Little range big range

They call me the Tucson Mountains.  No big deal, not much of a much.  I am a "minor" range.  Well, that's pleasant.  I'm not nearly as spectacular as my neighbors, the Santa Catalinas.  They are so grand, so beautiful, so magestic...well, let me just show you!

They tower over the city of Tucson--that's right, the city that I'm named after.  I used to be jealous of them, I have to admit.  They make me seem small.  In fact, when people talk about the four mountain ranges that close Tucson in like a picture frame, the others are called by their names.  Me--I'm the tooth mountains.  Why?  Thanks, you're really very kind.  Surely, though, it must be obvious.  I look like sharks' teeth, don't I?  

So anyway, I used to be jealous of the mighty Santa Catalinas, like I said.  But one day, I realized something.  I might be tiny, yes, but I have a big "A" on me.  They can't say that.  I also am home to the Saguaro National Park and the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.  They didn't pick the Santa Catalinas.  Nope, they picked me.  But the thing that makes me happiest is this:  while it's true that I'm dwarfed by the Santa Catalinas, they are not movie stars.  Who is?  You guessed it!  Me!

That's right, friends!  I am the home to Old Tucson, a movie set that has filmed everything from John Wayne movies (yes, I knew him personally) to Three Amigos to Little House on the Prairie.  So even though I am a little range, I am just as important as my big sister to the north.  It just goes to show you--bigger isn't always better.  Small guys like us can be important, too!

The Artist

We all used to live differently.  Back in the before times.  it is said, there was something called color.  Yes, I know that we say we have color today, but what we think of as color really is all shades of grey--white to black and the shades in between--nothing can really merit the name "color".  We look out at our landscapes:  cool grey sky, taupe mountains, ash grey shrubs and dark slate grey trees,  and we see it as an artist's pallet.  I used to agree, but no more.  Because I met the Artist.

It happened many years ago.  I was wandering in the woods, and there was a tap on my shoulder.  "Are you enjoying your walk?"  asked the man.    He was dressed as we all were, in grey tops and slate pants, but there was something off about him.  I couldn't really put my finger on it.  I thought he was nice to have spoken, though, so I answered, "Yes.  I always enjoy walking through the grass around here.  It's so pretty, isn't it?"

"Is it?" he said.  "You realize that you aren't seeing it properly."

"What do you mean?"  Somehow I really wanted to hear what he had to say, because I had felt that way for years.  I love my home, but it's always seemed that there has to be something--well, something more!

"You have soot in your eyes," he said.  "Here, let me help you."  He spat on his hand and wiped his two hands together.  Before I could recoil, he put his hands over my eyes!  I was about to protest.

Then he removed his hands.

For the first time in my life, I saw colors.  The trees were the most beautiful things I had ever seen.  The grass sparkled with dew that I'd never even realized was there.  The dirt was made up of countless pieces of tiny little rock, each one singular, every bit unique.  Amazing!  I looked up at the Artist, and I couldn't believe it.  How could I have thought he was dressed like me?  He was simply glowing and alive with color!  His hair--so many colors all joined together to make an autumn carpet.  His skin was delicate and beautiful and rugged and strong, all at the same time. His eyes were neither green nor blue nor brown, yet all three at the same time.  And all around him, clothing him, were a myriad of colors:  the purple of penitence and royalty, the white of purity, the blue of truth--and the red of martyrdom, the fire of Holiness.  It was at that moment that I realized that the Artist was the most important man in the world.  He took my hand in his and began to tell me his secrets.  Yes, he knew many secrets--the secrets of my world.  He remembered a time when everyone could see colors, but now only he and his followers could see them, and only he could see them as they truly were.  I was being given a special glimpse, but from now on, I would only see dimly, through a filter of grey.  However, I knew that I would never forget this moment and the precious gift that had been given to me.  He held me close and whispered, "Go and tell others what you've seen!"

And it was at that moment that I awoke.

I hadn't realized that I'd been dreaming, but now I was back.  At first, I thought that nothing had changed, but then I realized that EVERYTHING had.  From that day, I made it my mission to tell others about the artist--this great creator who desires nothing more than for us to be able to fully enjoy his creation.  

As I go about my way, I see many people.  Some--most--feel no need for fairy tales.  They say that they already see perfectly--how dare I insinuate that their lives are anything but filled with color!  I feel sad for them as they walk away.  Their pride has already diminished them and caused them to fade to almost nothing.  Others say that they would like to see, but they aren't good enough.  They want to buy special glasses first, or take classes in gazing, or maybe have a special helper who can cause them to see more clearly.  They simply can't believe me when I say that the Artist can do that without any help from them.

But then I find a wanderer like myself.  I know them right away--even with my limited vision, I can see the shimmer of truth around them.  I tell them of the Artist, and they become excited--they always knew there was something more, and now I was explaining how to find it!  They often come back to tell me of their personal encounter, and we laugh and cry together.  The Artist has promised that one day he will come back and roll away all the soot, and then the only grey that we will see is the grey that is supposed to be there.  There will be no more distortion.  We look forward to that day.  Until then, though, we are not left alone.  The Artist left a piece of himself--a sense of beauty that we all share.  Until the Artist himself returns, Beauty guides us in the night and helps us walk toward morning.

"Whose little boy..."

The middle-aged man strode down the boulevard.  He was in a particularly good mood.  Viv had been pretty chipper today.  Some days were better than others, of course, and on this day she seemed almost normal.  Almost.

As he proceeded on his walk, a child caught his eye.  No older than three, perhaps, he was nevertheless all alone.  He did not seem lost or afraid; in fact, he seemed to be waiting for someone.  He sat by himself on a retaining wall, and as the man approached, he raised his head.  He had the most beautiful blue eyes that the man had ever seen.

"Why, hello, Son!"  the gentleman said.  "Whose little boy are you?"

The boy didn't answer the question.  He said, "Play wit me!" and raised up pudgy hands.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

"Play wit me!"

So right there on the sidewalk, the man took the boy's hand.  They sang songs, the little boy starting. "Twinkle Twinkle", "Muffin Man", and "Deep and Wide".  Then they played clapping games.  "Pat-a-Cake" and "Ram Sam Sam".  Then they just joined hands and walked in a circle together.  A lightness began to fill him that he hadn't felt for years.  The boy said, "Lift me up!!"  He did as he was told.  The boy gave him an enormous hug and a kiss that smelled of milk and cookies.  "Bye bye!" he cried and ran off down the street.  The man watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

Many years passed.  The middle-aged man was no longer middle aged.  Viv was no longer pretty chipper.  Viv was constantly on the verge of disaster.  One day she was drunk, the next she was sunk deep in depression, and another day saw her preparing her will.  She rarely spoke to him.  It was obvious that she blamed him for their misfortune, although he couldn't see how it could possibly have been his fault.

He walked down the lane, barely conscious of his surroundings.  To be honest, he was afraid of what he'd find when he came back home.  He nearly bumped into the boy before he realized there was someone else with him.

"Well, hello, young man!  Whose little boy are you?"  The boy, probably 10 years old, looked at him sternly.  "You asked me that same thing before!"  His blue eyes were piercing.  Somehow the man made the connection--that child he had seen so many years before.  He remembered those eyes.  What he hadn't noticed before was that his eyes were beautifully complimented by hair the color of an autumn forest.

"Are you from around here?"  asked the man.  He wasn't sure, really, what to say.  Viv had never been able to have children--not after that first disaster.  With no little hands to hold, he had filled his days with grown up pleasures.  Speaking with this child now was uncomfortable.

The boy ignored the question.  "You're sad, aren't you?  Why?"

He didn't know why he answered.  "My wife is very sick.  She's very sad, and it makes me sad that I can't help her get better."

"Give her this,"  the little boy said.  He handed the man a small package with a yellow bow.

"What's this?"  asked the man.

"Just give it to her.  She will like it."  The boy walked away without another word.

The man continued home, He couldn't get over it.  How could that boy have remembered him?  How could he have never seen him since that time so many years before?  It was so unreal.  He entered his house, looking for his wife.  It was not hard to find her.  Simply go to the couch, and if nobody was there, head for the bedroom.  He found her in the bed, huddled on her side.  It was obvious that she had been there all day.  "Viv, are you all right?  Vivian?"

His wife, once so beautiful and loving, looked at him and the hopelessness in her eyes broke his heart.  He reached out to stroke her hair, and the present caught her eye. "For me?  Do you really think that anything you could give me would help?"

He had totally forgotten that he was still carrying the boy's gift.  He said, "The strangest thing happened today.  I bumped into a boy while I was walking home.  Viv, he had the most amazing eyes!  They were so blue, so beautiful..."

"Jason had blue eyes, remember?"

Jason.  The son they'd named for him.  How could he not remember?  He had seemed normal and healthy when he was born, and he had a fuzz of red hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.  Nobody could explain how it happened.  He was healthy and normal at birth, and then six hours later he was gone.  It defied explanation.

He was devastated, of course, but life continued for him.  He had his job, his life that took him to the office and adult companionship every day.  Viv never recovered.  She never went back to work.  She spent the first weeks after Jason's death in a confusion of denial, anger, vindictiveness, and pain.  It spiraled out of control, and it all ended with her being committed to an asylum for several months.  Finally, she managed to convince her psychiatrist that she would be able to deal with everyday life, and he was thankful to take her home.  At first, she seemed better.  The hospital had given them a tiny lock of their son's red hair and a picture, and Jason had gone to the jeweler's, bought a locket, and gave it to Vivian.  It had seemed to help, for a while.  But after several years, the chain broke and the locket disappeared.  Without it, she seemed to have lost what little connection she'd had with life.  She began to spiral downward again.  But they both knew that she wouldn't go back to the mental ward.  He would take care of her as long as he could.  After that...

"Yes, he did, Vivian.  The bluest eyes I'd ever seen.  So beautiful..."

Vivian reached out, and for a moment he thought she would take his hand.  But no, she took the present.  "You say a boy gave this to me?  Do we know him?"

"No, he just said to give this to you, that you would like it."

"How strange.  What did he look like?"

He described the boy to her, but no light went off in her eyes.  He was a stranger to her as well.  She took the box and opened it.  A locket fell out.  And a note.  And a photo.  She picked up the photo--a beautiful boy with autumn-red hair and piercing blue eyes smiled at her, daring her to come out and play.  She picked up the note,

"Mommy, please don't be sad.  I am so alive here!  There are lots of other boys and girls to play with, and Grandpa and Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa love me and tell me funny stories about you.  Please stop blaming yourself, and please don't blame Daddy.  I love you, and I want you to find a little boy and give him the love you wanted to give me.  You should know how special you are--not every little boy gets to come from Heaven and give his mommy a present, but Jesus knows you need this back.  You lost it at the mall.  I love you bunches and bunches, Mommy, and I promise that I will be the first thing you see when you get to Heaven.  But please, find my brother before you see me.  He is waiting for you, too!  Love, Jason"

Tears streaming, Viv opened the locket.  The lock of hair and the photo were perfect--just as she'd left them.  The chain had been repaired, too, and was like new.  She put the locket around her neck and reached out for him.  He lay on the bed with her and they simply held each other.

Later that year, Viv and Jason were on a walk, down that same boulevard.  "Right here, Sweetheart,"  he said.  This is where I saw him.  Wait, what's this?"

There was a pamphlet on the ground.  They picked it up.  It was a pamphlet stating the need for foster families, that there were many children right here in their own communities that needed parents to love them.  Jason looked at Viv, and they ran home.  A new chapter in their lives was about to begin.  They knew that it would end with a new son to love--perhaps not a baby, but definitely a brother for Jason.

the tree in the glade

It stood alone, branches to the sky.  It waited day by day for someone to notice it.  It was one of many, but as was the case with all its brothers, they did notice.

Children climbed in its branches.  Young lovers took shelter under its leaves, relaxing against its trunk for the stolen kiss.  Old people would walk past, look up, and exclaim at how high it was now, remembering days gone by.  Dogs would come and…well, they would do what dogs do.

It didn't mind.  Each glance, each gesture was a treasure.  It felt the sunlight, exulted in the rain, glistened in the moonlight and waited.

One couple came to the tree daily.  They were neither young nor old.  The tree was special to them because of all they had shared under its canopy.  They first met when he helped her get a frisbee that was caught in branches and leaves.  The red cheeks and downcast eyes when she thanked him told him what he wanted to hear--she had noticed.  He had noticed, too, and the next day they came together--meeting under the tree as if drawn there by some strange energy that neither could explain.

It was under the tree that they had their first picnic together, under the tree that they shared the first kiss.  When he decided to ask the question that would change their lives, of course he did it under the tree.  She said yes, and at the wedding, bride and groom stood under the tree and said their vows while the couple's friends looked on, familiar with the story and smiling.

Years passed and the couple grew older.  Children came and the lover's trysts became family gatherings, full of love and laughter and delight in the beauty of nature.  The children didn't see what the couple saw, but they understood that for their parents, the tree was special.  They looked at each other with the "you know how they are" look that children reserve for aging parents.  But the request that they made took them by surprise.

"When we go, we want to be cremated, and we want our ashes to nourish our tree."  The children weren't even sure it could be done.  The parents didn't care whether it could or whether or couldn't.  They wanted it done and it would be done.  The children, by this time, were married themselves and understood the bonds of love.  Somehow, some way, it would be done.

The tree went for several years with no sight of the couple.  People came and people went, and still the tree waited.  It cannot be said that it grieved; it was a tree, and trees don't grieve.  But it did notice.  Something was amiss.  What it could not know was that the wife fell victim to dementia and the husband stayed at her side, unwilling to leave for any reason.  Going to their special place was meaningless without her.  Just once, the two of them came to the glade.  The woman was in a wheelchair, fastened to it with a sort of belt.  But what tenderness was shown that day!  The husband drove as close as he could, gently carried her from car to chair, and wheeled her as close as possible to their tree.  He then stopped and braked the chair, making sure that his wife's unseeing eyes were towards him, just in case.  He spread a last picnic for them both, sandwiches and tea for him, baby food and tea for her.  When the repast was ready, he tied her bib, loosened the belt with loving hands, and carried her to the blanket, setting her oh-so-gently on the spot he had reserved for her.  He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips, and then shared his meal with her.  Even though many would say that she was no longer present in her body, he still saw the beauty that he had met and married and loved and cared for for so many years.  What he didn't realize was that she knew it, too.  And so did the tree.

The next time the man visited the glade, he was alone.  No, not alone.  He had a box in his hands, a box which he held every bit as tenderly as he had held the wife that used to be.  He knelt down under the tree, said a prayer, and then he let her go.  The tree felt the ashes blown by the wind as they permeated the air, the leaves, the branches, and his heart.  He let them fly, watching them through eyes dimmed with tears.  He never came again.

Not long after, his children came.  Another box.  The box was held awkwardly, not tenderly, and there was nervous laughter.  But they had promised, and they were obedient to the end.  Once again the muttered prayer, once again the tears, once again the ashes permeating the atmosphere.  Only the tree understood.  Only the tree saw the two come together.  Only the tree felt the hands clasp within his soul and heard the woman say, lucidly at last, "I'm so glad you've come.  Welcome home.  I love you."

inky darkness

I had no idea where I was going. The darkness in the corridor behind the gym disoriented me, and I was completely at a loss.  I had thought that I would go to the bathroom really quick and then come back to my son's basketball game, but I had no idea that only the basketball area was lit.  As I cautiously felt my way along the inky hallway, I felt something squish beneath my feet. Immediately my mind conjured up a rat or mouse as blind to me as I was to it.  Too late now.  I stumbled on, hoping that whatever now stained my shoe would rub off before I had to see it. Not much chance of that, seeing as I could feel the little body sticking to my shoe.  At least it hadn’t screamed.  I hate it when mice scream.

As I continued along the corridor, I put my hand out to the side, hoping to encounter a wall or—please God—a light switch.  No such luck.  I continued to grope in the dark, blind and too dumb to turn back.  But when you’re over 50, turning back when you have to go really isn’t an option.  I continued groping-- that is, until I tripped over a body and found myself in the middle of the floor, hands full of a strange liquid.  Oh please, God, not blood!

Blinding light. The sound of my son’s cry, “Mom! Where are you?” I called back, “Here, Ryan!” and just stayed put, eyes shut, waiting for the crime scene to be discovered.  The sound of my son’s gym shoes hitting the floor was both a blessing and a misery to me.  Now he would see the body that I had inadvertently fallen over.  Would he survive such an ordeal? Would I?

“Mom! What the heck are you doing in the girl’s locker room?”  I hesitantly looked around myself, and then started to laugh hysterically.  The mouse on my foot was actually a peach-the yellow meat and red skin still stained my shoe.  The “body” that I had tripped over was a mound of gym shorts, towels, and sweaters, evidently left when the girls went to the game after using black paint to make signs.  The container of black paint was still there, and my hands were wet with it.  I looked at my son, he looked at me, and even though he gave me the familiar teen grimace, I couldn’t help but smile. He waited for me while I used the restroom, then I meekly followed him out to watch the game.
 

only the righteous man may pass

I've been going this way to school since I was five.  Ever since I can remember, I went up to the top of the street, run from the dog on the corner (just a dachshund, but what a bark!) picked up a switch and ran it over the whitewashed fence on my way, and then down down down to the bottom of the hill.  After that, There was a short climb up a little hill and a much longer walk down another hill to the little school beside the park at the bottom.  I didn't know much about the rest of the town, but I did know how to get to school.  And back.

I loved going to school. I hated coming back home.  Going to school meant playing with my friends, seeing teachers that knew me and gave me sad little smiles, and immersing myself in study.  I was always surprised when the 3:00 bell rang.  When I was young, I would beg to stay.  I always hoped somehow that if I stayed, one of the smiling teachers would take me home with them.  But they never let me.  I had to go back up the hill, back up the other hill, up again past the whitewashed fence and the yappy dog, and down to the next-to-last house on the street.  My house.  The curtains were always closed.  The door was always locked.  I had to knock, and wait, and hope that they would let me in.

Sometimes my mother would be there alone, and she would let me in with a tired little smile, and I would be safe.  Sometimes my mother and father would be there together, and she would let me in.  I knew then to run to my room and stay there.  If I was lucky, it would be okay.  But sometimes my father would be there alone.  When that happened, I would try to be a quiet mouse.  Sometimes it worked.  Usually, though, it didn't.  And when it didn't, it usually ended badly for me.

I had a brother, once, but he ran away as soon as he turned 16.  He was much older than me--he was my mother's son but he had a different daddy.  He told me once that his daddy had died, and he missed him every single day.  I used to wish my daddy would die. It never happened, though, and I finally stopped wishing, just like I stopped hoping that things would change, that my mom would be home every night, or that he wouldn't hurt me.

My daddy liked hurting people.  He hurt my mommy every single day.  She was really good at putting on makeup, so nobody knew about it.  He used to hurt Thad, too, and that was why he ran away.  But he was best at hurting me.  He knew how to do it so that nothing would show, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt.  Sometimes he would make me put on my Sunday School clothes and then he'd make me sit in a chair and hold a Bible up in the air over my head.  He would make me hold it there till I couldn't hold it any more, and when I dropped it or put my arms down, he'd use that as an excuse to hit me and call me names.  He would tell me that the Bible could never help me, that it wasn't him hurting me, it was that blanking Bible.  Other times he made me stay in my room with all the lights off--he did that until he figured out that I wasn't scared of the dark.  Honestly, that was my favorite punishment.

I am not afraid of the dark because when I'm by myself and it's dark, the angels come.  They are white and shiny and only I can see them.  They tell me that they know how much it hurts, but my real father knows, too, and he promises that this won't last forever.  One of them is always there.  Sometimes I can see him and sometimes I can't.  But I can always feel him.  He tells me to be patient.  But it's hard, because sometimes I think that my daddy will kill me.  And other times it's even harder, because I find myself being more afraid that he won't.  I have dreams where my mommy dies or goes away, and my daddy and I are the only ones that are left.

One day I think that my dream has come true.  I woke up in the night to loud screaming.  My mommy taught me never to leave my room, but he comes in.  "Come in here and clean up this mess!" my daddy tells me.  He takes me by the hand and drags me to his room--their room.  My mother is lying in the middle of the floor, half of her under the bed.  Her eyes are closed and she doesn't look like she's breathing.  There's blood everywhere.  I thought at first that she was dead, but then I saw her eyes open for a minute and look at me.  There were tears in them.  My daddy brought me a bucket and a rag, and I washed my mother and the floor.  I was changing the sheets on the bed when I saw the little bundle.  I figured it out then.  My mommy had been pregnant and I hadn't known.  She lost the baby and instead of going to the hospital, my daddy was keeping her home while I mopped up.

I finished and went back into my room.  The angels were there.  "Please, please, help my mommy! Don't let her die!"  Without a word, the biggest one walked through my door. I ran after him.

When he left my room, he changed.  He wasn't white or shiny, and he looked like a normal man.  But he didn't act like a normal man.  He walked through my mommy's room, picked her up, breathed on her,  She didn't change all of a sudden, but it seemed to me that she felt a little better.

The angel-man held her in his arms like she was a little doll.  He took me by the hand and started out the door.  My daddy went after him, but he couldn't get through his own door!  "Hey, you! What's going on? Where you taking my family?"

He looked at my father with eyes of clearest blue, and he said, "Only the righteous man may pass."  No yelling, no loud voices, but he was the boss, not my daddy.  My daddy pretended to be very big and grown up, but I knew that he was only pretending.  I saw how scared he really was in his eyes.  "Don't you know anything?  Indiana Jones is my favorite movie hero.  The line is "Only the penitent man may pass!"

The angel just stood there, looking at him.  Just then the other angels went past, out into the street with the other angel, my mommy and me.  My mommy was saying something, but all I could hear was my daddy's heart pounding.  He ran away from all of them, into his room, and shut the door.  The angel said it again, "Only the righteous man may pass," and then we went outside.

The angel put Mommy into the car and then he drove and drove.  We went away from the house, my daddy, my school, our city, and then we drove even more.  He didn't stop driving for a week, just for food and for gas.  One day, though, Mommy came out of it.  She looked at me, took the wheel like she'd been doing it all the time, and drove down the highway until she got to a little town.  She pulled up beside a really pretty brick house.  It looked like a place I'd dreamed about--but it was real.  Mommy took me by the hand and led me up the walk to the door.  She knocked on the door, and Thad opened it! Right behind him was a lady that reminded me of Mommy, just bunches older.  She grabbed me in a big hug, and then she reached up past me and stroked my mommy's cheek.  When I looked at Mommy, tears were streaming down her face.  Mine, too.  We cried a lot those first few days.  We cried for the baby, for our house, for everything we'd left behind--we even cried for Daddy.  It still rang in my ears--only the righteous man may pass."  Mommy never said anything about those days, not until much later.

I went to bed with Mommy that night, and we stayed with Grandma--that was who she was, my Grandma, Mommy's mommy--for a long time after that.  I never saw the angels again after that, either.  I never told Mommy about them either.  But one day, much later, I did ask her if she remembered how we got out.  "It's so strange, LizAnne.  I'd tried to leave so many times.  Every time he'd hide the car keys or hurt me or threaten you.  But this time, it was different.  I don't even really remember how we got away.  I remember seeing you having to clean up the mess, and then I passed out.  I don't remember anything for days.  In fact, I don't even remember driving the car until right before we got to Grandma's.  I don't even remember deciding to go there!  My mom and I had argued, and I'd run away with my first husband.  Things hadn't been healed between us.  I guess it just shows what you're capable of doing when you have to protect the ones you love.  Not one word about the angels.  But then, I didn't really think there would be.

Daddy never came after us, never came looking.  Many years later, I heard that he stayed in that little house in that same city until he died.  He never got married again, never hurt anyone else again, ever.  He sort of just shriveled up.  He died not too many years after that.  I never saw the angels again, either,  though I never really thought that I would.  They were with me when I needed them, and I know that things would have been much worse for Mommy and me if they weren't around.  But I'm always going to remember them,and I will never forget the way that they protected me.  I have a new Bible, now, and I read it almost every day.  I love reading about my friends, especially Michael.  I wonder if that was him?  I guess I'll find out--one day.  For now, I'm happy to be a normal little girl in a normal school with a mommy, a brother, and a Grandma that loves me.  I like my life!

The Church of the Open Door

They’ll know we are Christians by our love.

The words to the old song ring in my ears as I look at the white clapboard church, doors tightly shut against me.  My friends had warned me that this would happen—“They won’t understand.  They won’t try to understand.  They’ll just judge.”  I didn’t believe them.  How could it be? 

And yet, here it was.  I had come in seeking shelter, and I was summarily cast out.  Churches today expect a full record of your life if they don’t know you.  They want everything—birth records, marriage documents, reports of any known lifestyle defects and evidence that those defects have been taken care of.  “The church is not your nanny,” they are fond of saying.  This is a place for the Righteous to come and be safe, protected from the hideousness that exists outside.  I didn’t make it past the first step—the documents check.  Though I tried to explain that what happened wasn’t my fault, I was silenced and sent back outside.  Evidently I was one of the hideous mob and not welcome.

It wasn’t always like this, I’m told.  There are records of churches being welcoming sanctuaries where you could come and be safe.  In those days, churchgoers considered themselves sinners as well, and they welcomed one and all to come and worship.  I long for those days.  But that was before lifestyle changes led to disruption, science led to new visions of what man was capable of becoming, and morality gave way to “to each his own”.  The major churches banded together in defense of the unknown, and a new religion was born.  The view was that all redeemable men had been redeemed.  They felt that anyone who was not a member, anyone who was not in the fold, was incapable of redemption.  The operation of the church changed from one of welcoming redemption to one of guarded safety—we are inside, you are out.  You are not allowed in.

Most of the “unredeemed” didn’t care.  They had little use for religion, and there were plenty of other faiths out there anyway.  But for people like me, people who had found a Bible, read it, believed it, and wanted to be part of the Truth, seeing those temples in town was torture.  We thought that the truth was out there somewhere, and we wanted to find others who believed as we do.  As followers of Christ, we wanted to be accepted by our fellow Christians.

Why was I not accepted?  I am a clone.  I was created from cells of my older brother as a replacement for him.  Even after all these years, it still hurts to remember the disappointment in my parents’ faces when they realized that cells do not a replacement make.  He was athletic; I am a poet.  He was into cars; I am into books.  He was slim and ripped; I am heavy and…not.  After raising me to adulthood, my parents lost interest in me and turned me loose.  I had other brothers, after all, other clones who were more true to the son that they had lost.  I could easily be replaced.  So at sixteen, I was on my own.

I loved books, as I said.  I am a poet.  I found a Bible in the literature section of the library, and as I began to read, I first was attracted to Psalms.  I didn’t understand a lot of the language, but I loved the idea of a man who could come to his Father with anything—love, hate, despair—and know that he would be heard.  More than that, he would not be abandoned because of what he could or could not do.  So I read further.  So many varieties of literature!  At first, that was all I saw.  I don’t even remember when it began to dawn on me that maybe, just possibly, this could be a work of nonfiction.  The Old Testament spoke of wars, uprisings, races taking over other races, women and men born into infidelity and coming into a faith on their own, being led by this Jehovah…this God who seemed to love them in spite of their unworthiness.  The New Testament was devoted to the works and life of the Man from Galilee.  He was kind to all, Jews and Samaritans alike.  I was impressed by his actions, although it took a while for it to sink in.  The man in the second testament was sent by the God in the first testament—and he was God’s son.  In fact, if I understood the book correctly, he was God himself!  I wasn’t sure how that could be—that was one reason I wanted, no-- needed to get into one of those churches.  I had to understand!  But I was an outcast.

One day, I was reading the book of Genesis once again, when something struck me.  I reread the passage.  Why hadn’t I noticed it before?  God created Eve from Adam’s rib!  She wasn’t born; she was a clone!  She was created from Adam’s own body, just as I was created from my brother’s own cells!  And wasn’t Eve the mother of us all? In that way, couldn’t you say that we are all descended from clones?

I began to read the Bible again, in earnest.  I didn’t see another example of this, but I did see God himself go away from his own design from time to time.  He created warriors from skeletons.  He intervened personally into history.  He declared murder contrary to his own laws, yet he called a murderer—a man who killed his mistress’s husband—a man after his own heart!  It seemed that life following this God was anything but safe! 

As I continued to read and pray (I wasn’t sure what prayer was, but I read the prayer that was suggested by this Jesus and prayed it.  I also read the way he talked to his father, his God, and I also started doing that), the idea began to dawn on me:  why don’t I start a church of my own?  If I followed this Christ on the outside, maybe there were others who did as well!

So I found a building in good repair, made sure that there were no other tenants, and converted it to a small church.  I called it “The Church of the Open Door”, and I made sure that the door was indeed open.  It was open to all—clones, recipients of surgeries that the other Churches had declared ungodly, people who had fallen into sin and wanted to climb back out, even those who said that they weren’t interested in changing their ways, they were just interested in what this Bible of mine had to say.  Some of them came a few times, laughed at us, and left.  Others, though, kept coming back, month after month.  At first I spoke every month, but soon others asked to share the privilege.  We didn’t know much, but we all were studying the Book, and we all found something new to say.  It was a wonderful time.

One day, the strangest thing happened.  A man came who seemed different from us.  For one thing, he was much better dressed.  This was obviously a man of society, unlike the rest of us on the outside.  He was from one of the closed churches, but he said that news had come to them of our meeting.  The others had ridiculed us, but something about our meeting kept nagging at him.  He had also been reading the Bible—he’d been doing his own reading, not the suggested verses that the Church said were appropriate for these latter days, but all the Bible, and he thought that our way was closer to the heart of God than his way.  He humbly asked if he could be a part of our communion.

I was surprised, and I was pleased.  However, some of my fellow churchmen weren’t in the same frame of mind as I was.  They wanted to keep him out.  He was a member of the churches that refused us entry, so why shouldn’t we refuse him?  But they left it up to me.  I prayed and sought God earnestly, and heard only, “All are welcome here.”  So this man, too, found welcome.

Today, our building is bursting at the seams.  There is a growing desire to know this Jesus, and people come from all over.  Other buildings are popping up as well.  We don’t call ourselves churches (that’s forbidden by law, anyway).  We call ourselves communities of believers.  All are welcome.  All.  No matter the problem, no matter your race, no matter your background, surgery, marital state or creed, you are welcome here.  We’ve decided that we don’t need to prohibit anyone—the Word itself draws those who it draws and repels all others.  We understand this, and we are content.

tell her megan says hi

Sand, sea and sky.  Moving pleasantly back and forth within  the waves, waiting for the big one.  No board, just my body.  I go beyond the waves and lay on my back, watching the sky with its pristine white clouds hovering overhead.  Some seals come close, and I swim with them in a way that assures me that this is a dream.  As I swim, I catch sight of a blonde head just beyond me.  She also is swimming.  She is young, no more than seven or eight, but she swims like a pro!  Who is she, and why on earth am I dreaming of her?  I begin to swim toward her to find out who she is when …Billy Joel sings to me, assuring me that a bottle of red and a bottle of white/whatever kind of mood you're in tonight/ I'll meet you anytime you want/ in our Italian restaurant.

I hit the alarm, get up, and march out of my bedroom, knowing that if I even look at that bed, I'll give in to the urge to crawl under the covers once again.  Eat breakfast, shower, shave and take off down the street to catch the 302 bus to my job downtown.  On my way, I think about that little blondie.  What on earth kind of dream is that, where all I can remember is a 8-year-old girl!! I smile to myself.  I'm more the kind of guy to think about the mom, not the girl!

Mountains, a stream, and a fishing pole.  This is the life!  Overhead, blue sky with not a hint of clouds.  The fish are really biting, too, but as is the way of dreams, I don't remember anything but catching them and then seeing them miraculously appear on my stringer.  For some reason, I'm dressed for work in a button-down blue shirt and Dockers, but at least I have on my favorite tennis shoes.  I look to my side, Ah, yes! One cooler for the fish, another for me!  I look in the box for a beer and notice a couple of sandwiches.  A couple--am I staying a while, or did I bring a friend?

I look around.  On one side, there is an old man chewing on a pipe who looks like he's fished this stream for 50 years or more.  To his left, a young couple, the wife visibly pregnant, each have a pole in the water.  The husband seems to be enjoying the experience much more than the wife.  I hear noise in the distance and look up toward the parking lot--a ratty brown Mustang sits with its windows down, and three small children play inside.  

I look to my right, and there she is.  Blonde curls done back in a bow, she is older today, more like 10 or 11.  She's not fishing, although she has a vest and wading boots on.  I ask her where she's from and she smiles and points off into the distance.  "My folks are over there, fishing.  I don't like to fish, but I like to be stylish.  Doesn't this look nice on me?"  I smile and say yes, it certainly does!  It surprises me that I say it.  I'm not much into kids, really, but she's different.  She seems really polite and isn't into that annoying question asking or favor begging that some kids enjoy.  She asks me what I'm fishing for and I tell her "Bad Bad Leroy Brown, baddest man in the whole damn town!"

I'm jarred awake, blue eyes still in my mind as I get up to get ready for work.  Twice in a row, now!  Who is this girl??  She's on my mind as far as the bus stop, but then I slowly shake it off.  It's just a dream!  I must have seen her somewhere and she made an impression.  No big deal.

That day, I go in to work and I notice that there's a new face at the desk beside me.  She's quite something, I have to say.  Brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile that lights up the room.  She's introduced to me as Kate Colliers, and I greet her politely and then go into my work haze, as usual, forgetting everything but the task at hand.

At an opera, of all things! What on earth?!?  But then I realize that it's not quite an opera, it's more a musical, which I have to admit that I enjoy.  I look around, but I don't seem to be accompanying anyone, which is even more strange.  I can't see myself going to something like this if a lady wasn't involved.  Oh, well, whatever.  I settle myself in to enjoy this pretty weird dream, and then there's a tap on my shoulder.  "Excuse, me, but didn't I meet you a few years ago?  You were out fishing?"  I look up and see a slender blonde teen.  She has aged from 10 to around 15, but again, not your usual 15-year-old.  There's something about her….I say, yes, I did, but I didn't get your name.  "That's right!" she says.  "Hey, did you meet the new girl at work yet?"  "Ms. Colliers?  Yes, I did.  Do you know her?"  She doesn't answer that question, either.  "When you see her tomorrow, can you please tell her Megan says hi?"  "Megan?  Is your name Megan?"  But she turns and walks away, disappearing as if she'd never been.

The alarm doesn't wake me; the dream does.  I don't have a clue what it meant, and I don't know what to do about it.  I think about it as I shower.  As I shave, I look at myself in the mirror and imagine her there. "Hi, Ms. Colliers--Kate--I know this sounds strange--"  I don't even finish the thought in the mirror.  How can I possibly say something that insane to her?

But by the time I'm on the bus, I know that I will.  I don't stop and chat.  I got straight to the office and…there she is.  Why hadn't I noticed how pretty she was?  Oh well, now or never!  I gird up my loins and walk over to her desk.

"Hey, Kate, I, uh, well, I have something pretty strange to tell you."  She looks at me with a friendly smile, and I tell her the story of my dreams.  When I start, she looks pretty quizzical, but somewhere in the telling, her face flushes and her eyes begin to glimmer.  She says not a single word, and there's a moment of silence when I've finished.  Then she reaches for her wallet.

"Tell me Megan said 'hi'? Pete, tell me, did she look like this?"  She takes out a picture of a girl of about 15.  It doesn't take me a minute to realize that it's her.  Blonde hair, blue eyes, sweet smile.  I look at Kate and nod my head.  She nods her head, too.

"Pete, Megan was my older sister.  She was diagnosed with leukemia when she was 15, and this was the last picture that we have of her.  She went really quickly.  But she always told me that she would scope out the perfect man for me.  She would make sure that he was okay, and when she was sure, she would let me know."

In that second, it was as if she heard what she'd just said, and she blushed crimson.  I laughed and said, "Well, if Megan is so sure that we're a match made in dreams, we mustn't disappoint her--we should at least try it out!"

On our first date, we went fishing.  The second date was to Phantom of the Opera.  And the wedding?  It will be at the beach.  And we plan to swim with the seals afterwards.  And we will light a candle for Megan, too.  After all, she was the matchmaker--a match made in heaven!

The church--a cautionary tale

Once upon a time there was a tiny little church. It was old and had obviously seen better days, as had the neighborhood. Not many people could get in at once-surely no more than 20 or so.  The pastor was poor but honest, and his flock loved him.  They were a motley assortment at best, but they all loved him.

Dwayne was one of the sheep, and he was the most vocal.  He was old, loud, dirty, and proud of his evil past.  He had come to the church years ago, and the pastor's easy manner and friendly disposition had persuaded him that it might be worth staying here.  He found that the church was inviting--it didn't make fun of him or laugh at him.  It didn't turn up its nose when he walked past--figuratively or literally.  He was treated as a cherished brother, and Dwayne liked that.  In fact, he started listening to the pastor's sermons (more homilies than sermons, really), and he found himself wanting to be a friend of the man that Pastor talked about.

Beauty was Dwayne's wife.  She had been a streetwalker--she preferred that to tramp--but Dwayne had found her after he found the church.  He took her to service, and she found welcome and acceptance there, just as Dwayne had.  She wasn't made to feel ashamed, but she came to desire escape from her former life.  Dwayne helped her leave the life, and the two of them had been helping others leave ever since.  They didn't all care about the church or its God, but they were all grateful for the freedom that they had found, and they all were free to accept prayers--and even to ask for them.  Dwayne and Beauty (whose real name, Betsy, was not nearly as pretty, in her opinion) felt sure that one day they would come to love the church, its pastor, and their God every bit as much as they did.

There were others, too.  Sid was a drugged-out teen who had come to the church one night begging for a handout.  Instead, he had been given a ride to a drive-in, a warm meal, and a place to sleep in the church's basement.  Sid was offered help to kick his habit, and even though the help hadn't worked (yet), the sheep had high hopes.  Deep in his heart, so did Sid.  And like many others, Sid was attracted to the church and its God, if not yet convinced.  Marianne and her partner Lianne were lesbians who came when Lianne found out that her mother had terminal cancer.  Even though her parents refused to acknowledge their lifestyle, Lianne was worried and hurting. The church took both of them to its heart, and Lianne and Marianne were soon part of a prayer group.  Some people were comfortable with the thought of gay people at church, others were confused, and still others were sure that the lifestyle was wrong, but none of them felt that dealing with that was as important as praying for a mother who was dying.  They finally came to the conclusion that "Judge not lest you also be judged" was in the Bible for a reason.  Others were just normal folk, mostly poor--like the neighborhood--but good people who loved God, loved the pastor, and loved the church.

One day a real estate developer came to town.  He had been looking over the neighborhood, and he'd decided that the houses were too old and unsightly to be of any use to him.  Some people rented--the landlords were happy to be rid of the nuisance.  Others were happy to have a few dollars in their pocket and another house in a different part of town.  They sold right away, at a profit.  Some members of the church were in this crowd--they felt that God was blessing the neighborhood by bringing in new blood and giving others a chance to leave.  The pastor wasn't so sure.

Soon, the neighborhood was quite different.  The old houses were destroyed and new and fashionable condominiums took their place.  The old neighbors were unable to afford to buy the sweet condos and soon left.  The neighbors that stayed were happy, at least for a time.  New neighbors came, too.  They were different than the old ones, much different.  They came into the little church and had a talk with the pastor.  "We don't feel that the church paints the proper picture for this new community," they said. "We are willing to pay for an upgrade.  You will have the most beautiful church in the city!"  Once again, the pastor wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he didn't really have a voice in the decision. The vestry voted 12-0 to gratefully accept the new neighbor's building contribution, and the most wealthy and influential neighbor, Solomon, was voted into the vestry immediately.  Nobody seemed to care that the number became 13.

Well, the little old church was torn down and a beautiful new building took its place.  It drew the new neighbors to it like flies to garbage.  The new neighbors were very aware of their social standing.  They looked around at the original parishioners and did not like what they saw.  They soon decided to take steps.

The first sacrificial lamb was Beauty.  Edith, an accountant with a businessman husband and a high opinion of her life, came to her and hinted that she was a little--well--loud.  Beauty, at first, took it in stride.  She giggled and said, "I guess so.  I'm not the mani-pedi and salon dye type.  But at our church, you take us as we are.  But the problem was that there were not that many original church members left.  Edith and her friends made it a point to ignore Edith and her friends and keep her out of the loop.  The pastor spoke to her about her attitude, but Edith pointedly mentioned that a pastor's salary is maintained by his parishioners, and he might want to keep his mouth shut.  The pastor wasn't intimidated, but he was at a loss.  He went to the chapel and began to devote time to prayer, seeking an answer to this question.

The answer came almost immediately.  Solomon informed the pastor that he was not a good fit for the new church and its new congregation.  They preferred "congregation" to "sheep".  He was given a month's severance pay and told to find another church.

Soon after, Ed, a buff retired fireman who enjoyed positions of power, took both Dwayne and Sid in hand.  Dwayne was told that the church would no longer support his going out and finding "those women".  Dwayne got belligerent and profane, which Ed had secretly hoped would happen.  He said that the vestry had assured him that they would not tolerate people who took the Lord's name in vain (let alone some of the other things he had said).  He was kicked out of church on the spot.  Sid was even easier.  He came to church one day looking for the pastor.  He had fallen off the wagon and needed help.  He hadn't been around for awhile and knew nothing about the recent changes.  Ed greeted him at the door with a big smile and hearty handshake.  He then called 911 and told the police that there was a person in possession of illegal drugs at the church.  The police soon showed up and escorted Sid off the premises.  The poor kid was over 18, so he was given jail time.  He blamed the whole thing on God, not Ed, and vowed never to set foot in another church.

Lianne and Marianne were next.  The vestry invited them to their next meeting.  They told them that the church had decided that it would not condone homosexuality inside its walls.  The two were told that they must publicly acknowledge that they were deep in sin and promise never to practice homosexuality ever again.  The alternative was to leave the church at once.  Lianne asked, "Will you still at least keep my mother in your prayers?"  "She isn't gay, too, is she?" Edith said with a sneer.  The two women turned away without another word.

It has been seven years, and First Church of Suburbia is doing very well, thank you.  There are prayer services, women's brunches, children's camp, choir and praise team, and many other services and ministries available for the discerning church goer.  If you hadn't known the church before, you might not notice the spiritual emptiness hanging like cobwebs from every window and door.

You might ask, "What about the pastor and his sheep?"  Not all have returned.  Many neighbors moved and were lost to him, but some sought him out.  He found a space in a small gym and has services there on Sundays and is saving his pennies so that he can one day move to a real church.  He is thankful for every day, and sorry that his flock had to go through such trials.  He visits Sid in prison, and Sid has asked to be baptized.  Lianne and Marianne found the church as well, and so did Dwayne and his wife.  They are active and happy, if not as naive as they once were.  They believe that God is in control and that everything happens for a reason. They admit that they can't understand why this happened, but they aren't too worried.  They're too busy living for God and rejoicing in his name.