
Shining Moments: "The Sandpiper"
Good Stories: "Father Good" by John Sumwalt
Scrap Pile: "Who You Calling Good?" by John Sumwalt
An Invitation to Send Stories
A Story to Live By
A Triumph of the Spirit
Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help. Many bulls encircle me, strong bulls of Bashan surround me; they open wide their mouths at me, like a ravening and roaring lion.
Psalm 22:11-12
One Saturday near the beginning of the Persian Gulf War, just minutes before the U.S. deadline for leaving Kuwait, Saddam Hussein's forces fired a Scud missile at Israel. When the sirens wailed, Zubin Mehta was conducting the Israeli Philharmonic with violinist Isaac Stern in a concert at the Jerusalem theater. The audience donned gas masks, and the orchestra left the stage. But Mr. Stern, with awesome courage, returned to the stage and played an unaccompanied sarabande by Bach. When the all-clear sounded, the concert resumed.
An old Jewish custom holds that if a guest at a wedding is stricken or even dies, the service should continue nonetheless to affirm the primacy of life. In the same spirit, Mr. Stern nobly and dramatically affirmed the primacy of art and civilization, even as the distant cannons thundered and missiles cut a frightening path through the sky.
Shining Moments
The Sandpiper
"Oh, that I knew where I might find him, that I might come even to his dwelling!"
Job 23:3
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.
Psalm 22:1-2
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. "Good-bye joy," I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy ... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The next few days belonged to others -- a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The never-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, "My God, why was I saying this to a little child?"
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty and ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn-looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all -- she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly ..." Her voice faltered. "She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed "A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY." Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words -- one for each year of her life -- that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand -- who taught me the gift of love.
**************************************
This is one of those online stories that is forwarded far and wide, which in no way detracts from the truth or the power of the story. For all we know, some of the parables of Jesus may have been the urban legends of his day, retold with his particular "kingdom of God" spin. We are sharing this story just as it came to us.
However, it should be noted that there is no Robert Peterson. The actual author of this piece is Mary Sherman Hilbert. The full-length version of Hilbert's story appeared in 1978 in a periodical produced by a religious order in Canada, and was subsequently picked up by Reader's Digest and offered in condensed form to its readership in 1980. In that shortened version, which went on to become the widely forwarded piece now part of online culture, the beach walker is identified as Ruth Peterson and the child as Windy.
The Reader's Digest version is prefaced by the following author's statement, one anyone seriously weighing the question of "Is it true?" should pay close attention to:
Several years ago, a neighbor related to me an experience that had happened to
her one winter on a beach in Washington State. The incident stuck in my mind
and I took notes on what she said. Later, at a writer's conference, the
conversation came back to me, and I felt I had to set it down. Here is her story,
as haunting to me now as when I first heard it.
Although the sandpiper tale is written in the first person, its author was not the one who had the encounter with the child; she is merely repeating a story she heard years earlier. For more information, click http://www.snopes.com/glurge/sandpiper.htm
Good Stories
Father Good
by John Sumwalt
... a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, "Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" Jesus said to him, "Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone."
Mark 10:17-18
They called him Father Good, though he was not ordained and he had no natural children. His given name was Christopher Goodson. Everybody had called him Chris when he worked at the filling station uptown. But when he moved to the south side neighborhood, after Mildred died, the kids there started to call him Father Good. Chris said it was because he talked to them about spiritual things. But it was more than that. He was a father figure to a lot of kids who had had little attention from their own fathers, if they even knew who their fathers were.
Chris didn't much like the nickname. "I'm not so good," he used to tell the kids. "If Mildred was here she would set you straight. She knew what kind of guy I really am. And besides," he said, "the Bible says very clearly that only God is good. Jesus wouldn't even let them hang that one on him." But the nickname persisted despite, or perhaps because of, Chris' adamant protestations.
Chris loved two things in life after he lost Mildred: his flowers and all of those kids. He told me that it was on account of the kids that he moved to the south side. He said he was just driving around one day when he came upon this neighborhood with rundown houses and apartment buildings. He said there were broken bottles, pop cans, old tires, magazines, and newspapers blowing in the alleys, hundreds of kids everywhere, and no sign of a tree or a flower within blocks. "That's no way for any child to grow up," Chris said. So he bought the first ramshackle house that came on the market and moved in.
The first thing Chris did was to clean up his own lawn. He hauled away all of the garbage, set out trees, and put in several flowerbeds. He hired some of the kids to help him. When that was done they painted the house, and then he started on the rest of the block. Chris organized a neighborhood association. He got the alderman and the cops on the beat involved. Soon local businessmen and women were taking an interest. Storefronts were painted and parking lots resurfaced. Civic pride was catching. Suddenly there was money available from the city to fix streetlights and to repair curbs and gutters which had been crumbling for years.
The development of Reggie White Park, named after the NFL football hero who lent his support to the neighborhood association, was Chris' proudest achievement. It provided the kids with a safe place to play. Chris solicited funds throughout the city for playground equipment, basketball courts, and a water fountain. He organized teams of kids to water the trees and flowers that he personally planted. It is a beautiful park, a source of pride for everyone on the south side. The last time I saw Chris, he was talking about raising money for scholarships so that some of the kids he loved would have a chance to go to college.
My job took me to another state after that. I lost track of Chris, except for an occasional Christmas card. He wasn't one to write much, and neither am I. Still, I was shocked when a mutual friend called to tell me that Chris had died. I felt like I had lost one of my closest friends, even though we had not seen each other for fifteen years. It didn't seem possible that Chris was 93 years old. I learned that he had spent the last two years in a local nursing home.
I flew back for the funeral, wishing that I would have had the good sense to visit while Chris was still alive. The funeral home was packed with Chris' neighbors and friends. I recognized many more people than I thought I would. But there were many well-dressed young men and women that I didn't remember, until they reminded me that we had met when I used to visit at Chris' house. They were all Chris' kids, come home to give thanks for the old man who had given them so much. They were teachers and lawyers and engineers and nurses and electricians and carpenters and independent businessmen and women. A few of them were raising their families in the old neighborhood and keeping it up as Chris had taught them. Many of them said they had been able to go on to school because Chris helped them to get scholarships.
When the preacher had finished with the sermon, he invited people to stand up and share their memories of Chris, and many did. One well-dressed young man, who was seated between his pretty young wife and his mother, stood up and, with tears in his eyes, said, "How I loved that old man, because he loved me and took care of me like no other man I ever knew. I don't know where I'd be today if it wasn't for Chris. God bless Father Good."
Scrap Pile
Who You Calling Good?
by John Sumwalt
Jesus said to him, "Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone."
Mark 10:18
Are you a good person? Take a good look at yourself in the mirror sometime and ask yourself, "Am I a good person?" Could you answer with a plain yes or no?
I have not taken a survey, but I imagine that most people would say, "Yes, generally speaking, I am a good person." And I imagine that some people would hesitate for a moment and then confess, at least to themselves, that there have been times in their lives when they have been less than good.
A lot of us would probably fall somewhere in between, and say something to the effect, "I'm not sure. I try to be a good person. I want to be a good person, but I have to admit that I'm not always as good as I would like to be."
It is difficult to be objective about our own goodness. However, if I were to ask you to name some of the good people you have known, I am sure that you could easily name several people who would fall into that category. We know what we mean when we say of someone, he or she is a good person. It is a high compliment (often heard at funerals).
A man came up to Jesus one day and said, "Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?"
Jesus said to him, "Who you calling good? Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone."
The man really should have known better. It was a universal doctrine of Judaism that no one was good but God. According to William Barclay, in all of Jewish literature there is no record of any rabbi, no matter how revered, ever being called "good teacher."
Jesus corrected the man, as any good rabbi would have, and then said to him, "You know the commandments: you shall not murder; you shall not commit adultery; you shall not steal; you shall not bear false witness; you shall not defraud; honor your father and mother."
The man said, "Teacher, I have kept all of these since my youth." If this was true, and there is no reason to doubt it, this was a genuinely good man. However, this man gets a lot of bad press, which he may not deserve. He is often referred to as "the rich young ruler." It is difficult for us to sympathize with someone who is well off and a member of an elite ruling class. But consider the possibility that he was a genuinely good man.
Like every good person, this young man had his weaknesses. He had his dark side, the side people don't talk about when a good person dies -- the part of himself that stood in the way of his being everything that God created him to be.
Jesus saw immediately what that was.
Then Mark says, "Jesus looked at him and loved him." Jesus liked this man, instinctively cared for him, and so he would tell him the truth about himself. Jesus said to him, "You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me."
"When he heard this the man was shocked, and went away grieving, for he had many possessions."
In her book The Long Quiet Highway, Natalie Goldberg tells about a special relationship she had with her Zen teacher, a master teacher who loved his students and would never tell them anything but the truth about themselves. Goldberg wrote:
It would never have occurred to him to adjust a talk to please people or not to tell
the truth of his mind. He said to me often, "I'm sorry for you. I do not give you a
piece of candy. I do not give you what you'd like, what would please you, but
would not be true. I do not feed your illusions" (pg. 150).
Jesus did not give this nice young man, this genuinely good man, a piece of candy. He looked at him and loved him, and told him the truth about his life.
And when he heard this, the young man was shocked. In spite of being a genuinely "good" person, he was so attached to his possessions that if he had to let everything he owned go to save his life, he couldn't do it. He hung his head and walked away feeling sorry for himself.
I doubt that Jesus would say the same thing to you and me that he said to this man. But we can be sure that he would look at us with love and tell us the truth about our lives, whatever that might be. Jesus would invite us to let go of whatever it is that keeps us from being whole persons.
Here was a good man, who kept the law (no small thing), but discovered that keeping the law, doing good works, was not enough to save him. Something else was needed and that he was not able to do for himself.
Our own goodness, our own good deeds, are never enough to save us.
We all feel pretty good about the good things our church is doing this year. We are reaching out into the community. We are going to start a new worship service next week, not for ourselves, but for people who do not have a church home. We are about to finish a Habitat for Humanity house.
Millard Fuller, the founder of Habitat for Humanity, once said, "There was no better day in the world than the day I walked up to the woman whose family would move into the first Habitat house. 'Do I ever have good news for you,' I said, holding out the key for her to take."
That was in Americus, Georgia, in 1967. They closed the Habitat office in that county this year. They don't need any more new houses. Every person who needed a house in Americus, Georgia, has a house.
If we keep building houses every year, some of us may live to see a day like that in Milwaukee County. Wouldn't that be something? But even if that day were to come, we would still be in the same boat with that nice young man who kept all the commandments from his youth. Just doing good is not good enough. You have to be able to let go of that and everything else, too.
Heidi Neumark, a nice Lutheran pastor from the South Bronx, warned in The Christian Century this week:
Those of us who are part of the white, middle-class church need to be careful
that the poor do not become a backdrop for our charity. We must take care that
quotas and programs and conferences on women, children, and poverty do not
become a forum for displaying our goodness and compassion while the church
goes about other business dry-eyed and silent. (October 4, 2000, pg. 943)
Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, "How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!" And the disciples were perplexed at these words. But Jesus said to them again, "Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God." They were greatly astounded and said to one another, "Then who can be saved?" Jesus looked at them and said, "For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible."
There are two verses which are the keys to understanding this story, and neither one of them is "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God." That is simple hyperbole, like something the Democrats would say and the Republicans would make a fuss about (or vice versa).
The two key verses are "Jesus looked at him and loved him" (that didn't change after the young man walked away), and "nothing is impossible with God."
Rachel Naomi Remen, in her book My Grandfather's Blessings, tells of a wealthy businessman who learned this at the end of his life:
At the age of 45, George had patented a part of a medical invention. For more
than two decades since then, he was the CEO of a small but successful
company that manufactures and distributes these parts worldwide. George was
a fine businessman and a shrewd investor, a highly sophisticated man who
traveled widely and collected many beautiful things. By most standards, he had
led an enviable life.... George had discovered that he had lung cancer ... and his
physicians had told him that he did not have long.
His diagnosis had shaken George badly. I had expected that he would be
depressed about the hopelessness of his situation, but this was not the case.
There was a lot else on his mind. "I have wasted my life, Rachel," he told me
flatly. "I have two ex-wives and five children. I support all of them but I don't know
any of them. I never took the time to know them or anyone else. I have spent my
life doing business, building my company from an idea in my basement to what
it is today. I do not think they will miss me. I've nothing behind me but a lot of
money." He looked away and shook his head. "What an old fool," he said. "A
stupid old fool."
The thing that George invented and that his company manufactures is a part of a
medical device that has enabled people whose chronic disease was previously
unmanageable to live almost normally. Another of my patients uses this device.
It has changed her life. Before it was available, she had been severely limited by
her disease and almost housebound. Controlling her physical symptoms had
occupied most of her time. She had been unable to work, unable to have any
sort of normal life among people.
Soon after she was fitted with this device, she had gotten a job for the first time.
There she had met people and had begun to have friends. In time she had met
and married a fine man and had a child. "The day they gave me this device, I
was reborn," she had told me. And so she was.
It is a breach of privacy to give one patient's name to another, but I thought that
perhaps Stephanie might be willing to write an anonymous note about her
experience and I could give it to George. I resolved to ask her if she might be
willing to do this.
When she discovered I knew the man whose invention had made her life
possible, Stephanie was speechless. She sat thinking over my request that she
write to him to tell him about the difference his work had made in her life. Shyly
she asked me if I thought he might be willing to come to her home for dinner so
that she could show him the life he had made possible for her. I said that I
would ask.
George was surprised that I knew a patient who used his invention. He was very
touched that she might want to meet him and readily agreed. He offered to take
her and her husband to dinner at one of our most elegant and expensive
restaurants. "I don't think so," I told him. And so, an evening was found, and
George went to dinner at Stephanie's home.
The week after this dinner, he sat in my office shaking his head in wonder. He
had expected to have dinner with this young couple, but when he had arrived,
George was welcomed by Stephanie's whole family. Her mother was there, her
three brothers and sisters, several of her aunts and uncles, and a crowd of
nieces, nephews, and cousins. Her husband's parents were there, too, and
many of her friends and neighbors -- the whole community of people who had
sustained her in the years she was an invalid. They had decorated the little
house with crepe paper, and everyone had cooked. It was an extraordinary meal
and a wonderful celebration.
"But that was not the important part, Rachel," George told me. "They had really
come to tell me a story; they had each played a part in it and had a different side
of it to share. It took them over three hours to tell it. It was the story of Stephanie's
life. I cried most of the time. And at the very end, Stephanie came to me and said
'This is really a story about you, George. We thought you needed to know.' And
I did. I did."
I had tears in my eyes. "How many of these things do you make every year,
George?" I asked him. "Close to ten thousand," he said softly. "I just knew the
numbers, Rachel. I had no idea what they meant."
Jesus looked at him and loved him. Nothing is impossible with God.
(Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., My Grandfather's Blessings: Stories of Strength, Refuge, and Belonging, New York: Riverhead Books, 2000, pgs. 225-227.)
Excerpts from a sermon preached at Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, October 15, 2000.
**********************************************
An Invitation to Send Stories
We are collecting personal stories for a third volume in the vision series, to be released in 2004. The new working title is Shining Moments: Visions of the Holy in Ordinary Lives. If you have any stories to share of your personal experience of the holy, please send them to jsumwalt@naspa.net.
New Book Released
We are happy to report that the second volume in the vision series, Sharing Visions: Divine Revelations, Angels, and Holy Coincidences, is now available from CSS Publishing Company. For more information about the book click here or visit the CSS website at http://www.csspub.com.
Special Pricing for StoryShare Subscribers
Sharing Visions retails for $19.95. CSS has graciously agreed to make the book available to StoryShare subscribers for just $11.97 (plus shipping & handling). To take advantage of this special pricing, you must use the special code SS40SV. Simply e-mail your order to orders@csspub.com or phone 1-800-241-4056. If you live outside the U.S., phone 419-227-1818.
Praise for Sharing Visions
Bishop Richard Wilke, creator of the Disciple Bible Study series, writes: "I am rejoicing as I read the testimonies in Sharing Visions. What an inspiration! I recall my father, an unemotional man, telling me that his mother (who had died some years before) appeared to him in a dream and gave him counsel on a difficult decision he was wrestling with."
StoryShare, October 12, 2003, issue.
Copyright 2003 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., P.O. Box 4503, Lima, Ohio 45802-4503.
