I’ll tell you the hardest thing about that whole Pete McCullough situation is that I kept thinking, Why am I doing this? What do I have to do with this church or any church for that matter? I mean, it was surreal. Like suddenly I was a pastor again and I had this obligation. Someone comes to you with a problem or issue or something, and they expect that not only CAN you help them, but you WANT to help them. And you’re called by GOD to help them. I’d call that a pretty heavy obligation. And expectation by them.

I mean, that’s what I didn’t want anymore. That’s why I left. I just couldn’t handle the expectations.

Foy, can you tell me a little more about the obligations you felt and what led to your leaving the church?

Sure. Look, the whole church & minister thing is a mess, if you ask me. When you’re a pastor or a priest, everyone has an idea about the kind of person you are. First, you’re supposed to understand the Bible and God and theology and all that. That’s actually the easiest part. Well, not understanding God but I was just saying that’s the stuff you learn in seminary. And then if you’re committed to what you do - and I was - you read and learn all the time. So being the community Bible scholar and theologian isn’t that hard. That part was kind of fun, actually.

But then the expectation is that you’re this ultra-spiritual guru who lives this wonderful Godly life. People figure you probably pray a lot and are serene and happy. You’re supposed to be living life the way they imagine they could be living if they were as good a Christian as they think you are. So you just kind of walk around with this priestly air about you. You have to. After awhile you don’t even remember who you really are inside.

And Christ, I mean you really ARE trying. It isn’t the liars and cheaters and evil ministers who have this problem. I mean probably you ARE actually being that. You know, a serious and pious Christian. You probably are that. Maybe, I don’t know anymore. That’s the problem. I didn’t even know if I was trying to be a good Christian because I wanted to and it was something, I don’t know, that God was doing in my life, or was it because I was paid to be a good Christian?

It’s funny, sometimes I think people are like, I can’t be a good Christian myself, but I like knowing that my pastor is.

Huh. That’s messed up.

And of course you’re supposed to have answers to life’s problems. And if anyone needs to talk, you’re right there for them. You HAVE to be. It doesn’t matter how you feel, you know? Someone’s in the hospital, so you’re just tickled pink to get out of bed and go see them. Same thing on Sunday mornings. You’re on, like a performer. Happy happy. Smile smile. Jesus loves everyone. I mean, not overboard, like one of those goofball television guys. But just…yeah, I mean this is good, life is good, Christianity is good. Right? So what if you feel like shit on a Sunday morning? What do you do about that?

I’ll tell you what you do about that. You shut your mouth and you smile. And if you’re not a fake person? If you’re not the kind of person who can put on an act, well you better fuckin learn how. You have to learn to actually make yourself believe things and feel things. You HAVE to. It’s your job.

Ever watch ministers after church is over on Sundays?

I guess i haven’t.

Well, that’s probably because you can’t find them. Most of them go straight home and crash on the couch or maybe just go to bed. They don’t even want to talk to their own children. They disappear. The role takes it toll, man. The role can take everything from you if you’re not careful. After years, you can even become the role. I mean where your natural personality sublimates or goes under the surface or whatever. I mean, what is this? A religion run by zombies?

So how funny is this? I leave, right? I pack up and throw my collar on my desk and leave. And do you know what that meant for me? What a sacrifice it was? I mean, how am I going to make a living if I’m not a minister? Thank God I met Doug and he gave me a job. Anyway, so I have this HUGE turning point in my life where I say, “Fuck it,” I’m not going to do this anymore. And I start working at the office and then suddenly I’m right back in it.

Oh, some of it’s my fault. I could always say no, right? I didn’t have to shoot off my mouth and say, YES, I was a priest, and YES, I’ll do a fake wedding for a joke, and YES, I’ll talk to you about your wife and daughter. I mean I have to take responsibility for that. See, I thought I could just step out of the robe and go right to living a normal life. But somehow, I don’t know, it’s like the role follows me. Or maybe, secretly, I want it to. What do you think?

I don’t know. So what did this Peter McCullough want from you?

This is perfect because it’s exactly what I’m talking about. The minute he finds out I was a minister, then he’s got this problem that he thinks I can help him with. Jesus, the guy’s an atheist and he wants to talk to a minister. I mean, how funny is that? But seriously, it was a bad thing. One of those things you can’t possibly say no to someone about. I mean, how could I say no?

What did he want?

Well, the deal was he and his wife were not religious in any way. I think he was very intentionally an atheist. I don’t think she really cared. They were just regular people of our world, you know? Working, taking care of their daughter - they have a little girl - I don’t know, maybe like 8 years old. Good people. That’s something I learned when I left the church, by the way. Church people tend to think that everyone in the church is trying to do the right thing and people who don’t go to church make this intentional decision. “I’m not going to church.” What they don’t realize is, not going to church is the default position for people. It’s what most people do, or don’t do I guess I should say.

But anyway what happened is Pete’s wife became a Christian. I know how it happened but it’s complicated and I won’t go into it. She was with some women friends at a Bible study or something. Some church thing. And it probably took place over time, but she decided to become a Christian and she took it very seriously. So she started going to church every Sunday, and she took their daughter with her. So there’s Pete, sitting at the house alone. It was just heartbreaking to hear him talk about it.

Sundays used to be our day. Tia and I would sit in bed and read the New York Times and drink coffee and talk.

That was his wife. Tia. You know, they shared the paper and read stuff to each other. And their little girl would jump in bed with them and read the comics. And then the three of them would decide what to do that day. What’s really funny is, doesn’t that sound great? Doesn’t that sound like a wonderful way to spend a Sunday morning? And you have all these church people and ministers busting their asses to get dressed and get their Sunday school lessons learned and their sermons ready and get to church on time. Church takes like half the damn day, and everyone is exhausted when its over. And here these people are having a real day of rest, a real Sabbath almost.

Heh. I find that to be very funny.

But now Tia and Tanya aren’t there anymore. Tanya - that’s the little girl. Sunday was their family day. So Pete feels like the church stole his family. Hell, they did steal his family.

Then it gets worse. Some teacher or preacher or someone hinted or maybe just told the little girl that her daddy was going to hell if he didn’t start coming to church and become a Christian himself. So she’s always saying Daddy, come to church with us. And this puts him in an awkward position. He doesn’t like what he sees happening to his daughter. But what’s he supposed to do? If he goes with them, it feels false. And he kind of feels like he needs to stick to their old life to balance out what Tia is doing.

I’ll never forget the way his voice sounded.

It breaks my heart because now there is this barrier between me and my little girl. And the worst thing is, I started thinking that I would never have married Tia if this was how she was. It was like they brainwashed her and took her away from me. And then they took my daughter too.

So then the guy says - can you believe this - What should I do?

“What should I do?” Like I have the answer to this. And I’ll tell you, I’m pretty much on his side by now. Which is weird because I remember talking with women whose husbands wouldn’t come to church and trying to counsel them. What should I do, Foy? He won’t come to church. And we’d sort of strategize together. And now I’m seeing it from the other side.

Oh Jesus, why am I doing this? Do you see? I’m doing the exact same thing from the other side. What am I, the anti-pastor now? It’s like I’m living in the bizarro church world.

So what did you tell Peter?

What did I tell him?

Yes.

I don’t know. I said some stuff. It’s hard…to even remember exactly…

You don’t remember what you said to him?

Yeah, I remember. It’s just kind of jumbled up. Give me a second. I said….Uh…

Take your time.

I - you know - just listened to him for awhile. He was more hurt than angry. Kind of helpless feeling. I could certainly sympathize. I got pretty angry, actually. The Church. Supposedly the Church of Jesus Christ. And who knows what that even means or if Jesus himself would admit to any relation. So we kind of stewed in our anger for awhile. I said some things about the Church that I kind of regret now.

What did you say?

Uh…

Some things that are probably uncalled for. I yelled a bit. Said the Church wasn’t anything and this showed it. That kind of stuff. There was some profanity.

Why do you say that was uncalled for?

Well, this guy isn’t a Christian and not a part of the Church. There is a part of me that feels like I shouldn’t speak badly about the Church like that. Maybe just not be so angry in front of this guy. I don’t know. It just felt wrong.

Was he angry?

Actually, no. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t particularly interested in anything I had to say about the Church. He just wanted to know what he could do to somehow keep his little girl from being estranged over this. He’d kind of written his wife off, I’m afraid. And it occurred to me that I had gotten off the subject and was grinding my own axe, so to speak. So we ended up talking about him and his family and this church his wife goes to.

What did you talk about? What did you tell him?

You know, I told him about First Corinthians seven, that Paul - and I explained that Paul was an early church leader - had written about exactly this situation. What to do when someone becomes a Christian and their spouse doesn’t. I mean, Paul seemed very concerned that the marriage be kept sacred and that the Church not be a part of breaking it up. It seems to me that Paul was calling for something rather extraordinary. He said that if a woman became a Christian and her husband didn’t, he was made holy through her. No one has ever figured out what he meant by that, but there is CERTAINLY scriptural precedent for this church respecting this man and his beliefs and being careful not to drive a wedge between him and his family.

I told him to call the pastor and talk about that scripture and make a simple request. That no one in the church scare his daughter or make her think he was going to hell. And that they encourage the little girl to honor both her father and mother, as the Bible calls for. And then I said if things didn’t get better to give me a call and I’d go see the pastor myself. Not like angry but just maybe the pastor might hear it from me.

Did you hear back from Peter?

Not about that. But we see each other all the time at work. He’s become a friend. We play chess sometimes at lunch. He thoroughly kicks my ass every time, but hey, I’m getting better.

Foy I want to ask you something. And I ask it only to better understand you, not because I have any investment in the specifics of your answer.

Shoot.

Are you a Christian?

Wow.

——-

——-

I don’t know. Yes. I’m not sure, but probably. I would think, you know, I hadn’t lost… Actually I don’t know what being a Christian means anymore. Some might say I’m not. I kind of feel…still…

You sound pretty uncertain.

I know. Look, I’ve been away from the Church now, but yeah I still think of myself as a Christian in my way of thinking of it.

And what would that way be?

Short answer. I still buy into the Jesus stuff. All of it. His words, his work, his ways, and yes, even the cross and all that. That story is…it doesn’t matter what…anyone…I just don’t like the Church at all right now. I find that when I go to church I feel bad inside. I actually start having spiritual problems when I even see a church. I get depressed and angry. But I still have my own code of…following Jesus. And I worship - pay homage you might say - quietly. In my way.

There are so many fascinating parallels between your life and this recent encounter with this Mr. McCullough. It’s very intriguing.

I know. I’ve seen that. I was in the church counseling women and trying to get their husbands to come, and now I’m out of the church working with a husband. In both instances living out some kind of pastoral role, albeit grudgingly now. It is fascinating stuff.

I was thinking of something else.

What?

I was thinking of Jenny.

Oh shit. Ouch. Damn it, do you know how much that name hurts? I swear I can’t even see it in print without feeling like I took a baseball bat to my gut. Oh fuck. I don’t want to talk about that. See, I don’t want to talk about “that.” Even the word “her” hurts. Do you know that I can hardly look at the letter J without choking up.

Damn. I know you’re supposed to do that, but…dammit.

——-

——-

——-

Go ahead.

——-

The things I’m about to ask and say are going to be hard. I know that. Are you ready?

No. But I’m here. And I know why I’m here. So go.

Why did Jenny leave you?

I’ve told you this story before.

I know. But let’s look at it again. Why did Jenny leave you?

I starved her. I starved her emotionally and physically. I just let myself get so wrapped up in other people’s problems so that it was like she didn’t exist. I was depressed during that time too. There was just…nothing in me. I didn’t feel anything. Everything went to the people at church or to any FUCKING person who came up to me on the FUCKING street and said, “help me.” I mean, JESUS!

By the time I saw it, it was too late. I saw it and I started looking at her and remembering, you know, why I fell in love with her. No one will ever be to me what she…and it was like I came alive again. I wrote her like 50 love letters. One every day. Serious love letters. I mean my flesh and soul on paper. No holding back. No shame. Everything. What a fucking idiot. I kept giving them to her but the words couldn’t reach her. There’s a limit to words, you know? Nothing could bring her back by then. She was done.

And then it was like worse that I had done that because I was in love with her again. I could see it, but I was too late. It was like standing on the dock and watching your ship disappear over the horizon. No getting it back. No second chances.

——-

——-

She took the love letters with her, you know? I used to think that meant there was a chance. I don’t know what it means. Maybe nothing.

What I find interesting is looking at this from Jenny’s point of view. She’s very much like Peter McCullough, isn’t she? The church took her husband. The church took you away and never gave you back. And there you were with your love letters, desperately trying to save things. Just like now with Mr. McCullough.

——-

It’s okay. It’s okay.

——-

——-

We’ve got all the time you need.

——-

——-

You know, the Church is - at the heart of her story - about forgiveness and grace. The most radical kind of grace imaginable. And at great cost to the Creator. But with the Church, where is the grace? With Jenny, where is the grace?

Where is the grace for poor sinners?

You know, Foy, I’m not a Christian myself, though I have immense respect for the tradition. The stories and archetypes are perhaps the most powerful formative expressions in the Western world. Only a fool would deny their power. I suspect for those who are within that tradition, the language of grace is exactly right. I think that’s why you’re here. To find grace again.

Your journey might begin with forgiving the Church, but healing might not come from the Church. Or maybe the Church should be defined in much larger ways. As a fellow human traveler, I believe that God’s grace - if you want to use those words - is available for everyone.

And it is often found in the most unexpected places.

Perhaps we’ll keep our eyes open, you and I, and see if we can spot the moment when grace appears.

 

rlp

 

 

This story originally appeared in two parts. They are combined here. The comments originally left at part two can be seen here.

An angel came to me while I was laboring at prayer. Yes, laboring. That is likely a problem itself, but we’ll leave that for another day. I was in the woods near the church, fingering my way through my rosary. Ten beads for the Shema, ten for people in our church, ten for this, ten for that. My mind was filled with the numerous categories of language. People placed into one group or another. Actions lumped together and called by a single name. Everything classified not only by type, but also called sacred or secular, good or bad. Joy, pleasure, pain, heaven, hell, things done and things left undone. All of these were in my mind.

While I worked my way from bead to bead I noticed, with a start, that an angel was sitting across from me. It looked at me with a pleasant smile. I stood up, respectfully.

“Greetings,” the angel said.

What exactly do you say to angel? Is there a protocol for this? Not knowing what to say, I said nothing at all.

“Mortal, scoop up a handful of what covers that path.”

I reached to the earth, eyes still on the angel, and grabbed at whatever lay at my feet.

“Now open your palm and blow on it.”

I did, and an assortment of leaves and bits of plant floated away.

“What would you call what is left in your hand?”

“Grit maybe? Gravel?”

“Grit and gravel?” the angel said indignantly. “Each particle in your hand has a unique history, and all of their histories are older than the oldest memories of humankind. Each one has a name. Did you know that?”

I brought my palm close to my eyes to look at what lay there. Wanting to say something in keeping with the angel’s attitude toward my handful of gravel, I said, “The pinkish one is nice.”

“Sit down mortal, and I will tell you a truth.”

I sat on the ground and looked up at the angel.

“What need has God for categories? Why sort and catalog a collection when you know and can describe every individual item? What meaning do your base labels have for a higher mind? You have created categories for your own use, fallen in love with sorting them, and made a god of the whole affair. This is an idolatry of the highest order. It is a blasphemy so bold as to cause angels to tremble. ‘The mind of The Almighty,’ you say, ‘is like unto my own mind.’”

“God is on intimate terms with the simple matter of earth, yet you dare label people instead of trying to know them. Your precious divisions of nationality, of Christian and non-Christian, saved and damned, good and evil, slave and free. These convenient memory aids might have served you well when you were biting spiritual ankles and wrestling with your primers. Will you not set them aside even now?”

“For the Lord God, the Mysterious, the Creator of all things, is one who knows the hearts of people. And when time draws to a close, there will be no labels or records. There will be no flags, no Bibles, no creeds, no clothing, no wealth or distinction. There will be nothing but vision, straight and true. A mind that will peer into your heart and know you inside and out.”

“There will be no hiding on that day.”

“What should I do?” I asked.

The angel smiled. “In truth, you are a human being and can be no more than that. Labels and categories are all that you know. Go in peace and understand the world in the ways you can. But know this greater truth. And knowing it, let humility settle upon you like the gentle aging of a righteous man.”

rlp

I have a friend who is 73 years old. He told me that his grandmother ran away from home when she was 16. She walked down a country lane in Tennessee. There was a black car, she later said. A man got out and raped her in the bushes by the side of the road. She stumbled home and told no one for fear that she would get in trouble. But months later her belly began to swell. She told the truth when she had to. Some people believed her. Others didn’t. Nine months later his father was born.

“That was in the year 19 and 8,” he said.

I thought about this for a few moments and felt pretty overwhelmed by the revelation. His life, it seemed, was held together by a ragged thread of evil wound through a series of long shots. Like rolling snake eyes 6 times in a row. Why did she choose that day to leave? Why that hour? Why that lane and not another?

“If she hadn’t run away from home and had that happen, you wouldn’t have been born.”

He snapped his chin down to his chest and bounced it quickly up again. It’s a gesture I’ve seen old men make when something is said that is surely true.

“That’s right,” he said. “That’s exactly right. Not me, not my children, not my 12 grandchildren, nor the 5 great-grand-babies.”

“So...” I left a long pause to soften the question that was coming. “Would you say that you’re glad it happened? I mean, surely you’re glad to be alive.”

“I don’t rightly think it’s a fair question,” he said. “The past is dead and gone and all that pain with it. A pile of manure might be lucky enough to have a flower grow out of it, but that doesn’t change its basic nature.”

I ran the tops of two fingers underneath my chin against the grain of my whiskers. I felt the stubble grab at my skin and heard the rasping sound. It’s something I do when I’m thinking.

“I don’t know how things were for her. My father didn’t tell me much about that. I know it was hard for him. He was either the bastard son of a rapist or the bastard son of a ruined girl. Whatever people thought, none of it was good. And folks wasn’t nearly as kind about them things back then. Sometimes you hear people say how the world has gotten meaner and people are less kind today.”

He shook his head.

“Theys lots of ways that people are much kinder now. About children such as my father, for example. Nobody blames the children anymore, but they used to. Kindly looked at them funny all their life. Most of them would end up leaving those parts and their people and start somewhere fresh. That’s what my daddy did. Brought his mother with him and came to Texas. He got married over in Bastrop. We still got family there. He lived a respectable life. Was a good man. Course, by the time us kids were born, it wasn’t nothin but an old story no one remembered. I only know it cause my daddy told me when I was older. He thought I ought to know it for some reason.”

He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket, blew his nose loudly, glanced at what he had deposited into the cloth, then folded it up and put it back in his pocket.

“There ain’t much of it left now. She’s dead. He’s dead. The man with the black car is surely dead. The only thing left is a story in an old man’s mind. And I think I’ll let it die with me. The story is dried up. All the pain is gone. I see no call to tell the children about it. So I think I’ll just take it with me.”

“Only you told me,” I observed. “So now I know it.”

He smiled. “Yeah, but you aren’t family. With you it’s like pushing a caboose down a side track with a dead end in the woods. It’s just a story to you.”

He laughed.

“Just another one of all those stories you got in your head, all that writin you do.”

I smiled and nodded and got to working my fingers under my chin again.

“No sir." he said. "The blood of Jesus and good living covered those sins long ago.”

I nodded very deliberately, the way men do when they agree and there’s nothing left to be said.

It seems to me that every act of evil is a cosmic event, a kind of big bang unto itself. There is the moment of evil, a moment so filled with dark energy and pain that no one can stand to look at it. It explodes and sends its ugliness out in every direction. Sometimes evil begets evil, and sometimes good people snuff it out.

There was a moment in time back in 19 and 8. It was a thing no one wants to look at or remember. A man in a black car grabbed a girl and dragged her into the bushes. There was the reality of his lust and anger. There was the reality of her panicked fear and pathetic cries for help and mercy. No one heard her. Her clothing was torn and her flesh abraded on the rough earth. And God help us all, there was the raw biology of the act itself.

That is a moment that no one wants to see. Everyone turns their face away in horror. It is like an explosion of pain and suffering.

Then the camera of time pulls away from the scene, mercifully we think, and we can look back again. There she is, running down the lane, bloodied and weeping. There she is confessing the truth and falling into her mother’s arms. There are the gossiping neighbors. There is the sorrow and the beauty of his birth. There are the stares and the shunning he was too young to understand. There is his anger and determination when he figured it all out. There they are, packing their things and leaving for Texas.

The camera draws back faster now. We see his joy at meeting a girl who did not know his history. Their courtship, their wedding. His mother weeping with joy and saying to herself, “I endured it for him.” Her death, we hope a gentle one. His children and grandchildren. His aging face and hands. His last telling of the story to his oldest son, bequeathing it because he was not the one to decide when to bury it.

For years the story lived like a wraith in the mind of a happy and good man. His father loved him and taught him, and he made good. And now the story is severed from the family and lives in me. It lives only in these words between you and me with no power to hurt but only to bear witness as a testimony to how things sometimes happen.

For this is the power of evil and the power of goodness and the power of stories and the power of redemption and the power of time.

rlp

Well, I can tell already that I need to follow my last post with some words of explanation. You’d think I’d learn to predict when things I write will cause anger and hurt feelings. I can’t. I guess every writer is myopic in this way. If my words hurt someone’s feelings or insulted them, I’m sorry about that.

Because someone asked, yes there was a first piece, which was more angry. I suppose that was my own way of working some things out.

I consider what I’ve written to be in the spirit of a political cartoon. I have nothing against Catholicism. Heck, I’m a huge fan of Saint Francis, Thomas Merton, and Henry Nouwen. My artwork on this site is done by a Catholic brother. As a protestant, and a rather low-church one at that, I confess that the opulence of the papacy is beyond my comprehension. But I’ve not written about that.

But I do have a problem with the pope’s decision to go forward with such a public baptism. I mean, what is so special about this man? How many people does the pope baptize? Why was he chosen and why was this done in such a public forum? If the man wants to become a Christian, that could have been taken care of in the way that it happens 99.999% of the time. In a local church and not in front of the cameras.

I consider this satirical piece to be speaking against blatant proselytizing between religions. I’ve written about this before. I think the amount of violence that has historically taken place between Christians and Muslims and Jews is shameful. These three religions, all of whom claim Abraham as a father, need to learn to respect each other. We are moving into a new world. There are new challenges ahead.

I believe trying to convert each other is “Old World” behavior and it needs to stop.

The first involved me traveling to Rome and, among other things, dragging the pope down a flight of stairs. That fantasy could not be published, though I was tempted.

My Second Pope Fantasy:

“Yes sir, I’d like a private audience with his immanence, Pope John, or Leo, or Bene...Benny, Steve. Whatever the current name is.”

“Yes I know that, but it is MY fantasy, so you’ll usher me right in won’t you? That’s right. Thank you.”

The pope is sitting on a high throne, so high that his feet can’t even touch the ground. I’m intrigued by his pope hat and pope robes and little pope slippers, swinging gently back and forth.

“So you baptized a Muslim?”

“Yes.”

“And you chose to do this on Easter weekend, right in St. Peter’s Basilica, right in front of the whole world?”

“Yes.”

“You bragged about it, basically, right? You did it in a way to maximize the exposure and make world news?”

“Yes.”

The thing that amazes me about the pope is that he never really changes his facial expression. It’s like all the life has been sucked out of him. His lips move. I wonder if anything else does.

“You are aware, are you not, of the current climate of religious tension in the world? You do know that what you did infuriated thousands of Muslims around the globe.”

“Yes.”

“And this man is in danger now, correct? He and his family will have had death threats.”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do something like that? Okay, so the guy was never a practicing Muslim and wanted to become a Christian. Fine, that’s his right. But why make his baptism a public spectacle at this delicate time in history?”

“Yes,” he said gently, peering at me over his spectacles. “What can I do for you, my son?”

“Um, did you hear anything I just said?”

The pope slowly lifted his hand

“Benidicticus Liberonday Ulfimiquam Peridontitus Loonday.”

He finished speaking but his lips were still moving. I flattened my palm and passed it back and forth in front of his eyes. No reaction.

“Sweet Jesus, even my fantasy pope doesn’t seem to know what the hell he’s doing.”

rlp

CNN Story

I Thought this was hilarious. Hat tip to Caffeinated Thoughts.

This piece was originally in two parts. They have been combined into one story. I left this one in place to preserve the comments.

Underneath the plastic, carpeted veneer of the office, a subterranean level of fleshy humanity was always threatening to break through. Middle managers caulked over the cracks in the veneer with dress codes, pages of rules, policies, and carefully timed schedules. Every night maids came in after hours to clear away all biological signs of life. Cookie crumbs beneath the desks, spilled coffee on the counters, used kleenex in the trash bins, fingerprints on the glass. Everything was wiped, mopped, or vacuumed away. All human smell was sanitized from the restrooms, which were fresh and clean each morning.

And yet, neither suits, nor ties, nor rules, nor career pressure, not powers, not management, not any policies present or policies to come could eliminate the earthy, warm, disordered humanity from the office. People worked there. Human beings. They spoke to one another. They began to care for each other or feel animosity and even hatred. Some flirted, some manipulated, some fell in love. They met after hours for drinks. They told jokes in the break room. And sometimes, elaborate office pranks took place. Management frowned on this, but there was no stopping it. Occasionally someone would be out of town, and people would stay after work and cover their cubicle with tinfoil or fill it with balloons. Smaller jokes and pranks took place on a weekly basis. Word of them spread through the cubicle village. After a good prank, people rehashed the story for weeks, laughing by the coffee pots in the break room. Alan Fisher, a young man in his 30s from marketing, was especially creative in this regard. A few years back he had stolen the key to the soft drink machine and put cans of Budweiser in the Diet Mountain Dew rack. Word of this spread quickly and there was a rush to the machine. The beers were gone by mid-afternoon. People still talked about that one.

Foy was too reserved to participate openly in these jokes. And he didn’t feel he had been at the office long enough to understand the unspoken limitations involved. But he was delighted by them, and he liked Alan. A few months after Foy’s arrival, he and Alan were sitting at the same table for lunch. They talked informally for awhile, and then Alan asked the question that Foy always tried to avoid.

“So, what did you do before this?”

“I was a writer. I did some writing here and there. Not much, really.”

“What else did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you make a living? I don’t want to say ‘what was your real job,’ but, you know.”

Foy hesitated. It wasn’t like he had made a serious decision not to discuss his previous life as a minister. He felt an instinctive need to avoid the subject and had successfully done so in several conversations with people at work. But it wasn’t something he was ashamed of. And now, feeling a bit cornered by Alan, he had no desire to lie about it.

“Well, before that I was a minister.”

“Really? Were you at a real church or was it one of those Universal Life Affirmation Church things on the internet. You know, send in twenty bucks and you too can be a minister.”

Foy laughed.

“I was a Episcopal priest. The rector of a small church in San Antonio. I left about a year ago I guess.”

“Episcopalian? Wow, hard core.”

Foy leaned forward. “Hard core?”

“No I just mean, you know, ordination, seminary, robes, all that shit. You guys wear those collars, right? Or is that just the Catholics?”

“Clerical collars. Yeah, I wore one.”

“Cool,” Alan said. He looked at the table for a second, then briefly at Foy, then his eyes moved around like he was thinking. Foy took a bite of his sandwich and chewed it.

“No offense but were you like defrocked or disrobed or excommunicated or something?”

Foy laughed loudly. “No, nothing like that. Nothing bad happened.”

“So you just left? Just quit? What happened?” Alan furrowed his brow. “Can you just quit being a priest? Are you allowed to just walk away from that? Or does it…I don’t know. For some reason it seems strange that you could be a priest and all, and then just say, ‘eh, that’s enough of that.’”

Foy made a rumbling noise in his throat. “Hmmm. I think I was just finished with that part of my life. My wife and I got a divorce. I mean, that wasn’t the thing, but I lost interest about that same time. You sort of need to feel called to be a minister. You don’t just do it as your job. Well, I guess some probably do, but I…it was just time to move on. The church I was serving kind of felt the same way.”

Alan seemed fascinated by the whole thing.

“So do you go to church now just as a parishioner or whatever? Is it weird being out there in the pews instead of up front?”

“Not so much. Actually, I haven’t been back to church. I don’t go anymore.”

“Oh,” Alan said, sensing he had stumbled upon something sensitive. “Sorry if I got into something personal. I don’t do church. I don’t really understand it. I mean, I got no problem with it or with God or with any of that.”

“I don’t mind,” said Foy lightly, popping a potato chip into his mouth. “It’s not a sore subject. You know, it’s funny, I haven’t told anyone here that I used to be a minister. I don’t know why though. Maybe for years that was so much of my identity that I just need to leave it behind. I think I just need to be Foy and nothing else.”

“Yeah, I could see that.”

They ate silently for a moment or two. Then Alan said, “Okay, this is my last question. I swear. But can you still marry people and do funerals and all that stuff?” Alan snapped his fingers a few times. “Uh…whatuhyacallit...baptisms?”

“Not being in a church, I won’t be doing any baptisms. Anyone can do a funeral.” He chuckled. “I mean, no one would want to except a minister but there’s no magic to it. I could still perform weddings I guess.”

“Really? So you still have the authority to do that? You can say, ‘I now pronounce you man and wife’ and people would be married?”

“Husband.”

“What?”

“Husband and wife is how we’d say it, but yeah. My ordination hasn’t been revoked. Technically I’m supposed to get the permission of a bishop, but I don’t give a shit about that. Yeah, I could still do weddings.”

Alan stared at him for a second. A huge grin broke out on his face.

“That is so cool. It’s like you have these secret powers or something.”

“What are you talking about?”

“No seriously. Look, you’re at a wedding and you can say, “I now pronounce you man and wife…”

“Husband and wife.”

“Whatever. But the point is, if you say that, they’re married. And now, they can’t stop being married. Not even if they want to. They have to like pay a bunch of lawyers and have a judge make it, you know, an official divorce and everything. You said this little phrase over them, and now they’re freakin married. It’s done and it can’t be undone. I mean, not without the divorce. I’ve been married before. That divorce shit is a bitch. You know. You been through it.”

Foy held his sandwich and stared at Alan. He turned is head and looked down and to the side. When he turned back to Alan he was smiling.

“Huh, I never thought about it like that.”

“Yeah man, I can’t say those words and make it happen. No one else can do that. Hell, I’ve never even known anyone who can pronounce people married. You’re the first actual minister I ever knew. You know, actually talked to and all.”

Alan put his chin in his hand. “You can marry people. You have that power. That is weird.”

Suddenly he jerked his head back and looked at Foy.

“You’re like a super hero. Wedding Man or something.”

Foy rolled his eyes. “Shut up!”

“No, why not? Have you seen comics these days? They got a super hero for fuckin everything.”

Allan’s sat up straight, and his mouth fell open.

“Holy shit, they even have a preacher super hero. Ever seen that comic series, “Preacher?”

“Nooo,” said Foy, dragging it out.

“Oh, that guy was bad ass too. He was from Texas, like you. ‘Preacher: Gone to Texas.’ That was the name of it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep. 75 issues. I read every one of them.”

“Well, I haven’t read comics since Archie and Batman and all that.”

Alan smiled. “Well, Batman’s cool but yeah, you’ve missed a lot.”

“Obviously.”

“Okay, now you got me going, so I have to ask just one last thing, okay?”

“All right.”

“Say you got some man and some woman. And you could somehow get them to say ‘I do.’ Do they have to say that for it to be official?”

“Well, technically no, I mean…”

“Good. Even better. So you go up to this man and this woman who just happened to be like standing next to each other. Maybe they don’t even know each other. Then you say, ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’ Would that stick? I mean, would they be legally married? It would be like ‘oops, you’re married to someone you don’t even know. Sucks to be you.’ Could you do that? I know you wouldn’t, but technically could you?”

Foy threw back his head and laughed.

“No. They would have to give their consent. I mean, it’s not like we can just walk around zapping people. Boom, you’re married.”

Alan looked disappointed.

“Still, that would be cool if you could, right?”

Foy shrugged.

Alan drank the last of a Dr. Pepper and crushed the can. He leaned back, balancing his chair on its back legs, and tossed the can in the trash by the wall. His let the chair flop back, put his elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “It’s weird. Nobody knows the rules on this wedding stuff. Except for you minister guys. No one else knows what the hell is going on. We just get a minister and figure he’ll know the rules and…”

He froze.

“What?” said Foy.

“Oh, oh, oh. Oh, this is too perfect. Oh my God, this is….”

Alan’s eyes were darting back and forth.

Foy watched him intently. “What?” he asked, more urgently.

Alan looked around the break room, then leaned closer to Foy. He motioned for Foy to lean in. Then he whispered, “This is gonna be great. Let me tell you what we’re gonna do.”

A couple of days after their conversation, Alan and Foy met again in the break room. Alan unfolded a large piece of paper with words and sketches on it. He brought in his buddy Steve, also from marketing, to help out. Others would be told when the time was right.

“Several problems,” said Alan. “First of all, they’re going to have to believe, or be convinced very quickly that…”

A woman walked into the break room and over to the coffee machine. She looked over a plate of pastries and started making a new pot of coffee. The three leaned in closer and their voices faded to whispers. Foy gestured and spoke for some time, occasionally writing on the paper. Alan and Steve began nodding and smiling. At one point they gave each other a high five.

The woman finally left the break room with her coffee. Steve looked over his shoulder and watched until the door closed.

“Holy shit, Foy,” said Alan. “That’s brilliant. Are you sure Doug will do it?”

“He will definitely do this. I guarantee it. You tell them, then Doug shows up with the book. Bingo. Now they’re not going to believe it because it’s so obviously a joke. That’s when you say this.” Foy wrote some words on the paper with Alan and Steve leaning over, watching closely.

Steve nodded and stood up. “I’ve gotta go.” He tossed a careless wave and left the room. Alan and Foy spoke for a few moments longer, then got up and walked to the door.

“You know, you’re a pretty good liar for a man who used to be a priest.”

“Yeah well, it goes with the job."

Alan started laughing. Foy did not. Alan’s laugh slowly died out.

“I’m serious,” said Foy. “You don’t even want to know.”

*****

Two days later Foy arrived at the office wearing a light jacket that was zipped all the way up. He was carrying a black book with a thick ribbon hanging out of it. He nodded at Doug who was by the receptionist’s desk with a cup of coffee and his briefcase. He looked down the row of cubicles and found Alan, who also nodded at him.

Foy walked directly to a large cubicle near the center of the office. Chuck and Veronica’s desks were in it, facing opposite walls. Veronica was bubbly and outgoing. She dressed very fashionably, hummed a lot, and had a screensaver that played music. Her desk area was covered with several M&M dispensers, colorful notes, stuffed animals, and inspirational posters. Chuck was a slightly overweight man with an engineer’s mind. He was well-liked and could be very funny, but when it came to work he liked everything to go by the book. His computer terminal was clear of any attachments and his desk was perfectly tidy. Nearby was a row of software manuals and a brown coffee mug with eight or ten pens and pencils in it. That Chuck and Veronica were temporarily sharing a cubicle was a joke in itself. They had never gotten along. They would only be sharing the cubicle for a short time, but they had already had several passionate arguments.

Foy tapped lightly on the wall of the cubicle and walked in. Alan was standing nearby pretending to be reading something in a manilla folder.

“Chuck, Veronica, can I speak with you guys for a moment?”

They both turned their office chairs around to face Foy.

“This will be very fast and will take care of everything you need. So just give me your attention, and I’ll fix you right up.”

Both of them frowned and looked puzzled. Chuck said, “What? What are you talking about?”

Foy looked around as if he didn’t want to be heard. He leaned slightly down and said, “Alan told me about the little problem you guys are having. Don’t worry about it. I can fix everything for you. No big deal. I’m happy to do it.”

Now Veronica and Chuck looked at each other suspiciously. Each wondered if the other had made some kind of public complaint about their previous disagreements.

Chuck said, “Foy, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Foy ignored him. He unzipped his jacket and took it off. Underneath he was wearing a black shirt with a minister’s clerical collar. This was so unexpected that both Veronica and Chuck were speechless and stared at him in amazement.

Foy opened what looked to be some sort of prayer book. He solemnly looked at each of them, smiled, and said, “I understand your situation, and I assure you the brevity of this ceremony in no way lessens its validity.”

He looked down and turned a couple of pages in the book. Chuck and Veronica continued to stare at him, completely dumbfounded. Chuck didn’t say anything, but he silently mouthed, “What the fuck?”

Foy lifted his right hand and held it in the air in front of him. His index finger and middle finger were raised. HIs other two fingers were curled downward.

“I now pronounce you, husband and wife. What God has joined together, let no one put asunder.”

Foy smiled at them both. Then he clapped his book shut, snatched up his coat, and walked off down the hall between the cubicles. Chuck stood up and watched Foy until he turned the corner at the end of the row. He looked at Veronica and held up both hands in a quizzical gesture. He turned to find Alan beside them.

Chuck said, “What the hell was that all about?”

Alan said, “Did you know that Foy is a priest?”

“Bullshit,” said Chuck. Veronica said nothing. She hadn’t moved since Foy had left. She sat there looking back and forth between Alan and Chuck.

“No, he really is." He glanced at Doug who was walking by with his coffee and briefcase. “Ask Doug.”

“Hey Doug,” said Alan. “Foy’s a real priest, right?”

“Yeah, he was a minister at a church in San Antonio before he came here. He wrote a book back then. That’s how I first got to know him. You know what? I think I have a copy of his book in my briefcase.”

Doug opened the case, ruffled through it, and pulled out a book. He handed it to Alan who handed it to Chuck. Chuck glanced at the title and turned the book over. On the back of the book jacket was a picture of Foy in a clerical collar. The caption read, “Foy Davis is the rector of St. Albans Episcopal Church in San Antonio. He and his wife Jenny have three daughters.”

Chuck and Veronica glanced down the hallway where Foy had disappeared. Doug motioned for his book and Chuck gave it back to him. He glanced at his watch and walked away.

Chuck looked irritated. “I still don’t know what the hell is going on.”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said Alan calmly. “I told Foy that you guys were going to get married by a justice of the peace next week, but there was a family emergency and you REALLY needed to get married quickly. He said he’d be glad to help. I told him you just wanted a quick ceremony and be done with it because you have a plane to catch.”

“So congratulations! You guys are married. I mean, really married. Foy just married you.”

At that moment people came from everywhere and crowded around the cubicle, throwing rice at Chuck and Veronica. They were both startled and flinched away from the rice. A woman stepped up with a cake with white icing and a plastic wedding couple in the middle.”

Chuck backed up until he hit the edge of his desk. “This is bullshit, and you know it, Alan. You’re the biggest prankster in the place. You should have gotten someone else to do this because I know it’s bullshit.”

Alan looked unconcerned. He repeated what Foy had written on the paper.

“Oh, it’s a joke all right. I know that. You know that. Everyone here knows that. But Foy doesn’t. He’s new. He doesn’t know you guys very well. He thinks he was doing you both a big favor.”

Alan held up a marriage license. It unfolded and fell open, dangling from his fingers.

“I’m a witness. I signed the license. Foy is a real priest. We checked into it. There’s a provision in our state for people who don’t speak the language. Silent affirmation in front of the priest is as good as saying “I do.” You guys are married. It’s all completely legal.”

At that everyone burst into laughter. Veronica, who had not said a word, put both of her hands in front of her open mouth. Doris from accounting started cutting the cake and handing pieces around. Chuck jumped to his feet and ran down the aisle after Foy. He found Foy around the corner in another cubicle.

“Foy, it was a complete lie. They lied to you. I don’t want to be married to her. I hate that bitch.”

Foy looked shocked. “Chuck, that’s no way to speak about your wife.”

Chuck pleaded, “There’s no way that was legal, right? TELL ME that wasn’t legal.

Foy smiled. “No Chuck. It’s not legal. It was all a joke. You have to get a marriage license yourself and actually give your consent before you can get married. Pretty good joke though, right? You have to admit.”

Chuck sank into a chair, relief visible on his face. After a moment he laughed.

“Alan. That bastard. I should have known. Well, I mean I knew something was up, but then I thought, ‘Shit, what if he DID marry us and we have to get an annulment or a divorce or something. Damn it. Ever since I faked that radio call-in show and he thought he won World Series tickets. Jesus Christ!”

Suddenly he looked at Foy who was still wearing his collar.

“Oh, shit! Sorry father, uh Foy. Or do I call you father if you’re wearing that? Anyway, I apologize for my language.”

A gush of anxiety and panic dropped into Foy’s stomach. He felt queasy. This was all very familiar. The suddenly over-polite attitude. The apologizing for bad language.

Holy shit. What have I done?

Foy swallowed hard and forced a smile onto his face - another familiar move that only increased his raging anxiety. “Don’t worry about it, man. I told Alan we weren’t going to take this very far. The minute you asked, I was going to tell you the truth.”

He clapped Chuck on the shoulder. “Let’s go have some cake.”

When they got back to the cubicle, Veronica had learned the truth. She was laughing and eating wedding cake. Chuck walked over proudly, put his arm around her, and pretended he was trying to kiss her, which made everyone laugh harder. She leaned away and slapped at him with both hands, but she was smiling.

After a few moments everyone got the feeling that they had pushed this about as far as they should. It was time to get to work. A vacuum cleaner appeared and someone sucked up the rice. Someone else took the cake to the break room. The cubicle village dissolved back into work mode. Several people shook Foy’s hand and told him how great it was. A few said, “So you’re really a priest?” This fact seemed to amaze them, as though he were another species.

Foy’s anxiety made a soft downshift into sadness. His smile drooped. He exhaled loudly and started walking back to his cubicle. He felt like he had lost something precious. Something he could never regain. He gave himself a silent pep talk.

What the hell. People would have found out anyway. It’s not going to make a difference unless you start acting different. It will be fine. Forget about it.

He pulled the white tab out of the collar of his shirt and looked at it. It was one of the cheap, plastic tabs that come in the package with clerical shirts. He had left his nicer collar on his desk back at St. Albans in San Antonio. It was so strange to be wearing one again. He didn’t like it. Foy slipped the collar into his pocket and loosened the top button on the shirt.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was a man he had seen around the office but had not met.

“Hi,” the man said, offering his hand. As Foy shook it the man said, “Peter McCullough.”

“Foy Davis. Nice to meet you.”

“That was hilarious. Is it true you’re a priest?”

“No. Well, yes, but not now. I left the church and I work here. This is my job. This is who I am. I’m just a guy in the office.” He tried to laugh lightly, but it came out rather awkwardly.

Peter was silent for a moment.

“Yeah, but you’re a priest. You took the vows, right?”

“Vows? Well, yeah. Sure. In a manner of speaking.”

“Because I really need to talk to a minister.”

Foy felt a shot of adrenaline in his stomach. His heart raced.

This is like it used to be. Just like this. People asking. You can’t say no.

“Look, I’m not a minister anymore, okay? I quit. I left the church. So if you really need a minister you should go to your church or any church. Just pick one. You’d be better off talking with someone who’s, you know, a pastor right now.”

“I don’t know any churches or pastors, okay? I’m an atheist. Hell, you’re the closest I’ve come to a priest since I was in Catholic school. I don’t need you to bless me or pray over me or any of that hocus-pocus stuff. But I do need to talk to someone.”

He looked uncomfortable, like he was admitting something that embarrassed him.

“And it needs to be a priest or a minister. Look, it’s about my wife and daughter, okay? I don’t want to impose, but I have no one else to talk to. Can’t you just listen to what’s happened and maybe give me some advice or something?”

Foy stared at the man. He was poised, it seemed to him, on a razor-thin edge between two worlds. The world he wanted to leave and the world he was trying to understand and be a part of.

I just want to be a man. No one else gets asked this kind of thing. No one else has to care. Other people can just go about their lives and deal only with the people they know and love. I can’t fucking love everyone.

But there are requests in this life that cannot be refused. Certain things people ask. No one can say no to them and retain their own humanity. If someone asks one of those questions, there is no way out. Foy took a slow, trembling, deep breath. He held it a moment, then released it just as slowly.

“Is this some kind of immediate emergency, or could we meet for lunch tomorrow and talk about it?”

Peter exhaled and smiled. “Thanks man. There’s no rush. Tomorrow is fine. This thing has been developing for a year now. No hurry. Listen, I really appreciate it. I know I haven’t, uh, been on the same side as the Church, but I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Why don’t you pick a place,” said Foy. “Pick one that fits the privacy you need. We could sit in the break room or go upstairs to the conference room. Or we could walk down the street to a restaurant. You pick the place and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” the man said. He left.

Foy walked into his cubicle and sat at his desk. He leaned forward on his elbows. There was a stack of material he needed to go over. He picked up the top sheet, looked at it, then tossed it back on the pile. He leaned his face down and stared at the keyboard. He raised his right hand and let it dangle over the keyboard. He relaxed and the hand moved back and forth over the letters. He lowered his index finger and hit the L key. His hand hovered again. He punched the i, then the f, then the e.

Using his middle finger he quickly punched four more letters. i-s and s-o.

He pulled his hand up. His mind was a complete blank. He had no idea what was coming next. He paused looking at all the letters, wondering which one he should push. His eyes kept moving back to the s key. He punched it and waited for a word to come to mind. Nothing.

He hit the t key and went right to the r. o-n-g followed in quick order.

“So strong” he whispered to himself.

For a moment he wondered what Jung would say about what that meant. He was tempted to make a guess at it, but he was too tired.

“Fuck it.” He said. “It’s five o’clock. I’m going home.”

rlp

Paul Soupiset has a video online of our ongoing work on a prayer labyrinth at the back of our church property. It should definitely be done before anyone arrives this summer for the retreats. The video has a few people in it you've read about here.

Paul and his daughters, who narrate it.

My youngest daughter Lillian is the one with glasses who shoves her face in the camera and tries her best to sound stupid. She's the one I wrote about in those two bifocals pieces so long ago.

My middle daughter Shelby is the one who runs at the camera.

Chloe is practically all grown up now and wearing the pink rubber boots.

Tim, aka Tom, is the man in black coming down the path. His daughter is wearing the party hat. She spent the night at our house that weekend. I think she wore that hat non-stop from Friday through Monday.

And I, dear readers, star as the Grinch who stole the joy from all the children who were laboring so hard on the labyrinth. I really was embarrased when I saw this. There are all these flower children, dressed in such unique and cool ways, out there working away. And you're thinking, "Wow, this might be the coolest church EVER." Then you see the pastor dressed in the most uptight, "white guy" clothes imaginable, marching in to spoil the party. So then you think, "No, it's pretty much like every church I've ever been to."

This is my first time to use the polling feature of my new Drupal site. I now see that only people with a rlp account who are logged in can vote. All others just see the results of the poll. I think that is because the system logs who votes and won't let people vote twice.

So, to vote you have to have a rlp account and log in. After you vote you'll see the results and the poll won't be available to you. If you don't have a rlp account, just leave a comment and tell me your intent. I'll be counting what I read there too, as we decide how to organize the retreats.

I can tell you right now, based on less than two days of polling and in reading the comments, that there seem to be enough people to have three retreats this summer. June, July, and August. We'll get the dates to you as soon as we can.

More News: I've been contacted by a church that might be interested in sending money to help buy cots that we could use for these retreats. Tim Heavin has found some sort of fold-up mattress type things that don't have frames - meaning nothing to break or get bent.

http://www.nextag.com/hide-a-mat-tri-fold/search-html

Tim has slept on one of these, and he says they are quite comfortable. Like sleeping on a firm mattress. So maybe we'll get some money in to have enough of these for everyone who attends.

rlp

At the top of the right menu you'll notice a poll. Let me explain a little about it. Recently I announced that we were thinking of having one or more Franciscan retreats at our church this summer. For you. There is a video with more information.

Tim and Paul and I could do as many as three of these. One in June, one in July, and one in August. We're not sure how to organize it. One idea is to have one of the retreats be for those who are not Christians, but are curious, or just want a restful weekend, or just want to hang out with us for a day or two. We could have one that is open to anyone, whether or not they consider themselves to be Christians. And if there are enough clergy interested, perhaps one just for them.

We're not sure how we'll organize this. A lot depends on how many people will actually come. So it will help us if you'll take the poll if you really want to come.

We realize, of course, that you might want to come but the dates might not end up being convenient for you. That's fine. Go ahead and take the poll. You're not committing yourself. You're just helping us plan.

Thanks.

Note: You have to be logged in with an rlp account to vote. If you want to see the voting results, log out.

rlp

Some details about the retreat(s) we're planning. Hoping a number of you will be there.

Click here to read part one.
Click here to read part two.

The man had been squatting in front of Jesus. He moved away and sat with his back against the opposite side of the cave. He stared at Jesus. Jesus looked back at him calmly. The man’s face began to change a little. His smile became slightly awkward, as if he were forcing it. Lines of anger appeared on his forehead. The man sighed.

“Well, I don’t suppose there’s any use arguing with a man who just fasted for 40 days. Obviously bread’s not the way to… You know, I agree with you in principle. I still think there would be no harm in having a little bread, just to give you strength to get back to town. But never mind. Okay. Right. And good for you. I admire your principles.”

The two sat staring at each other. Then the man perked up and got excited again.

“I also admire your considerable knowledge of scripture. A man of the Word, are we? Well, I have another idea for you. A wonderful idea. A way to start your work in these parts with a bang.”

He paused.

“And the best part is, this idea comes right out of the Bible.”

Part Three

Jesus looked at him, curious as to what he would say.

“I was just thinking about that marvelous verse you quoted. Deuteronomy, yes? The children of Israel, wandering in the wilderness for all those years. So hungry. Relying only on manna. And why? To learn the lesson you just quoted. “Human beings cannot live by bread alone but are sustained by every word that comes from the mouth of the Almighty.”

“If you intend to sustain yourself on every word that comes from the mouth of God, so be it. Let me offer you a word from the scriptures. A word we might say, from the mouth of God.”

“Psalm 91 - One of my personal favorites. How does it go again?”

The man closed his eyes and pressed his palms together as if in prayer. He bumped his thumbs repeatedly against his lip.

“Oh yes, I remember. ‘Whoever sits in the refuge of the Most High shall dwell in the shade of the Almighty. No evil will befall you, nor any plague come near you. He will charge his angels, concerning you, and they will catch you and lift you up, lest you strike even your heel against a stone.’”

“Lovely verse. So hopeful. So ridiculously hopeful in light of the considerable evil that has befallen the woeful children of Israel over the years. But never mind that. The point is, do you intend to stand by your claim? Will you indeed live by every word that comes from the mouth of God?”

“Of course,” said Jesus.

The man smiled. “I expected nothing less.”

“Well then, here is my idea. You know the top of the temple mount? Well, of course you do. The corner by the wall. The one with the terrifying drop - down, down, down, into the Kidron valley. Why it must be three or four hundred feet to the bottom.”

The man’s eyes came alive. He leaned forward and put his hands on the ground so that he was on all fours. He moved toward Jesus like a cat stalking its prey.

“Now what you and I will do is go there at a prearranged time. We’ll announce that you’re going to give a speech or sermon or devotion or whatever. One of those things you people like to do. Then, after a dramatic pause, you’ll LEAP from the temple, falling to what seems to be a certain death.”

He moved a little closer to Jesus, still on all fours.

“Only you won’t die. Because God won’t allow it. You are a favored son. Set apart, remember? If anyone sits in the refuge of the Lord God Most High, it is you, Jesus. There is no way any harm will come to you. Angels will swoop out of the heavens and catch you just in the nick of time. The Bible says so, and you’ve said you believe it. The people will be amazed and astounded. They will flock to you by the thousands.”

The man lifted his hands from the ground and sat back, cross-legged, right in front of Jesus. He looked up and away, as if he was planning something. He tapped his index finger against his lips a few times.

“We’ll do it, say, a week before Passover. Wouldn’t want to take attention away from such an important event. That would be tacky. But the crowds will already be there. I tell you, there is no better way for a young rabbi to establish a reputation and gain a following than by performing some sort of miracle like this. The people LOVE this sort of thing. They will love YOU. Why preach your message to dozens when you can bring the word of God to thousands?”

He was breathing deeply, as if he had been running. He swallowed hard a couple of times.

“That’s what can happen if you really ARE a man of Scripture. If you really WANT to do the work of God. If you really want to make a DIFFERENCE. If you really intend to LIVE by the words of God. I mean, you do believe in the Bible don’t you?”

Jesus stared at his feet for a moment or two. Then he lifted his eyes to look at the man before him. He struggled to sit forward and leaned toward the man.

“You dare quote the holy scriptures to me? You choose a couple of verses from a Psalm, drag them kicking and screaming out of their context, and throw them at my feet with such a blatantly self-serving interpretation? You expect me to fall for such juvenile Biblical chicanery?”

Jesus took a deep breath and struggled to stand. It took him several seconds but he managed to get to his feet. At first it almost looked as if he would fall over. The man stared at him.

And then it seemed that Jesus gained some strength. He took a step toward the man.

“You quote to me from the Psalms. Hear now while I quote from the Shema, the very heart of scripture, indeed the holiest reflection of truth at the heart of God.”

Jesus took a another step toward the man, who scrambled to his feet and stood defiantly across the cave.

“Hear, O Israel. The Lord our God is the Lord, the One and Only. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and all your soul, and with all the strength you can muster.”

Jesus took a step forward.

“TEACH these things to your children.”

He took another step.

“SAY them at home and when you walk and when you rise and when you go to bed.”

Another step.

“BIND these words to your arm and between your eyes. WRITE them on the doorposts of your home.”

Jesus took a last step. He and the man were face to face.

“And you SHALL NOT put the Lord your God to the test!”

The two stood staring at each other. The man’s face seemed to shimmer a bit. His eyes grew cold and hard. His smile disappeared. He no longer looked like Jesus. He looked like an obscene approximation of a man. He had a face and a body, but something was terribly wrong about him. Anger flashed in his eyes. He bared his teeth.

Jesus looked at him with obvious disgust. He turned away and began to walk back to his side of the cave.

He took two steps and the man cried out.

“Wait!

Jesus stopped but did not turn around to face the man.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Close your eyes and I want you to imagine all the kingdoms of the world. Every throne from the East to the West. All of the riches of Rome and all of her power. Beautiful and exotic women from around the world will throw themselves at your feet. Kings will bow before you. All of this I can give you if you will come back here, bow at my feet, and worship me!”

Jesus stood, frozen in place with his back to the man. Suddenly his shoulders began to shake. He bent over. His chest heaved, and it sounded like he was coughing.

Instantly the man’s countenance changed. His face softened and his voice became oily smooth.

“There there, Jesus. I know you are famished, hungry, and weak. We’re almost done. Just one final step and you shall receive every nourishment and pleasure that you desire.”

Jesus’ shoulders shook harder. The man frowned and his eyes narrowed. The sounds coming from Jesus began to make sense. He was laughing. Laughing as hard as he could. He turned around, still bent over with one hand on his knee. He lifted his other hand toward the man and looked up as if he was going to say something, then he doubled over and collapsed into laughter again.

He managed to gain control of himself for a second, but when he looked up at the man he burst into giggles once more.

The man across the cave looked completely stunned.

“I’m sorry,” said Jesus in between laughs. “I’m trying to…” He burst into another round of wheezing laughs. “I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s so funny.”

“What?” said the man in a flat, irritated tone.

Slowly Jesus’ laughter subsided. He stood and faced the man. His smile seemed to fill his entire face.

“It’s just…so ridiculous. I spend 40 days here with no food. Only the presence of God and the simple help of my friend to sustain me. I refuse food from you. I refuse to join you in that absurd attempt to garner fame for myself. I quote to you from our most sacred scriptures. But somehow you think I’m going to bow down and worship you?”

Jesus’ face grew solemn.

“Did you really think that was going to happen…Satan?”

At the mention of his name, the man seemed to shrink. He became hunched over and began edging toward the opening of the cave.

Jesus walked toward him.

“Every time I said no to you it was easier than the time before. And with each of your offers it became more clear who you are and what you want. Leave me. Now!”

In that instant, the man disappeared.

Jesus stood looking at the opening of the cave. Exhaustion overcame him, and he fell to the floor.

He heard footsteps coming from outside the cave. Jesus lifted his head and saw his friend arrive at the mouth of the cave with bread and water and a blanket. The man rushed to his side.

“Easy now, my friend. Lay back. I’m here, and it’s over. You did it. Forty days.”

The man broke off a piece of bread and poured water over it, softening it. He pushed the bread gently into Jesus’ mouth. Jesus close his eyes, chewed with pleasure, and swallowed.

“One more,” the man said and put another piece of bread in Jesus’ mouth.

Jesus whole body relaxed with pleasure.

“That is SO good.”

They sat together in silence. Jesus was chewing and the man was cradling Jesus’ head in his arms.

“That’s all you should eat for now. We’ll go slowly, and I won’t leave you until you’re ready to walk. I’ll do for you as I’ve done for many desert pilgrims and what was done for me long ago.”

“Thank you.”

Jesus closed his eyes and began to fall asleep. Suddenly his eyes popped open again and he looked up at the man.

“Did you meet a man on the way here? Did he speak to you or delay you in coming? Did you hear voices when you came near the cave?”

“No,” said the man. He looked closely into Jesus’ eyes.

“Did YOU meet a man? Did YOU hear voices?”

Jesus closed his eyes and a very quiet and small smile came onto his face.

“I heard everything I was meant to hear.”

rlp

Note: Those who are familiar with this story will notice that I greatly expanded the quotations of scripture from both Satan and Jesus. In putting this story together I was faced with a difficulty. Knowledge of the context and nature of the scriptures quoted by Satan and Jesus is critical to the meaning of the story. Most modern people would not recognize or understand the difference between a verse from the Psalms and one from Deuteronomy chapter 6, the passage that is known as the Shema. In order to make that meaning and context clear, I had both of them quote more extensive passages of scripture than is in the original story.

Matthew 4:1-11

Note: Podcast Audio File Below

Strong, calloused men of action are common in Texas. Indeed, it’s rather our masculine ideal. There’s something even romantic about it. You know - the strong silent type, as they say. Like a character in a Cormac McCarthy novel. These are not men of words. They can be good men or bad men or any kind of man in between. But if you find a good one, his goodness takes on an almost mystical air because you won’t hear him talking about it.

The idea behind these heroic types seems to be that there is doing and there is talking. The former is for strong ones of action and integrity. The latter is for them that can’t do much and therefore need something to fill the time.

I’m strangely drawn to these strong, silent heroes in books and movies. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe it’s a man thing. But I will never be one of those men because - for better and for worse - I am a man of words.

Words have always come easily to me. I began to speak early. I sometimes didn’t understand what I was saying, but I enjoyed taking words and phrases out for a spin, just to see how they sounded. I was a big talker for a little boy.

I was and still am liable to slip into speech patterns that catch my ear. I pick up on the cadence and personality of accents and dialects. I have an appreciation for the way people talk and how their inflection carries meaning. I love words. I love the sound and feel of them. If I hear a good phrase or an interesting snippet of dialogue, I’m apt to say it out loud to myself while I’m driving. I’ll play with it. Try saying it different ways.

When I stand to speak in front of people, I’m not afraid. I’m enjoying myself. I don’t feel alone because my words are there with me. They’re always there for me. I don’t know where the the words come from. They just come out.

This is the truth: I rarely know what I’m going to write. Sometimes I finish an essay and it seems like I had a good thought and found a nice way to write it. The truth is, some phrase pops into my mind and starts nagging at me. I start writing and usually have no notion of where I’m going. I’m often as surprised as anyone at where it ends up.

So I’m a word man. There’s no denying it.

Listen to me now. This is important. It may not be important for you to hear, but it is a thing that I must say. I need to say it and hear it.

Words are dangerous. Using them is like dancing with the devil. Because when you can make pretty words, there is always a temptation to start thinking that saying something is as good as doing something. And if people give you all the credit up front because of your words, why bother doing anything at all? God knows people will allow it. If you can write or speak well, people will grant you almost anything.

Now here’s a thing I believe is true, but I have no evidence for it. My gut tells me it’s true. I intend to live as though it is true, whether it is or not.

If all you have are your words, you will always come to a bad end. Either you’ll start living a lie and get caught, or the wellspring of words you’ve always counted on will dry up and you’ll panic and start forcing them. Then something false will ring in your tone and people will shy away from you. People are smart about stuff like that.

So here’s a writing tip you won’t hear often. The better you are with words, the better you must be at living. If you are a writer or a talker, you better damn well be living or it’s going to catch up with you. If you love words as much as I do, you’ll have to make yourself get out and experience real life. You better engage people, have children, play games, laugh, whatever. Do it all. And if praying is your thing, you better pray hard. You better pray that your words do not get too far out in front of your life.

If they do, it’s over for you. Your oracle will die. The place where the words come from will close up and leave you choking on some crappy, compound sentence you’ve used ten times before.

Because there is doing and there is talking. If you can only manage one, let it be doing. Because it is the only one of the two that can honorably stand alone.

rlp

The Church of Reconciliation in San Antonio has
a labyrinth modeled after the classic labyrinth at
Chartres. I've walked it three times and find it to be a very meaningful and
prayerful experience. You can read about labyrinths and prayer

here. One Sunday five or six people from
our church went to walk the labyrinth. That sparked some conversation about
building a labyrinth of our own at the back of our property. I think that will
happen, but we never hurry at Covenant Baptist Church. It will happen when it
happens.
Here is a picture of the labyrinth at
Reconciliation:

The labyrinth at The Church of Reconciliation
is painted on canvass. It comes apart in four pieces, each of which is kept in a
duffel bag. Recently someone broke into the parish hall and stole one of the
duffel bags. I'm not sure what the thief thought he was getting, but I bet he
wasn't expecting a fourth of a medieval labyrinth. Some of us were talking last
night at our church about labyrinths, the theft at Reconciliation, and whether
or not we will ever construct a labyrinth at our church. This apparently set off
a spark in Paul's mind, because
yesterday's Lenten watercolor reflects the
conversation. The cactus in the painting is because the place on our property
where we would build a labyrinth is currently covered with prickly pear cactus.
We'll have to do something about that. I don't want prayerful pilgrims visiting
our church and getting the idea that if you make a wrong turn praying you might
get a painful jab.
Anyway the theft has, of course, caused some
difficulty in walking the labyrinth at Reconciliation. I say difficulty, but
what I mean is that you can't walk it at all.
Or can you?
By my calculations, three quarters of a
labyrinth looks like this:

There are many lessons drawn from a prayerful
walk of a circular labyrinth. You really don't know where you will go when you
round a corner, and you have no idea when you will arrive in the center. It sort
of forces you to focus on the journey. But what if you walked three quarters of
a labyrinth? I guess when you popped out into the open space, you could resume
your journey at any path opening that seemed right to you.

This would mean that you might find a shortcut
and get to the center quickly, or you might never arrive at all and spend an
entire afternoon endlessly circling. Who knows what would happen.
In my experience, that's a pretty good
description of praying. You pray. You don't know why, exactly. You're hoping
some things, I guess. You don't know if praying will be a journey with any end
at all. I know people who have prayed for things their entire lives. Or who
knows, you might get a miracle right away. I don't know about this stuff. It
makes me nervous making claims about prayer one way or another.
Hey, if anyone from the Church of
Reconciliation reads this, I wonder if you guys would consider letting me walk
three quarters of a labyrinth. I think I'd like to give that a try.
rlp
 

Coming soon via satellite and the internet -
it’s the Gordon Show!
This is the television production of the ages.
Continually running for 45 seasons with a cast of millions, and every set is
perfect down to the last detail. The backdrops are stunning, every prop is
historically correct, and the houses are all authentic; the dressers even have
socks in them.
The actors have spent their lives preparing for
their roles, even those who only have walk-ons. The truck driver who passed the
star in scene 27-7/13-18:20 was groomed from childhood to be a truck driver for
that part. He drove trucks for 25 years, immersed in the culture of the road,
all so that he might be authentic for his brief appearance on the show. It’s the
same for all the actors on the Gordon Show. Every school teacher, coach,
neighbor, and friend were raised from childhood to be thoroughly prepared for
their various roles.
The studio maintains several retirement
communities and recreational facilities for the actors whose parts in the Gordon
show are over. Occasionally they get called back for a dream scene or a memory
sequence, but mostly they lounge around the pool and take advantage of the
generous buffet tables.
Why look, there’s Carmen, the little girl
Gordon loved back in kindergarten because she could color in the lines. That was
such a sweet episode, wasn’t it? A real crowd pleaser. Funny how she hasn’t
grown. Over there by the shuffleboard is Gordon’s grandmother, still smoking her
Pal Mals. And there’s Lance, Gordon’s best friend for most of the 10th
and 11th seasons. I hear the cast from last season’s Colorado episode
are having a reunion tonight at Bennigan’s.
Yes, it’s the fabulous, fantastic, Gordon show,
where a neo-Ptolemaic revolution has revealed that the universe not only
revolves around the earth, but specifically around whatever point on the earth
that Gordon happens to occupy. Whole galaxies have existed before recorded time
only to provide one or two stars in Gordon’s personal night sky.
Wait a minute! There’s our star now, walking
though the parking lot and toward his next scene. He waves to the crowds, nods
to bit players from previous episodes, pauses to comfort weeping girlfriends
from those classic 17th and 18th seasons, and all the
while he is signing autographs.
Oh, he’s heading toward us. Hush now, for there
is quiet on the set. A new scene is about to begin. A spotlight falls, making
you squint. You are now on the Gordon Show; I hope you don’t mind.

The first step is admitting that this is the
way you see the world. It’s the only way you can see the world, for you are
trapped in your brain and behind your eyes. And while you may come to believe
that you are not the center of everything, your gut doesn’t buy it.
So own that. Own up to it.
The second step is taking a serious look at the
people around you. As it turns out, each of them is the star of his or her own
show. On their shows, you are the bit player. Your name might not even make the
credits. It's true; they are all stars. From this point forward, dedicate
yourself to treating the people around you with the respect we normally reserve
for famous people. Maybe you should even get impressions of their footprints in
your sidewalk.
Now look at the animals, plants, rocks, and
trees. There are no cheap copies, no storefronts, no mountains painted on a
screen in the background. Every grain of sand took a million years to form.
Every animal species developed painfully and slowly over millions of years to
fit perfectly in its environment. Every leaf on every tree grew from a tender
bud and has a fragrance and a life all its own. Once you thought the earth was
here for your good pleasure, a stage upon which your life is played out. But
that’s not true. Our world is a beautiful and rare thing in itself. Why, there
might not be another like it in the entire Milky Way.
Yes, I see it in your eyes. You are beginning
to understand. It is the greatest of gifts to have been given life and allowed
to live amidst such beauty and in perfect step with others and with our
environment. Is it possible that a higher intelligence of some kind gave you
this gift? And if so, how should you respond? If you understand these things,
you have discovered Shalom, the deepest, richest, and most rare form of peace.
Quiet on the set. The spotlight is on you, and
I think you have a speaking part this time. Take a deep breath and speak
naturally, from the heart.
“Shalom.”

rlp
 

Paul Soupiset
and his family have been attending our church for a couple of
months. I met Paul and his wife Amy at an emerging church gathering here in San
Antonio. I have a lot of sympathies with the
emergent church movement, and Covenant Baptist Church (I hope)
embodies some of its principles.
Anyway, Paul is an artist. No really, like a
serious artist. I was knocking around his blog and noticed that he is doing a
small watercolor painting in a
Moleskin watercolor journal each day during
Lent. I love them. He brought the actual book to church last week, and I got to
see the originals.
This one is my favorite so far. I spent
some time looking at it and letting my mind prayerfully drift.
These are very interesting and tender
paintings. They reflect Paul's mindset during Lent. And, in proper emergent
fashion, the line between sacred and secular is blurred, if not obliterated. And
that is a thing that I like.
So, I'm pleased to display Paul's work. Paul
did all the html and design for this microgallery. Enjoy.

ps - If you visit Paul's blog you can read
some of his
reflections on these paintings.
 

My dad has posted something

on his blog about our oldest daughter turning 18 and preparing to
leave home. And he quotes William Blake, which impresses me to no end. He was an
English major, so I don't know why I'm surprised.
 

Is the earth ancient and are you a young child,
wandering her surface and running your small hands over the bumps and buckled
plates of her wisdom? Or are you the old one, tired and cynical and wise, trying
to recapture your innocence by walking barefoot and kissing the feet of a
newborn morning?
Is goodness somewhere deep in your heart, laid
in before the ages and waiting for the year of jubilee? Or is goodness a damsel
locked in a distant tower, and you the prince charming who will redeem her at
any price?
Are you dragging store-bought values behind you
on a little string, smiling like a rube and looking for applause from the
masses? Or do you listen to the mysterious voice that lives in the low places
beneath your heart? Will you proclaim those words in public, or don't you have
the courage?
Can God be jerked out of the heavens and thrown
to the ground? Will you leer at her there and run your clumsy hands over her
body? Will you brag to your friends later that you’ve known God? Or is God the
ultimate seductress, unmoved by our adolescent advances, laughing at our wanton
desire and sitting, legs crossed, just outside the orbit of our highest
thoughts?
And if you do meet God on the way, how will you
stand?
Will you stand frightened and cowed, mired in
ancient dogma that binds your feet like sheets in a dream? Or will you laugh in
the face of God, smirking and superior? Will you cleave instead to the cyborg
beauty, the sacred science you have set apart and called your own?
Or perhaps, having tried all of these things,
you will cast off your clothing and stand naked before the horizon, watching God
flutter away like a butterfly, soaring beyond all words, swooping east and west
to gather all mystics and cynics into the delight of her bosom.
Who are you?
Where are you?
What are you, and what do you intend?

Tell me, for you intrigue me, and I would know
you like a father or a brother or a lover or a friend.

rlp
 

Christian Century has launched a blog for the
magazine. The idea is to connect their readers with their writers and start
some conversations. That's always a good thing.
Anyway, I was nosing around Theolog and noticed a good

article by James Howell on the latest
ridiculous craze about Jesus, bones, bone boxes, and all of that. None of it has
any credibility, but it does bring up some interesting issues. I think James
hits it on the head.


a

Christian Magazine 

Christian Writing

rlp
 

First, the bad news.
Someone stole my digital camera. At least I think that's what happened. I had it
at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, then I went to a coffee shop, then home. By the
time I got home it was gone. It was sticking out of a top pouch of my backpack,
and I'm assuming someone just reached over and "yoink!"
That stings. It was a nice one. And they got my
three SD cards, one of which was sent to me by a reader.
I may be a little light on pictures here for
awhile, but it's mostly about the words anyway. Things come and things go.
Now the fun news. Reiley bought her first car, and it is
SO cool. She's such and interesting person. She's very pretty, but also a little
geeky. You know, in the good way. Likes Lord of the Rings and all that. Anyway,
she decided that she wanted a classic car. We looked all around, and finally
found a guy who lives near us and works on old cars. His name is Richard, and he has turned out to be an
absolute mensch. I'm trying to learn to work on old cars, and he's sort of
adopted me.
And he provided Reiley with her first car. The
exterior needs paint, but the interior is excellent. And it runs well....for
now. $2800. Not bad, huh?

1962 Oldsmobile F85 - Reiley and I are in love
with her.
When I was a young man, I had no interest in
how cars worked. My brother and father knew quite a bit about cars and used to
fix our cars themselves. So when I told them that my plan is to slowly restore
this car with Reiley, doing most of the work myself, they were polite, but I'm
sure they laughed the minute they hung up the phone.
Well, yesterday I was baptized by fire. The F85
needed a new starter, or more likely a new solenoid, which (I was told) is
attached to the starter. I bought the solenoid for about $30, jacked up the car,
crawled underneath, and got to work. The plan was simple in theory: Take the
starter off the car. Take the solenoid off the starter. Install new solenoid.
Reinstall starter. All done.
Um, no. It was much harder than that. First,
the starter and solenoid weigh about 20 pounds. So squeezing under the car and
reaching up into the darkness and getting that baby off is no picnic. And the
bolts had been on it since the late 70s. Second, the starter itself hangs over
the top of the bolts, so you can't use a socket. Had to do it old school, with a
box wrench. I was cursing the demons who designed this thing. Sheesh. How hard
is it to make two bolts easily accessible? That's half the reason I was
excited about this old car. You're supposed to be able to reach everything.
But I was determined. And before long I
triumphantly emerged from beneath the car with the starter. Do you know how
satisfying it is to go under your car, clang around, reach out for tools, cuss a
bit, and then appear from beneath dragging a huge, blackened piece of machinery
with you?
Grrrrrrrrrr. Manly. Felt good.

There she is. The solenoid is the canister
attached to it.
By some miracle, I got the new solenoid
attached and the whole thing back together. And...wait for it....she started
right up!
Yeah!
Okay, there is some bad news. Replacing the
solenoid did not fix the problem, which is that the starter only engages about
half the time when you turn the key. This was one of those, "replace the cheap
part and see if it works" things. I'm getting some advice, but I might be
pulling that starter off again and replacing IT this time. We'll see.
Well, that's the news from here. I'm still
trying to get my hands clean.
rlp
Oh, and look for more pictures
and adventures as this project moves forward. The experiment: Can a bookish
writer-type guy actually fix up an old car with his daughter? Stay tuned!
 

He rose from the couch behind her. Mid 20’s;
unmarried; thin but muscular; baggy pants and shaggy hair. Not a care in the
world. He shook open a pair of sunglasses, flashed a brilliant smile, and
glanced around the room.
His head turned as a car pulled into the
parking lot. The man behind the wheel jerked his chin upwards quickly, making
the silent connection that men understand. The young man pulled a backpack over
his shoulder and left the coffee shop.
She was in her mid 30’s with two little girls and no
wedding ring. The girls were eating bagels while she drank her coffee. She
sensed his movement and disengaged from the children, turning her head to watch
him go out the door. The girls transitioned smoothly into some little
conversation of their own while she watched him leave. She looked at him the way
you look at a powerful animal or a magnificent piece of art. Her eyes locked on
him and her world narrowed.
He moved around the car, and she began leaning
over to preserve the visual corridor, putting more and more weight onto her
elbow. He dropped easily into the passenger’s seat, and his body thrashed about
as he worked with the seatbelt. A smile twitched on her lips. It was only
there for an instant. Then she lowered her cheek onto her fist, slowly
distorting her face until a roll of skin was pushed up under her eye. She stared
at the parking lot after they drove away. It was only a few years ago that her
life was like his, and the men in her life were like that.
She turned back to her girls and picked up the
conversation. They seamlessly opened a space in their chatter and welcomed her
back.
“You know, I don’t really want to go home and
clean. Maybe we should go somewhere, just the three of us.”
“And buy a toy?” said one of the girls.
“Maybe. Sure, why not. We’ll see.”
The girls turned their faces to each other and
bounced up and down on their seats. She looked at them from her elevated
position of adulthood, appreciating their energy, moderating it, allowing it to
go just so far.
“Okay goofy toofies, let’s pick up this mess
and get out of here.”
The girls bolted for the door. Her face sagged
into a neutral expression. She calmly picked up the emp