The Valley
Illustration
Stories
Contents
"The Valley" by Keith Hewitt
"A Story that Caused a War" by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * * *
The Valley
by Keith Hewitt
2 Kings 2:1-12
The air was crisp and the sky was a deep, impossible blue. From the ridge, Randall could look toward the east and see a broad, green valley studded with trees, fed by a sparkling river that wound slowly through gentle curves, as though it had to rest after racing down the slope from a womb of ice that lay like a white blanket on the shoulders of the far mountain. Beyond the far mountain he could see peaks of granite and ice, all the way to infinity.
As it always had, the vista brought tears to his eyes and a sort of joyous ache in his heart that was a lot like love. He stood up straight, breathed in deep and let the cold air and the scent of pine trees linger for awhile before exhaling slowly. "Do you know what I like about mountains?" he asked softly.
Seated next to him, the young man leaned closer. Even in the middle of the night, this place was never quiet and though the noise in the room was less, now -- most of the machines had been turned off -- it was still hard to hear when the man in the bed mumbled. He listened intently, marking seconds punctuated by the muted beep of the heart monitor, tried to ignore the soft, sibilant hiss of oxygen. When the man in the bed said nothing else, just lay there with his eyes closed, the young man answered, "What do you like about the mountains, Reverend Randall?"
There was a long pause, and the old man's jaw worked slowly from side to side, the tip of his tongue came out just far enough to touch his lips; the young man looked around, found a sponge lying on the table and dipped it in water, gently rubbed it over the man's lips until the cracks glistened in the fluorescent light. When he spoke, it was a low rasping sound.
"They make me realize how really small I am, compared to the rest of God's creation -- and at the same time, they lift me up." Randall studied the slope leading down toward the valley -- it didn't seem too bad. It wasn't nearly as steep as it had looked at first, and in the unfiltered light of the sun he could even pick out what looked like a path -- a narrow one -- that would take him down into the valley.
With only a moment's hesitation he walked carefully to the trail head and began to pick his way down. He stooped slightly, now and again, reached down to steady himself against the upslope as his feet slid on loose gravel and dirt. Just a few yards from the top he lost his footing and dropped down on one hip and managed to right himself before sliding too far. Pebbles bounced their way down the path, announced he was coming.
His heart skipped a beat, but he smiled. "That was close. But it reminds me -- you can't count on the ground beneath your feet always being solid, can you?"
The young man also smiled but the expression did not reach his eyes. Carefully, he moved the EKG leads draped from the rail onto the man's chest, pushed them to one side, out of the way, and softly patted the old man's arm. "No, you can't. You surely can't," he agreed. "Are you feeling okay? Any pain?"
"Doesn't really matter, though, does it?" He was already a third of the way down the path, he guessed, looking back up to the ridge where he'd been. The scent of evergreens and fresh water was stronger, now, but curiously his breath seemed to come a little harder -- almost what he would expect to feel climbing higher, not lower. He shrugged it off, more interested in the valley before him, now.
As the trail dipped lower and lower, it began to flatten out, eventually becoming a walkable slope and then finally a gentle incline as rocks and gravel gave way to grass on the valley floor. Somehow the trees seemed thicker, now, and the scent of pine was heavy in the air. Heavy... yes, the air was definitely heavy. It took effort to inhale and exhale, and the effort was tiring; he began to consciously work to prolong the time between breaths, even as he walked among the trees.
The ground beneath his feet seemed springy -- he looked down and smiled, recognized the thick carpet of pine needles and fallen leaves that had gradually buried the wiry grass of the valley floor. "I know this place," he said happily. "I know this place!"
"You're in the hospital," the young man said soothingly. "After your last episode, you had to come here. It's been a while, now."
"It certainly has been awhile since I've been here," Randall said, the feelings in his chest a mild puzzle to him as his heart seemed light, but his breath seemed heavy. "This is where I was saved -- the woods outside of Schwalbestadt. It's the place where grace found me... the place I first told God my life was in his hands, and accepted Jesus Christ as my savior."
His steps took him to a tall, thick pine, near the river bank. One hand touching the tree for steadiness, he sat down stiffly, stretched his legs -- now suddenly tingly -- and leaned against the tree. The bark was rough against his back; the scent enveloped him. "It's like coming home again," he sighed softly, and let his head rest against the trunk, felt the stickiness in his hair.
He raised a hand, tried to run it through his hair, but couldn't -- he let it drop, took a shallow breath and held it before exhaling softly, and mumbling... the words wouldn't quite form the way he wanted them to. Unworried, now, he looked around the forest, registered the buzz of insects and the sight of tiny birds flitting from one tree to the next. Yes, this was the place... this was definitely the place.
"There is one thing I regret... and I had to come here to find it," he murmured.
"No regrets, Reverend Randall... no regrets," the young man said softly and put his hand over Randall's, atop the thin hospital blanket.
The sun must be directly overhead, now; the light was picking its way through the canopy, throwing itself prodigiously on the pine needle carpet. Farther off, there were shadows, but here... no. "You asked me, once, how to do a great sermon," he said, and realized he was speaking slowly, forming the words with great care and sending them out on gentle puffs of air. "I never answered."
The young man looked up at the monitor, touched the old man's clammy forehead with his other hand. "Not to worry, Reverend Randall," he said softly, speaking close to the old man's ear. "Just you rest... it's time to rest."
"If you want to talk... with authority... then speak when the chance presents itself... speak from the heart... and speak the truth." The old man's eyes fluttered open, swept around the room before settling on the young man. "People won't usually want to hear it... but they need to. You can. You have the heart of a prophet. It's what we prophets do." And he smiled -- a ghostly expression as his eyes closed.
It was brighter than noon, now, and the old man smiled. The light brought warmth... and not just warmth, but a feeling of... peace, maybe? Of wholeness or healing... "My God," he breathed softly, "just look at that light." It took on texture, now, almost a thickness; he raised one hand and reached toward it, was surprised to actually feel it in his grasp, then realized slowly that he had not taken another breath for some time... and didn't really need to.
The world became the scent of pine and the touch of light grasped between his fingers... and...
The nurse who came to shut off the alarm on the heart monitor glanced at the young man and reached for the patient's free hand, held it, then touched his neck with her thumb and forefinger, confirming what the heart monitor had already told them. Methodically, she detached the EKG leads from the harness connection, left them in place, and pulled the blanket up to the patient's chest.
"He seems calm," she said, studying his face.
The young man nodded. "He was going home."
Her eyebrows arched. "He really believed that?"
He brushed tears away from his eyes with one hand, glanced at the still, pallid face of the old man in the bed, with its hint of a smile frozen for eternity, and then turned back to the nurse. You have the heart of a prophet. "Ma'am... let me tell you what I know," he answered with a smile. And spoke the truth...
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
A Story that Caused a War
by Frank Ramirez
Mark 9:2-9
Transfigure is a different word than transform. Transform means to change. To transfigure suggests that one pulls back the mask to reveal the reality, the core that lies hidden, revealed for what it truly is. When we speak of the transfiguration of Jesus we are saying that the real Jesus, the figure of glory and power who was veiled by the outer semblance of the man of sorrows, was seen for a few moments for what he truly is!
Can a nation be transfigured? Can the layers of illusion that hide -- not glory -- but ugliness, be torn aside to reveal the inner truth? And could one person be powerful enough to do it? Perhaps the least likely person....
When the United States was founded, everyone recognized the disconnect between the stirring words about freedom in the Declaration of Independence, and the existence of slavery. Many of the founders owned slaves, and most of those said, at least in public, that they abhorred the practice. Some expected it to die out on its own but within a generation it became clear that slavery was increasing, and that those who owned slaves wished to expand the practice from sea to shining sea.
Many pointed to the Bible as sanction for slavery and certainly slavery existed in the ancient world. But in Jesus' day slavery was an economic condition. One was born into slavery, captured in war, or voluntarily became a slave because of debt. Slaves were often in charge of great financial empires and could work hard and buy their way out of slavery. The ultimate difference is that in the Roman Empire slavery was not based on race.
Whereas in the American South there was a belief that humans of African descent were inherently inferior and destined to be slaves. Southerners claimed that the slaves were better off in America than Africa, they were incapable of taking care of themselves, and indeed, were well-treated members of the family. According to the myth, the slaves themselves were grateful for the way they were treated.
Abolitionists, on the other hand, were considered troublemakers of the worst sort in the north as well as the south. That's the way it was in 1852 when a small woman, with no political power, published a novel -- Uncle Tom's Cabin or Life Among the Lowly.
The effect was immediately electrifying on both sides of the Atlantic and both sides of the Mason/Dixon Line. The book infuriated slaveholders who were outraged that someone would suggest that it was heartless to sell slaves south, breaking up families, and sending them to certain death, and obscene to tell the truth that slaveholders not only whipped and tortured their slaves, but sexually assaulted the female slaves. It didn't matter if these things were true -- they simply weren't spoken of.
The novel also forced Northerners to accept the fact that they were responsible for complacency and compliance with the sin as well. It is said that when President Lincoln, himself extremely tall, bent over nearly in half to greet the author of this book he said, "Is this the little woman who made this great war?"
The little woman was Harriet Beecher Stowe. She was born in 1811, in Connecticut, the daughter of one of the most renowned preachers at the time, Lyman Beecher. Her father proclaimed her a genius when she was eight years old and lamented that she was born a girl, stating he "would give a hundred dollars if she was a boy..." not because he thought her gender made her inferior, but he believed there was no avenue for her talents. But Harriet was a great student and became a teacher at the Harford Female Seminary, which was run by an older sister.
However she moved with her father to Cincinnati when he became the president of Lane Theological Seminary. Cincinnati was part of the south, and slavery was practiced just across the river. She grew more and more outraged about the culture of slavery.
Then, with the death of a son at the age of eighteen months, she found she identified with the pain and suffering of families separated when sold to another slave master. Although she had already begun to sell stories, her masterpiece was inspired by visions she believed came from God.
In the first vision, which came while receiving communion at worship, she saw a slave whipped to death by two other slaves forced to the task by an evil white man. The tale that evolved, of the kindly Uncle Tom who was sold south and separated from his wife and children, and who nevertheless saves the life of a young white girl named Eva and was promised freedom, only to have it cruelly torn away and fall under the lash of the evil Simon Legree, destroyed the myth that people wished to believe to salve their consciences. The nation was transfigured -- exposed for what it really was. The ugliness of slavery, of course, was there all along. Slaves certainly knew about it. But Harriet Beecher Stow had torn away the mask and revealed the truth about the country, transfigured, in a way that could not be denied.
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 19, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
"The Valley" by Keith Hewitt
"A Story that Caused a War" by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * * *
The Valley
by Keith Hewitt
2 Kings 2:1-12
The air was crisp and the sky was a deep, impossible blue. From the ridge, Randall could look toward the east and see a broad, green valley studded with trees, fed by a sparkling river that wound slowly through gentle curves, as though it had to rest after racing down the slope from a womb of ice that lay like a white blanket on the shoulders of the far mountain. Beyond the far mountain he could see peaks of granite and ice, all the way to infinity.
As it always had, the vista brought tears to his eyes and a sort of joyous ache in his heart that was a lot like love. He stood up straight, breathed in deep and let the cold air and the scent of pine trees linger for awhile before exhaling slowly. "Do you know what I like about mountains?" he asked softly.
Seated next to him, the young man leaned closer. Even in the middle of the night, this place was never quiet and though the noise in the room was less, now -- most of the machines had been turned off -- it was still hard to hear when the man in the bed mumbled. He listened intently, marking seconds punctuated by the muted beep of the heart monitor, tried to ignore the soft, sibilant hiss of oxygen. When the man in the bed said nothing else, just lay there with his eyes closed, the young man answered, "What do you like about the mountains, Reverend Randall?"
There was a long pause, and the old man's jaw worked slowly from side to side, the tip of his tongue came out just far enough to touch his lips; the young man looked around, found a sponge lying on the table and dipped it in water, gently rubbed it over the man's lips until the cracks glistened in the fluorescent light. When he spoke, it was a low rasping sound.
"They make me realize how really small I am, compared to the rest of God's creation -- and at the same time, they lift me up." Randall studied the slope leading down toward the valley -- it didn't seem too bad. It wasn't nearly as steep as it had looked at first, and in the unfiltered light of the sun he could even pick out what looked like a path -- a narrow one -- that would take him down into the valley.
With only a moment's hesitation he walked carefully to the trail head and began to pick his way down. He stooped slightly, now and again, reached down to steady himself against the upslope as his feet slid on loose gravel and dirt. Just a few yards from the top he lost his footing and dropped down on one hip and managed to right himself before sliding too far. Pebbles bounced their way down the path, announced he was coming.
His heart skipped a beat, but he smiled. "That was close. But it reminds me -- you can't count on the ground beneath your feet always being solid, can you?"
The young man also smiled but the expression did not reach his eyes. Carefully, he moved the EKG leads draped from the rail onto the man's chest, pushed them to one side, out of the way, and softly patted the old man's arm. "No, you can't. You surely can't," he agreed. "Are you feeling okay? Any pain?"
"Doesn't really matter, though, does it?" He was already a third of the way down the path, he guessed, looking back up to the ridge where he'd been. The scent of evergreens and fresh water was stronger, now, but curiously his breath seemed to come a little harder -- almost what he would expect to feel climbing higher, not lower. He shrugged it off, more interested in the valley before him, now.
As the trail dipped lower and lower, it began to flatten out, eventually becoming a walkable slope and then finally a gentle incline as rocks and gravel gave way to grass on the valley floor. Somehow the trees seemed thicker, now, and the scent of pine was heavy in the air. Heavy... yes, the air was definitely heavy. It took effort to inhale and exhale, and the effort was tiring; he began to consciously work to prolong the time between breaths, even as he walked among the trees.
The ground beneath his feet seemed springy -- he looked down and smiled, recognized the thick carpet of pine needles and fallen leaves that had gradually buried the wiry grass of the valley floor. "I know this place," he said happily. "I know this place!"
"You're in the hospital," the young man said soothingly. "After your last episode, you had to come here. It's been a while, now."
"It certainly has been awhile since I've been here," Randall said, the feelings in his chest a mild puzzle to him as his heart seemed light, but his breath seemed heavy. "This is where I was saved -- the woods outside of Schwalbestadt. It's the place where grace found me... the place I first told God my life was in his hands, and accepted Jesus Christ as my savior."
His steps took him to a tall, thick pine, near the river bank. One hand touching the tree for steadiness, he sat down stiffly, stretched his legs -- now suddenly tingly -- and leaned against the tree. The bark was rough against his back; the scent enveloped him. "It's like coming home again," he sighed softly, and let his head rest against the trunk, felt the stickiness in his hair.
He raised a hand, tried to run it through his hair, but couldn't -- he let it drop, took a shallow breath and held it before exhaling softly, and mumbling... the words wouldn't quite form the way he wanted them to. Unworried, now, he looked around the forest, registered the buzz of insects and the sight of tiny birds flitting from one tree to the next. Yes, this was the place... this was definitely the place.
"There is one thing I regret... and I had to come here to find it," he murmured.
"No regrets, Reverend Randall... no regrets," the young man said softly and put his hand over Randall's, atop the thin hospital blanket.
The sun must be directly overhead, now; the light was picking its way through the canopy, throwing itself prodigiously on the pine needle carpet. Farther off, there were shadows, but here... no. "You asked me, once, how to do a great sermon," he said, and realized he was speaking slowly, forming the words with great care and sending them out on gentle puffs of air. "I never answered."
The young man looked up at the monitor, touched the old man's clammy forehead with his other hand. "Not to worry, Reverend Randall," he said softly, speaking close to the old man's ear. "Just you rest... it's time to rest."
"If you want to talk... with authority... then speak when the chance presents itself... speak from the heart... and speak the truth." The old man's eyes fluttered open, swept around the room before settling on the young man. "People won't usually want to hear it... but they need to. You can. You have the heart of a prophet. It's what we prophets do." And he smiled -- a ghostly expression as his eyes closed.
It was brighter than noon, now, and the old man smiled. The light brought warmth... and not just warmth, but a feeling of... peace, maybe? Of wholeness or healing... "My God," he breathed softly, "just look at that light." It took on texture, now, almost a thickness; he raised one hand and reached toward it, was surprised to actually feel it in his grasp, then realized slowly that he had not taken another breath for some time... and didn't really need to.
The world became the scent of pine and the touch of light grasped between his fingers... and...
The nurse who came to shut off the alarm on the heart monitor glanced at the young man and reached for the patient's free hand, held it, then touched his neck with her thumb and forefinger, confirming what the heart monitor had already told them. Methodically, she detached the EKG leads from the harness connection, left them in place, and pulled the blanket up to the patient's chest.
"He seems calm," she said, studying his face.
The young man nodded. "He was going home."
Her eyebrows arched. "He really believed that?"
He brushed tears away from his eyes with one hand, glanced at the still, pallid face of the old man in the bed, with its hint of a smile frozen for eternity, and then turned back to the nurse. You have the heart of a prophet. "Ma'am... let me tell you what I know," he answered with a smile. And spoke the truth...
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
A Story that Caused a War
by Frank Ramirez
Mark 9:2-9
Transfigure is a different word than transform. Transform means to change. To transfigure suggests that one pulls back the mask to reveal the reality, the core that lies hidden, revealed for what it truly is. When we speak of the transfiguration of Jesus we are saying that the real Jesus, the figure of glory and power who was veiled by the outer semblance of the man of sorrows, was seen for a few moments for what he truly is!
Can a nation be transfigured? Can the layers of illusion that hide -- not glory -- but ugliness, be torn aside to reveal the inner truth? And could one person be powerful enough to do it? Perhaps the least likely person....
When the United States was founded, everyone recognized the disconnect between the stirring words about freedom in the Declaration of Independence, and the existence of slavery. Many of the founders owned slaves, and most of those said, at least in public, that they abhorred the practice. Some expected it to die out on its own but within a generation it became clear that slavery was increasing, and that those who owned slaves wished to expand the practice from sea to shining sea.
Many pointed to the Bible as sanction for slavery and certainly slavery existed in the ancient world. But in Jesus' day slavery was an economic condition. One was born into slavery, captured in war, or voluntarily became a slave because of debt. Slaves were often in charge of great financial empires and could work hard and buy their way out of slavery. The ultimate difference is that in the Roman Empire slavery was not based on race.
Whereas in the American South there was a belief that humans of African descent were inherently inferior and destined to be slaves. Southerners claimed that the slaves were better off in America than Africa, they were incapable of taking care of themselves, and indeed, were well-treated members of the family. According to the myth, the slaves themselves were grateful for the way they were treated.
Abolitionists, on the other hand, were considered troublemakers of the worst sort in the north as well as the south. That's the way it was in 1852 when a small woman, with no political power, published a novel -- Uncle Tom's Cabin or Life Among the Lowly.
The effect was immediately electrifying on both sides of the Atlantic and both sides of the Mason/Dixon Line. The book infuriated slaveholders who were outraged that someone would suggest that it was heartless to sell slaves south, breaking up families, and sending them to certain death, and obscene to tell the truth that slaveholders not only whipped and tortured their slaves, but sexually assaulted the female slaves. It didn't matter if these things were true -- they simply weren't spoken of.
The novel also forced Northerners to accept the fact that they were responsible for complacency and compliance with the sin as well. It is said that when President Lincoln, himself extremely tall, bent over nearly in half to greet the author of this book he said, "Is this the little woman who made this great war?"
The little woman was Harriet Beecher Stowe. She was born in 1811, in Connecticut, the daughter of one of the most renowned preachers at the time, Lyman Beecher. Her father proclaimed her a genius when she was eight years old and lamented that she was born a girl, stating he "would give a hundred dollars if she was a boy..." not because he thought her gender made her inferior, but he believed there was no avenue for her talents. But Harriet was a great student and became a teacher at the Harford Female Seminary, which was run by an older sister.
However she moved with her father to Cincinnati when he became the president of Lane Theological Seminary. Cincinnati was part of the south, and slavery was practiced just across the river. She grew more and more outraged about the culture of slavery.
Then, with the death of a son at the age of eighteen months, she found she identified with the pain and suffering of families separated when sold to another slave master. Although she had already begun to sell stories, her masterpiece was inspired by visions she believed came from God.
In the first vision, which came while receiving communion at worship, she saw a slave whipped to death by two other slaves forced to the task by an evil white man. The tale that evolved, of the kindly Uncle Tom who was sold south and separated from his wife and children, and who nevertheless saves the life of a young white girl named Eva and was promised freedom, only to have it cruelly torn away and fall under the lash of the evil Simon Legree, destroyed the myth that people wished to believe to salve their consciences. The nation was transfigured -- exposed for what it really was. The ugliness of slavery, of course, was there all along. Slaves certainly knew about it. But Harriet Beecher Stow had torn away the mask and revealed the truth about the country, transfigured, in a way that could not be denied.
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 19, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.