You're Stuck
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"You're Stuck" by C. David McKirachan
"Family" by C. David McKirachan
"Homecoming" by Craig Kelly
What's Up This Week
The idea of family has been a central notion throughout the Bible narrative -- from the first family of Adam and Eve, through Abraham and his descendents, culminating in Jesus Christ and the new family of believers. This notion also runs throughout this edition of StoryShare. Some families must endure pain and hardship because one of their own is going down a destructive path. In "You're Stuck," C. David McKirachan relates how he was called to minister to a painful area in the family of humanity, despite his reservations. While there can be pain and division in a family, there can also be moments of great love and reconciliation, as shown in McKirachan's "Family" and Craig Kelly's "Homecoming."
* * * * * * * * *
You're Stuck
By C. David McKirachan
Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32
I was a student at San Francisco Theological Seminary and the Graduate Theological Union. It was a wonderful environment for study, contemplation, and discovery. It was a great place for asking questions. I encountered ideas, ideals, visions, theological juxtaposition, metaphysical plurality, and other things that we won't discuss at the moment.
I had always been a bit liberal. In my family it was hard not to. We were taught that the gospel was intended to liberate people. We were big on the prophets. We were also taught that if you were going to try to teach the love of Christ to someone, you'd better give two hoots about their well being on any level that was needful. For some the kingdom of God is a bowl of rice or a job. We were taught that we all have a call, but every call is based on the compassion and justice of the Lord. So, with my father preaching and my mother prodding, it was kind of hard to avoid a ministry of involvement with the poor.
With years at a northeastern private college behind me and the lights of San Francisco twinkling through fog rolling through the Golden Gate in front of me, the poor were a social construct, a theoretical demographic, a Hebrew and a Greek word to be wrestled into place. I had discussions about these theories, but that's about how deep it got. I was in the wading pool of ethical involvement.
I went over to the city once in a while. There were things in San Fran that Berkeley and San Anselmo lacked. I took the bus when I could. It was cheaper than parking and I enjoyed walking up and down the hills. Coming home one evening, I waited in a bus garage with a few others. There were no amenities. It was a place where buses pulled in as they disgorged and ingested passengers. Standing away from the bunch was a scruffy individual. He wobbled even when he leaned against a pillar. Then he turned, leaning on the upright and vomited on the floor. It went on for a while. The bunch turned away. It stank in the enclosed space. It smelled of whiskey among other things. I went over to him. I felt sorry for the poor guy.
"Do you need some help? Is there anything I can do?"
He turned to me, ruined teeth and blood shot eyes, bleary with the booze and the sickness and he told me that it would be a big help if I did something to myself. He said it with such vehemence that he lost his balance. Reflexively I grabbed his arm. He steadied and then took a swing at me. I was young and he was drunk. He missed. But I got the message. I retreated.
The punch had not landed, but there was a pain in my gut that felt as if it had. He radiated pain. He was a mess. I wanted to help. He hated me. I couldn't deal with the amount of hopelessness and living horror that stalked there. I said a prayer. It was a selfish prayer. "Please Lord, I'll go anywhere. Just don't send me to the city. I can't stand the pain."
Five years later, I sat with my father discussing a congregation's invitation to me to be their pastor. He listened to my enthusiasm and my reservations. Then he reminded me of my encounter with the drunk in the bus station. "Can you stand the pain?" I was amazed. I had forgotten. He had remembered my emotions and my selfish prayer. Honestly, I said, "I don't know." Then he asked me, "Do you feel called?" All the theoretical and philosophic justifications fell away. All the ideals and enthusiasms seemed small. Those two questions ran head-on into each other and demanded that I make a choice. I sat quiet, stuck.
He said very quietly, "David, when I thought I couldn't stand the pain, I remembered the Lord. He felt the same way. But he held on and went ahead with what needed doing. I guess that's what it means to be called. God gave us the gifts. Once God's involved, we're stuck."
During the years I spent in Newark, I remembered my prayer in the bus station. I remembered the insight of my father. I remembered the Lord. I thanked God for the gifts and for the call.
But I do think God has a very weird sense of humor.
Family
By C. David McKirachan
Genesis 45:1-15
Congregational meetings at my inner-city church were interesting affairs. My inexperience made them more interesting. Between their desire to speak (where else did they get to say anything about anything?) and my desire to make sure everything was open and clear, it was an exhausting affair. The day was a typical late January day in New Jersey: cold, windy, sleeting. The mood of the meeting matched the day. Sure we were growing, but how were we going to pay for the heat? No one even considered a raise for the pastor, including the pastor. It was frustrating but we waded through it without coming to blows (that only happened at trustees' meetings).
After we formed a circle, held hands, and prayed, I made my way through the knots of people toward my office. One knot moved around me and steered me where I was already going. I thought it was kind of weird. They herded me into my office and without a word handed me the phone. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what was going on.
My mother was on the other end. They were in the Florida Keys. "David?" "Hi Mom...." The meeting was still eddying around me. However, before I could tell her I'd survived, she broke in, "David." I realized she was very serious. "Mom, what's going on?" "Daddy has had a heart attack -- well actually a couple of heart attacks. He's not doing real well." I was trying to figure out how to deal with the ton of bricks that had just fallen on me and realized she was crying. She'd held it together, but the faÁade was dissolving. "David, I think...."
My mother was the most fearless person I ever met. But right now she was having a hard time talking. That, more than anything told me this was the real thing. Another voice broke into the noise on the other end of the phone, a male voice. "Hello, David. My name is Dr. Bendix." The rest of his speech talked about the situation and its gravity. I assured him I'd be on a plane as soon as I could get to the airport. I told him to take care of my mother. She was the one with the bad heart. What the hell happened? I hung up and stood there looking at my hand on the black phone.
When I pulled my eyes off of the phone, I realized there was a bunch of people still in my office, watching me. Before I could say a word, one of them said, "David, we already bought you a ticket." I couldn't talk. They were as poor as I was -- well, almost. "You're going, David." They drove me home, got me something to eat, and got me on the plane to the sunshine state.
I flew in a two-engine puddle jumper to Marathon. It's a town midway down the Keys. My brother met me at the airport. We were okay until we got to the hospital. Some volunteer had the misfortune of being at the front desk. He tried to keep us out of intensive care. We were about to break his face (the headlines would have been interesting, "Two Ministers Arrested for Assault"), when my mother came out and called him by name. "Hank, these are my two sons. I told you about them." The guy dissolved and we went in.
I was terrified. We walked in and saw him wired and tubed in every direction. I was working harder than I'd ever worked to try to stay together. When we stood there, two grown, professional, trained ministers, it was like we were little boys. I cried, Fred cried, and my father cried. They were tears of relief. He was alive. The pillar that held up the sky still stood. I hugged him and set off all kinds of alarms. We almost got thrown out again. Then we laughed. I don't know if that was legal. It set off beeps. But it felt good. He was laughing through a respirator. But he was alive.
Years have passed and he's gone. So is Fred. But I remember that day when we were there together with a deep love. The suffering meant almost nothing. We were together. We were a family.
When I went back to Jersey, I tried to thank the ones who sent me. But they would have none of it. They told me I'd taught them what it meant to be the family of God. And I cried again. Families are like that: tears, laughter, and love.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
Homecoming
By Craig Kelly
Psalm 133
Forty miles to go.
The speed limit insisted he was allowed to go 65, yet his foot struggled to get the car past 50. He wished it was a case of engine failure. However, the fact that he was driving an '06 Focus in perfect running condition put a damper on that hope. Truth be told, he was just scared to drive any faster. It wasn't the drive itself that terrified him; it was the destination.
Can I do this? Can I really go back? I told them I never would.
He drained the dregs of coffee from his travel mug. As the cars continued to pass him, pictures from his past continued to pass before his eyes, a slideshow of arguments, slammed doors, and burned bridges. It had been so long that he was hard-pressed to remember exactly what started the fight. After all this time, it probably didn't matter anymore. If it was an item, it's probably lost or trash by now. If it was a girl, that time had passed him long ago. She's probably married by now. Maybe even dead. Who knows?
Still, that meaningless argument had lasting repercussions.
Thirty miles to go.
He exited the interstate, thankful to no longer have the busy traffic around him to remind him how slow he was going. This small stretch of highway was typically quiet. Today looked like an ordinary day -- nothing but him, his thoughts, and his Focus.
The yellow lines passed in succession beside his car. Slowly the territory became more familiar, the memories more vivid. He could see the doorknob as he turned it, feel the wind as he yanked the door open, hear the echo of the slam. He could see the tear slipping down his mother's face and the flush of anger on his brother's. Their father had died when they were both very young, and his brother had decided at some point that since he was the eldest, he should step into the father role. They both found in time that a father is not that easy to replace.
He began to replay that final argument in his mind. The insults. The ultimatum. The choice. As a tear formed in his eye, he tried to push that memory aside. It was in the past. It should stay there.
Twenty miles to go.
He turned off the highway onto an old country road. Funny, that big oak tree on the corner was still there. As he passed the farms that dotted the landscape, he wondered if the same families lived in them. Names that he hadn't thought about in years came back as easily as if he had seen them all yesterday: the Millers, the Jamisons, the McPhersons. All the old farmhouses were still there. It was as if this whole area was frozen in time, waiting for him to come back.
He thought back to the last time he traveled this road, going the other way. Tears were running down his face, he yelled at his brother, at himself, and at God, his hands slamming against the steering wheel. This time he cried in silence, his hands softly gripping the wheel.
Even now he fought the urge to turn around. We've lived without each other this long. Just leave things as they are. Let him live his life.
But he couldn't. He couldn't let their relationship end with a door slam. Although he didn't want to admit it, that door slam had echoed through his entire life. He had slammed so many doors that no one could come in anymore. He had slammed the door on every meaningful relationship in his life. Where did that leave him? No family, no children, no one. For all his life, he had been alone.
And now he was dying alone.
Ten miles to go.
Funny what a terminal diagnosis can do to a man. He had lived a solitary life all these years. Now, as the sun of his life was setting, all he longed for was the family he had turned his back on so long ago.
Yeah, he was the one who turned his back. He was the one who left. He had lit the match that burned the bridge. He had to make it right while he still could. If he still could. He prayed continually in his mind, God, please, help me make this right. Please, God, let him talk to me.
He slowed the car to a stop as he approached the turnoff to the old family farm. The mailbox still stood sentry at the side of the road, the name still legible, even in the faded paint: Davis. He was still here.
Slowly, he turned off the road into the drive. The house was still the same, down to the navy blue shutters. He pulled up in front of the porch.
This was it. He was here. Sweat mingled with the tears on his cheeks. He put the car in park and turned off the engine. The sudden silence pounded in his ears.
Would he hear that door slam again, this time in his face? Would he even be recognized? He struggled with these and more questions as he stepped out of the car and up the porch steps to that memory-filled door.
He let out a long sigh. "Here goes." With a shaking hand, he knocked on the door. Nothing. He willed his feet to stay in place although his whole body wanted to run back to the car and peel out of there.
He was about to knock one more time when the door slowly creaked open, just a crack.
"Hello? Can I help you?"
He knew that voice. He coughed to keep his voice from breaking. "Bill? It's, uh, it's me, John, your brother."
Slowly the door creaked open all the way as his brother stood there, wondering if he was seeing a ghost.
"John? That really you?"
He tried to force a smile. "Yeah, it's really me."
His brother slowly took it in. Finally he straightened up. "Been a long time."
"Yeah, yeah, it has. Too long. Um, do you think I could come in? There's some things I need to tell you. Things I should have said a long time ago."
Both brothers stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity. He's going to slam the door. I know it.
Finally, his brother sighed, looking down at the porch floor. "If I remember right, you like coffee, don't you?"
"Yeah," he replied. "In fact, I was thinking I could use some," he lied.
His brother still looked at the floor. "Well," he said, "I just brewed a pot a little while ago. I always make too much -- have to dump a bunch of it usually." His brother looked up into his eyes. "Want a cup?"
He started breathing again. "Yeah, that sounds good." He smiled.
His brother gave him a small smirk as he turned to walk inside.
He left the door open for him.
Craig Kelly is the Editorial Assistant for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing. This is his first publication.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply email the story to us at storyshare@sermonsuite.com.
**************
StoryShare, August 17, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"You're Stuck" by C. David McKirachan
"Family" by C. David McKirachan
"Homecoming" by Craig Kelly
What's Up This Week
The idea of family has been a central notion throughout the Bible narrative -- from the first family of Adam and Eve, through Abraham and his descendents, culminating in Jesus Christ and the new family of believers. This notion also runs throughout this edition of StoryShare. Some families must endure pain and hardship because one of their own is going down a destructive path. In "You're Stuck," C. David McKirachan relates how he was called to minister to a painful area in the family of humanity, despite his reservations. While there can be pain and division in a family, there can also be moments of great love and reconciliation, as shown in McKirachan's "Family" and Craig Kelly's "Homecoming."
* * * * * * * * *
You're Stuck
By C. David McKirachan
Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32
I was a student at San Francisco Theological Seminary and the Graduate Theological Union. It was a wonderful environment for study, contemplation, and discovery. It was a great place for asking questions. I encountered ideas, ideals, visions, theological juxtaposition, metaphysical plurality, and other things that we won't discuss at the moment.
I had always been a bit liberal. In my family it was hard not to. We were taught that the gospel was intended to liberate people. We were big on the prophets. We were also taught that if you were going to try to teach the love of Christ to someone, you'd better give two hoots about their well being on any level that was needful. For some the kingdom of God is a bowl of rice or a job. We were taught that we all have a call, but every call is based on the compassion and justice of the Lord. So, with my father preaching and my mother prodding, it was kind of hard to avoid a ministry of involvement with the poor.
With years at a northeastern private college behind me and the lights of San Francisco twinkling through fog rolling through the Golden Gate in front of me, the poor were a social construct, a theoretical demographic, a Hebrew and a Greek word to be wrestled into place. I had discussions about these theories, but that's about how deep it got. I was in the wading pool of ethical involvement.
I went over to the city once in a while. There were things in San Fran that Berkeley and San Anselmo lacked. I took the bus when I could. It was cheaper than parking and I enjoyed walking up and down the hills. Coming home one evening, I waited in a bus garage with a few others. There were no amenities. It was a place where buses pulled in as they disgorged and ingested passengers. Standing away from the bunch was a scruffy individual. He wobbled even when he leaned against a pillar. Then he turned, leaning on the upright and vomited on the floor. It went on for a while. The bunch turned away. It stank in the enclosed space. It smelled of whiskey among other things. I went over to him. I felt sorry for the poor guy.
"Do you need some help? Is there anything I can do?"
He turned to me, ruined teeth and blood shot eyes, bleary with the booze and the sickness and he told me that it would be a big help if I did something to myself. He said it with such vehemence that he lost his balance. Reflexively I grabbed his arm. He steadied and then took a swing at me. I was young and he was drunk. He missed. But I got the message. I retreated.
The punch had not landed, but there was a pain in my gut that felt as if it had. He radiated pain. He was a mess. I wanted to help. He hated me. I couldn't deal with the amount of hopelessness and living horror that stalked there. I said a prayer. It was a selfish prayer. "Please Lord, I'll go anywhere. Just don't send me to the city. I can't stand the pain."
Five years later, I sat with my father discussing a congregation's invitation to me to be their pastor. He listened to my enthusiasm and my reservations. Then he reminded me of my encounter with the drunk in the bus station. "Can you stand the pain?" I was amazed. I had forgotten. He had remembered my emotions and my selfish prayer. Honestly, I said, "I don't know." Then he asked me, "Do you feel called?" All the theoretical and philosophic justifications fell away. All the ideals and enthusiasms seemed small. Those two questions ran head-on into each other and demanded that I make a choice. I sat quiet, stuck.
He said very quietly, "David, when I thought I couldn't stand the pain, I remembered the Lord. He felt the same way. But he held on and went ahead with what needed doing. I guess that's what it means to be called. God gave us the gifts. Once God's involved, we're stuck."
During the years I spent in Newark, I remembered my prayer in the bus station. I remembered the insight of my father. I remembered the Lord. I thanked God for the gifts and for the call.
But I do think God has a very weird sense of humor.
Family
By C. David McKirachan
Genesis 45:1-15
Congregational meetings at my inner-city church were interesting affairs. My inexperience made them more interesting. Between their desire to speak (where else did they get to say anything about anything?) and my desire to make sure everything was open and clear, it was an exhausting affair. The day was a typical late January day in New Jersey: cold, windy, sleeting. The mood of the meeting matched the day. Sure we were growing, but how were we going to pay for the heat? No one even considered a raise for the pastor, including the pastor. It was frustrating but we waded through it without coming to blows (that only happened at trustees' meetings).
After we formed a circle, held hands, and prayed, I made my way through the knots of people toward my office. One knot moved around me and steered me where I was already going. I thought it was kind of weird. They herded me into my office and without a word handed me the phone. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what was going on.
My mother was on the other end. They were in the Florida Keys. "David?" "Hi Mom...." The meeting was still eddying around me. However, before I could tell her I'd survived, she broke in, "David." I realized she was very serious. "Mom, what's going on?" "Daddy has had a heart attack -- well actually a couple of heart attacks. He's not doing real well." I was trying to figure out how to deal with the ton of bricks that had just fallen on me and realized she was crying. She'd held it together, but the faÁade was dissolving. "David, I think...."
My mother was the most fearless person I ever met. But right now she was having a hard time talking. That, more than anything told me this was the real thing. Another voice broke into the noise on the other end of the phone, a male voice. "Hello, David. My name is Dr. Bendix." The rest of his speech talked about the situation and its gravity. I assured him I'd be on a plane as soon as I could get to the airport. I told him to take care of my mother. She was the one with the bad heart. What the hell happened? I hung up and stood there looking at my hand on the black phone.
When I pulled my eyes off of the phone, I realized there was a bunch of people still in my office, watching me. Before I could say a word, one of them said, "David, we already bought you a ticket." I couldn't talk. They were as poor as I was -- well, almost. "You're going, David." They drove me home, got me something to eat, and got me on the plane to the sunshine state.
I flew in a two-engine puddle jumper to Marathon. It's a town midway down the Keys. My brother met me at the airport. We were okay until we got to the hospital. Some volunteer had the misfortune of being at the front desk. He tried to keep us out of intensive care. We were about to break his face (the headlines would have been interesting, "Two Ministers Arrested for Assault"), when my mother came out and called him by name. "Hank, these are my two sons. I told you about them." The guy dissolved and we went in.
I was terrified. We walked in and saw him wired and tubed in every direction. I was working harder than I'd ever worked to try to stay together. When we stood there, two grown, professional, trained ministers, it was like we were little boys. I cried, Fred cried, and my father cried. They were tears of relief. He was alive. The pillar that held up the sky still stood. I hugged him and set off all kinds of alarms. We almost got thrown out again. Then we laughed. I don't know if that was legal. It set off beeps. But it felt good. He was laughing through a respirator. But he was alive.
Years have passed and he's gone. So is Fred. But I remember that day when we were there together with a deep love. The suffering meant almost nothing. We were together. We were a family.
When I went back to Jersey, I tried to thank the ones who sent me. But they would have none of it. They told me I'd taught them what it meant to be the family of God. And I cried again. Families are like that: tears, laughter, and love.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
Homecoming
By Craig Kelly
Psalm 133
Forty miles to go.
The speed limit insisted he was allowed to go 65, yet his foot struggled to get the car past 50. He wished it was a case of engine failure. However, the fact that he was driving an '06 Focus in perfect running condition put a damper on that hope. Truth be told, he was just scared to drive any faster. It wasn't the drive itself that terrified him; it was the destination.
Can I do this? Can I really go back? I told them I never would.
He drained the dregs of coffee from his travel mug. As the cars continued to pass him, pictures from his past continued to pass before his eyes, a slideshow of arguments, slammed doors, and burned bridges. It had been so long that he was hard-pressed to remember exactly what started the fight. After all this time, it probably didn't matter anymore. If it was an item, it's probably lost or trash by now. If it was a girl, that time had passed him long ago. She's probably married by now. Maybe even dead. Who knows?
Still, that meaningless argument had lasting repercussions.
Thirty miles to go.
He exited the interstate, thankful to no longer have the busy traffic around him to remind him how slow he was going. This small stretch of highway was typically quiet. Today looked like an ordinary day -- nothing but him, his thoughts, and his Focus.
The yellow lines passed in succession beside his car. Slowly the territory became more familiar, the memories more vivid. He could see the doorknob as he turned it, feel the wind as he yanked the door open, hear the echo of the slam. He could see the tear slipping down his mother's face and the flush of anger on his brother's. Their father had died when they were both very young, and his brother had decided at some point that since he was the eldest, he should step into the father role. They both found in time that a father is not that easy to replace.
He began to replay that final argument in his mind. The insults. The ultimatum. The choice. As a tear formed in his eye, he tried to push that memory aside. It was in the past. It should stay there.
Twenty miles to go.
He turned off the highway onto an old country road. Funny, that big oak tree on the corner was still there. As he passed the farms that dotted the landscape, he wondered if the same families lived in them. Names that he hadn't thought about in years came back as easily as if he had seen them all yesterday: the Millers, the Jamisons, the McPhersons. All the old farmhouses were still there. It was as if this whole area was frozen in time, waiting for him to come back.
He thought back to the last time he traveled this road, going the other way. Tears were running down his face, he yelled at his brother, at himself, and at God, his hands slamming against the steering wheel. This time he cried in silence, his hands softly gripping the wheel.
Even now he fought the urge to turn around. We've lived without each other this long. Just leave things as they are. Let him live his life.
But he couldn't. He couldn't let their relationship end with a door slam. Although he didn't want to admit it, that door slam had echoed through his entire life. He had slammed so many doors that no one could come in anymore. He had slammed the door on every meaningful relationship in his life. Where did that leave him? No family, no children, no one. For all his life, he had been alone.
And now he was dying alone.
Ten miles to go.
Funny what a terminal diagnosis can do to a man. He had lived a solitary life all these years. Now, as the sun of his life was setting, all he longed for was the family he had turned his back on so long ago.
Yeah, he was the one who turned his back. He was the one who left. He had lit the match that burned the bridge. He had to make it right while he still could. If he still could. He prayed continually in his mind, God, please, help me make this right. Please, God, let him talk to me.
He slowed the car to a stop as he approached the turnoff to the old family farm. The mailbox still stood sentry at the side of the road, the name still legible, even in the faded paint: Davis. He was still here.
Slowly, he turned off the road into the drive. The house was still the same, down to the navy blue shutters. He pulled up in front of the porch.
This was it. He was here. Sweat mingled with the tears on his cheeks. He put the car in park and turned off the engine. The sudden silence pounded in his ears.
Would he hear that door slam again, this time in his face? Would he even be recognized? He struggled with these and more questions as he stepped out of the car and up the porch steps to that memory-filled door.
He let out a long sigh. "Here goes." With a shaking hand, he knocked on the door. Nothing. He willed his feet to stay in place although his whole body wanted to run back to the car and peel out of there.
He was about to knock one more time when the door slowly creaked open, just a crack.
"Hello? Can I help you?"
He knew that voice. He coughed to keep his voice from breaking. "Bill? It's, uh, it's me, John, your brother."
Slowly the door creaked open all the way as his brother stood there, wondering if he was seeing a ghost.
"John? That really you?"
He tried to force a smile. "Yeah, it's really me."
His brother slowly took it in. Finally he straightened up. "Been a long time."
"Yeah, yeah, it has. Too long. Um, do you think I could come in? There's some things I need to tell you. Things I should have said a long time ago."
Both brothers stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity. He's going to slam the door. I know it.
Finally, his brother sighed, looking down at the porch floor. "If I remember right, you like coffee, don't you?"
"Yeah," he replied. "In fact, I was thinking I could use some," he lied.
His brother still looked at the floor. "Well," he said, "I just brewed a pot a little while ago. I always make too much -- have to dump a bunch of it usually." His brother looked up into his eyes. "Want a cup?"
He started breathing again. "Yeah, that sounds good." He smiled.
His brother gave him a small smirk as he turned to walk inside.
He left the door open for him.
Craig Kelly is the Editorial Assistant for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing. This is his first publication.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply email the story to us at storyshare@sermonsuite.com.
**************
StoryShare, August 17, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
