Words Of Power
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Words of Power" by Peter Andrew Smith
"Refuge" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * *
Words of Power
by Peter Andrew Smith
Acts 7:55-60
The principal looked at the boy holding the cloth up to his nose. His hair was dishevelled, his lip swollen, and his clothes bore the stains of the muddy playground. The nurse examined him but his bleeding nostrils seemed his greatest injury.
The man turned his attention to the three boys sitting on the other side of the room. They looked pretty much untouched by the scuffle which was no surprise as that was the way they usually arrived in his office. He knew they faced challenges in their homes but that was no excuse for bullying and violence. He scowled at them in frustration.
He had tried everything he could think of with these three. They had been sent to the school counselor, he had suspended them, given them extra work, lectured them, and held countless conferences with their parents. All in the vain effort to find some way to get them off this path, because he knew where they were headed. In a few years they would start doing things that would involve serious consequences. He didn't want them to end up in prison or dead.
"What happened?" he asked. He already knew the answer because the teacher who brought them to the office reported on what the three had said while kicking and punching the young man with the bloody nose. It wasn't hard to figure out that the victim had done something -- either in word or action -- that the three bullies decided was a reason for taunts and fists.
Silence answered his question that was also no real surprise. The boys had already learned never to say anything that could be used against them. The targets of their aggression usually stayed silent in the hopes it would make things easier later.
Something though was a bit unusual. The boy holding the cloth to his nose was looking at both him and the bullies. He was obviously shaken by what had happened but seemed more annoyed by his bleeding nose than the events that had led him to the office.
"You want to say something?" the principal asked the boy.
"No, thank you sir. I said everything I needed to on the playground." The boy checked to see if his nose was still bleeding. It was.
The principal turned his attention to the three perpetrators, opened his mouth to berate them, and then stopped. Something was very different this time. They were not glaring defiantly at him. They were not trying to intimidate their victim with unblinking stares and partially hidden gestures. All three boys were silent with their heads down.
He closed his mouth to watch them. He had seen many reactions on the faces of these three: anger, boredom, defiance, but never this. One of them was trembling slightly, one looked at the edge of tears, and one looked confused.
The nurse's knock on the door broke the silence. The boy with the cloth still clutched to his nose headed out the door with her, paused, and looked at the bullies with their heads downcast.
"I meant what I said."
The words struck the three hard. The trembling became shaking, tears started to flow, and the confusion became more pronounced.
"Your parents are coming to pick you up. All three of you will be here, with them, in my office tomorrow morning," the principal said. He pointed to the boy shaking and the boy crying. "You two go to the waiting area. No talking."
He turned his attention to the remaining bully. The boy's brow was furrowed and a vein seemed to be throbbing on his temple.
"What did he say to you?" the principal asked softly.
The boy lifted his head. "What?"
"What did the boy you were bullying say to you? He said something and I know you all heard him. He said he meant it as he left. What did he say?"
"We were hitting him and calling him names and he kept saying 'I forgive you.' " The boy looked directly at the principal. "Why would he say that when we were hurting him? Why would he forgive us?"
"Go wait for your parents," he replied.
The principal sat in his office looking at their files. He didn't know why the boy said those words during the fight but he was thankful that something had finally gotten through to those three.
He leaned back in his chair and realized that he needed to find the boy with the bloody nose before the day was through. Otherwise the principal would have a restless night. The principal needed to know for himself why the young man had forgiven his attackers.
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.
Refuge
by Keith Hewitt
Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16
"Go east when you get to the railroad tracks, and follow the tracks. It's about three miles to town. Catch the 4:15 train to Friedrichshafen."
Airman Alvin Brooks lay in a thicket of brush not twenty yards from the train station, and recalled the instructions from the head of the Escape Committee... they had been so clear, and it had seemed so easy. Twelve hours ago, he was far less concerned with catching a train than he was with navigating 110 feet of tunnel, slipping past random perimeter sweeps, and avoiding the ever-present danger of dogs. Once he was past all that, a brisk three-mile walk followed by a rest on a bench at the train station was looking like a pleasant respite.
That walk to town had been the carrot his subconscious dangled before him as he lowered himself into the tunnel beneath his barracks in Stalag Luft VII, and let his compatriots replace the floorboards over him. Three miles of freedom; the thought hung there, beckoned to him as he crawled through the sandy tunnel, barely wide enough for his shoulders and not quite high enough for him to get up on hands and knees. He had gone just a little ways, holding a candle stub out in front with one hand, when dust got in his nose and caused him to sneeze -- and blow out the candle.
At once, the world around him was plunged into darkness -- total darkness, like the inside of his eyelids. He froze... thought about trying to find matches, and relighting the candle... then shook his head, dropped the candle, and pressed on against the darkness. Inch by inch, he made his way forward, all the time murmuring prayers that he would not encounter a collapse along the way. That was his worst nightmare, for he could not turn around, and he was not sure how well he could crawl backward out of this place.
So he crawled forward in darkness; the only sound was the rasping of his breath, the scrabbling of his hands and feet as he crawled, and the dragging of the small bag tied to his right ankle. That bag contained his escape kit: a suit of what might pass for civilian clothes, tailored out of a uniform in the camp; false papers, faithfully copied from a set bribed away from a guard; a map of German railroads, printed on a silk scarf, some cash, a small loaf of rye bread, and a tin of kippers from last Christmas.
Not much, but something... enough to get him on his way, at least.
Some endless time later, he could smell fresh air and hear the sounds of the outside world, and knew that he was close. He crawled faster, then, pushing himself as hard as the stale, thick air allowed -- finally emerged, pushing aside a few pieces of wood and some brush that the last escapee had put over the exit as camouflage. Without thinking, he scrambled to his feet and stood, staring into a moonless sky, arms open wide to embrace freedom, drawing deep, shuddering breaths.
Free! He was free!
The exhilaration was quickly tempered by the sounds of a German patrol walking nearby -- fortunately, tramping noisily through the underbrush, as though they didn't really expect to find anyone out there. He avoided them by creeping in the other direction, as quietly as he could. When he could no longer hear them he stood up again and peered through the forest canopy to get his bearings. Methodically, he picked out the constellations he was familiar with and used them to point the way toward the tracks.
Nobody on the Escape Committee had mentioned the stream -- hell, the river -- that lay between the camp and the railroad tracks. He found it by stepping off an embankment in the dark and plunging into ice-cold water. Something in his ankle snapped as he struggled to stay on his feet, and he sprawled in the water, fully submerging himself and the bag containing his escape kit. By the time he was able to force himself to his feet -- hopping to avoid putting pressure on the ankle -- he was thoroughly drenched, and shivering.
He dropped on the far bank, shivering, numb fingers prying through the contents of the bag.
Map -- yes, it was there, seemed fine.
Bread -- soaked; it would be moldy in no time. He took a few bites of it, making faces in the dark as water squished out of each mouthful. When he was full, he chucked the bread aside -- let the birds have it.
Clothes -- Soaked.
Papers -- My God, the papers! He fished around in the bag 'til he found them, pulled out the sodden folds of cheap paper and tried to peel them apart, as though he could see them well enough to know if they'd been ruined. They started to tear, and he forced himself to stop. Maybe they'd be okay when they dried.
Kippers -- the can seemed intact. He put it in a pocket for later use.
He felt around in his other pocket for matches and found that they were soaked as well. He cursed softly -- he would have risked a fire, just to warm up a little bit, and maybe dry the papers. Instead, he stood up, felt around in the brush until he found a stout, tall stick that he could lean on, and resumed marching toward the railroad tracks.
Eventually -- about half an hour later -- he found them. With barely a pause, conscious of the clock ticking, and the patrols of soldiers still combing through the nearby forest, he chose his direction and set off, following the rails, hobbling with each step, alternating prayers and curses.
Three miles -- less than a minute, in one of the bombers on which he'd been a gunner; five minutes in a car; less than an hour for a healthy young man on foot. How long for a somewhat malnourished, cold young man with a damaged ankle? An eternity.
Brooks' watch had stopped working when he went in the creek, but by his reckoning it was close to 3:00 AM when he neared the railroad station -- almost three hours after finding the tracks. Each foot traveled had been carved out in pain, each moment had dragged itself out of sight. As he struggled toward town, the sound of soldiers in the distance was ever present, punctuated by dogs barking. Fear had been the only thing rivaling the pain and misery that seeped into his very core. Every step, he waited for the shout, the command to stop -- the bullet in the back.
And now, within sight of the station, he stopped and tried to blend into the brush that marked the transition from rail bed to forest. There was only one light on at the train station, above the platform -- but even in that light, he could see way more than he wanted to. There were soldiers -- four of them checking the papers of the passengers who had already gathered to wait in the station, two more pair sweeping along the tracks on either side of the station.
The ice that had already formed in his belly dropped, draining all hope as it fell. He was standing, staring numbly, unable to think about what to do next -- just surrender? Try to hop the train outside of town? -- when he heard voices coming toward him, on his side of the track.
By instinct, more than anything else, he stepped back further into the brush and crouched down, then lay flat where it was thickest. The voices drew nearer -- clipped, businesslike, speaking German faster than he could understand, even the little bit that he knew. The crunch of gravel beneath their feet was loud... and as they walked, they swung flashlights over the ground, taking in everything around them.
Not sure what to do, but all of a sudden convinced that surrender was not an option, Alvin Brooks scooped up dirt from the ground and rubbed it on his face, wrung his hands in it to cover the paleness of his skin, and willed himself invisible. As the soldiers approached, Alvin began to murmur, "Please don't let me be found. Please don't let me be found."
The footsteps drew nearer.
From somewhere, Alvin remembered a snatch of scripture -- something his minister had said once. To himself, he whispered, "Pull me out of the net they have laid for me, for thou art my strength." He closed his eyes, the steps drew nearer. Silently, now, his lips moved. "My times are in thy hand: deliver me from those that persecute me, and the hand of mine enemies."
The steps stopped -- right in front of him. The flashlight swept over him, and in its glare he could see the boots of one of the soldiers close enough to touch. He held his breath, was totally still. Alvin waited for discovery, positive that the whole world could hear his heart pounding, now...
The soldier nearest barked something, then, and Alvin started to rise up -- stopped. The light had moved from him, and there was the sound of one set of footsteps moving on. Still not breathing, he opened his eyes again -- the light swept over him once more, and moved on.
In the space of the darkness, a voice said softly, in accented English, "The correct phrase is: 'My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and them that persecute me.' " And with that, the other set of boots receded.
Eventually, they all left and the darkness returned... but Alvin Brooks, lying cold and shivering in the brush by the railroad tracks, knew he was not alone. He would not be for the rest of his journey.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 22, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 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.
"Words of Power" by Peter Andrew Smith
"Refuge" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * *
Words of Power
by Peter Andrew Smith
Acts 7:55-60
The principal looked at the boy holding the cloth up to his nose. His hair was dishevelled, his lip swollen, and his clothes bore the stains of the muddy playground. The nurse examined him but his bleeding nostrils seemed his greatest injury.
The man turned his attention to the three boys sitting on the other side of the room. They looked pretty much untouched by the scuffle which was no surprise as that was the way they usually arrived in his office. He knew they faced challenges in their homes but that was no excuse for bullying and violence. He scowled at them in frustration.
He had tried everything he could think of with these three. They had been sent to the school counselor, he had suspended them, given them extra work, lectured them, and held countless conferences with their parents. All in the vain effort to find some way to get them off this path, because he knew where they were headed. In a few years they would start doing things that would involve serious consequences. He didn't want them to end up in prison or dead.
"What happened?" he asked. He already knew the answer because the teacher who brought them to the office reported on what the three had said while kicking and punching the young man with the bloody nose. It wasn't hard to figure out that the victim had done something -- either in word or action -- that the three bullies decided was a reason for taunts and fists.
Silence answered his question that was also no real surprise. The boys had already learned never to say anything that could be used against them. The targets of their aggression usually stayed silent in the hopes it would make things easier later.
Something though was a bit unusual. The boy holding the cloth to his nose was looking at both him and the bullies. He was obviously shaken by what had happened but seemed more annoyed by his bleeding nose than the events that had led him to the office.
"You want to say something?" the principal asked the boy.
"No, thank you sir. I said everything I needed to on the playground." The boy checked to see if his nose was still bleeding. It was.
The principal turned his attention to the three perpetrators, opened his mouth to berate them, and then stopped. Something was very different this time. They were not glaring defiantly at him. They were not trying to intimidate their victim with unblinking stares and partially hidden gestures. All three boys were silent with their heads down.
He closed his mouth to watch them. He had seen many reactions on the faces of these three: anger, boredom, defiance, but never this. One of them was trembling slightly, one looked at the edge of tears, and one looked confused.
The nurse's knock on the door broke the silence. The boy with the cloth still clutched to his nose headed out the door with her, paused, and looked at the bullies with their heads downcast.
"I meant what I said."
The words struck the three hard. The trembling became shaking, tears started to flow, and the confusion became more pronounced.
"Your parents are coming to pick you up. All three of you will be here, with them, in my office tomorrow morning," the principal said. He pointed to the boy shaking and the boy crying. "You two go to the waiting area. No talking."
He turned his attention to the remaining bully. The boy's brow was furrowed and a vein seemed to be throbbing on his temple.
"What did he say to you?" the principal asked softly.
The boy lifted his head. "What?"
"What did the boy you were bullying say to you? He said something and I know you all heard him. He said he meant it as he left. What did he say?"
"We were hitting him and calling him names and he kept saying 'I forgive you.' " The boy looked directly at the principal. "Why would he say that when we were hurting him? Why would he forgive us?"
"Go wait for your parents," he replied.
The principal sat in his office looking at their files. He didn't know why the boy said those words during the fight but he was thankful that something had finally gotten through to those three.
He leaned back in his chair and realized that he needed to find the boy with the bloody nose before the day was through. Otherwise the principal would have a restless night. The principal needed to know for himself why the young man had forgiven his attackers.
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.
Refuge
by Keith Hewitt
Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16
"Go east when you get to the railroad tracks, and follow the tracks. It's about three miles to town. Catch the 4:15 train to Friedrichshafen."
Airman Alvin Brooks lay in a thicket of brush not twenty yards from the train station, and recalled the instructions from the head of the Escape Committee... they had been so clear, and it had seemed so easy. Twelve hours ago, he was far less concerned with catching a train than he was with navigating 110 feet of tunnel, slipping past random perimeter sweeps, and avoiding the ever-present danger of dogs. Once he was past all that, a brisk three-mile walk followed by a rest on a bench at the train station was looking like a pleasant respite.
That walk to town had been the carrot his subconscious dangled before him as he lowered himself into the tunnel beneath his barracks in Stalag Luft VII, and let his compatriots replace the floorboards over him. Three miles of freedom; the thought hung there, beckoned to him as he crawled through the sandy tunnel, barely wide enough for his shoulders and not quite high enough for him to get up on hands and knees. He had gone just a little ways, holding a candle stub out in front with one hand, when dust got in his nose and caused him to sneeze -- and blow out the candle.
At once, the world around him was plunged into darkness -- total darkness, like the inside of his eyelids. He froze... thought about trying to find matches, and relighting the candle... then shook his head, dropped the candle, and pressed on against the darkness. Inch by inch, he made his way forward, all the time murmuring prayers that he would not encounter a collapse along the way. That was his worst nightmare, for he could not turn around, and he was not sure how well he could crawl backward out of this place.
So he crawled forward in darkness; the only sound was the rasping of his breath, the scrabbling of his hands and feet as he crawled, and the dragging of the small bag tied to his right ankle. That bag contained his escape kit: a suit of what might pass for civilian clothes, tailored out of a uniform in the camp; false papers, faithfully copied from a set bribed away from a guard; a map of German railroads, printed on a silk scarf, some cash, a small loaf of rye bread, and a tin of kippers from last Christmas.
Not much, but something... enough to get him on his way, at least.
Some endless time later, he could smell fresh air and hear the sounds of the outside world, and knew that he was close. He crawled faster, then, pushing himself as hard as the stale, thick air allowed -- finally emerged, pushing aside a few pieces of wood and some brush that the last escapee had put over the exit as camouflage. Without thinking, he scrambled to his feet and stood, staring into a moonless sky, arms open wide to embrace freedom, drawing deep, shuddering breaths.
Free! He was free!
The exhilaration was quickly tempered by the sounds of a German patrol walking nearby -- fortunately, tramping noisily through the underbrush, as though they didn't really expect to find anyone out there. He avoided them by creeping in the other direction, as quietly as he could. When he could no longer hear them he stood up again and peered through the forest canopy to get his bearings. Methodically, he picked out the constellations he was familiar with and used them to point the way toward the tracks.
Nobody on the Escape Committee had mentioned the stream -- hell, the river -- that lay between the camp and the railroad tracks. He found it by stepping off an embankment in the dark and plunging into ice-cold water. Something in his ankle snapped as he struggled to stay on his feet, and he sprawled in the water, fully submerging himself and the bag containing his escape kit. By the time he was able to force himself to his feet -- hopping to avoid putting pressure on the ankle -- he was thoroughly drenched, and shivering.
He dropped on the far bank, shivering, numb fingers prying through the contents of the bag.
Map -- yes, it was there, seemed fine.
Bread -- soaked; it would be moldy in no time. He took a few bites of it, making faces in the dark as water squished out of each mouthful. When he was full, he chucked the bread aside -- let the birds have it.
Clothes -- Soaked.
Papers -- My God, the papers! He fished around in the bag 'til he found them, pulled out the sodden folds of cheap paper and tried to peel them apart, as though he could see them well enough to know if they'd been ruined. They started to tear, and he forced himself to stop. Maybe they'd be okay when they dried.
Kippers -- the can seemed intact. He put it in a pocket for later use.
He felt around in his other pocket for matches and found that they were soaked as well. He cursed softly -- he would have risked a fire, just to warm up a little bit, and maybe dry the papers. Instead, he stood up, felt around in the brush until he found a stout, tall stick that he could lean on, and resumed marching toward the railroad tracks.
Eventually -- about half an hour later -- he found them. With barely a pause, conscious of the clock ticking, and the patrols of soldiers still combing through the nearby forest, he chose his direction and set off, following the rails, hobbling with each step, alternating prayers and curses.
Three miles -- less than a minute, in one of the bombers on which he'd been a gunner; five minutes in a car; less than an hour for a healthy young man on foot. How long for a somewhat malnourished, cold young man with a damaged ankle? An eternity.
Brooks' watch had stopped working when he went in the creek, but by his reckoning it was close to 3:00 AM when he neared the railroad station -- almost three hours after finding the tracks. Each foot traveled had been carved out in pain, each moment had dragged itself out of sight. As he struggled toward town, the sound of soldiers in the distance was ever present, punctuated by dogs barking. Fear had been the only thing rivaling the pain and misery that seeped into his very core. Every step, he waited for the shout, the command to stop -- the bullet in the back.
And now, within sight of the station, he stopped and tried to blend into the brush that marked the transition from rail bed to forest. There was only one light on at the train station, above the platform -- but even in that light, he could see way more than he wanted to. There were soldiers -- four of them checking the papers of the passengers who had already gathered to wait in the station, two more pair sweeping along the tracks on either side of the station.
The ice that had already formed in his belly dropped, draining all hope as it fell. He was standing, staring numbly, unable to think about what to do next -- just surrender? Try to hop the train outside of town? -- when he heard voices coming toward him, on his side of the track.
By instinct, more than anything else, he stepped back further into the brush and crouched down, then lay flat where it was thickest. The voices drew nearer -- clipped, businesslike, speaking German faster than he could understand, even the little bit that he knew. The crunch of gravel beneath their feet was loud... and as they walked, they swung flashlights over the ground, taking in everything around them.
Not sure what to do, but all of a sudden convinced that surrender was not an option, Alvin Brooks scooped up dirt from the ground and rubbed it on his face, wrung his hands in it to cover the paleness of his skin, and willed himself invisible. As the soldiers approached, Alvin began to murmur, "Please don't let me be found. Please don't let me be found."
The footsteps drew nearer.
From somewhere, Alvin remembered a snatch of scripture -- something his minister had said once. To himself, he whispered, "Pull me out of the net they have laid for me, for thou art my strength." He closed his eyes, the steps drew nearer. Silently, now, his lips moved. "My times are in thy hand: deliver me from those that persecute me, and the hand of mine enemies."
The steps stopped -- right in front of him. The flashlight swept over him, and in its glare he could see the boots of one of the soldiers close enough to touch. He held his breath, was totally still. Alvin waited for discovery, positive that the whole world could hear his heart pounding, now...
The soldier nearest barked something, then, and Alvin started to rise up -- stopped. The light had moved from him, and there was the sound of one set of footsteps moving on. Still not breathing, he opened his eyes again -- the light swept over him once more, and moved on.
In the space of the darkness, a voice said softly, in accented English, "The correct phrase is: 'My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and them that persecute me.' " And with that, the other set of boots receded.
Eventually, they all left and the darkness returned... but Alvin Brooks, lying cold and shivering in the brush by the railroad tracks, knew he was not alone. He would not be for the rest of his journey.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 22, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 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.