The least of these
   my brethren
     and other stories

The value of a dollar

She glanced in the mirror. Not terrible. She looked older than she was, and her dress wasn't in the best shape, but she was still a young woman and with the hat you couldn’t tell she needed a haircut. The neighbors had agreed to watch the kids for a couple hours tonight, if she watched their kids Saturday night. So she was ready to go. To church. She couldn't quite believe it, but there it was.

Her hand was on the doorknob when she remembered the collection. They take up a collection at churchhow could she forget that? They always seemed to make such a big deal about it at the churches she went to growing up. Lots of lofty blessings on the cash. And one place even made a parade out of it. Everyone, even the kids, would get up and march single file up to the altar, which had a basket on it and one of the elders standing next to it. They would walk by and drop in their money—while the man watched and nodded solemnly—and then parade back to their seats. One Sunday, when she was a teenager, she had refused to join the parade. She just sat there with her arms crossed. Her mother had been so embarrassed that she slapped her when they got home. She never went to church again after that.

She looked in her wallet, though she knew what she'd find there. Just one dollar and some change. Well, she wasn't going to put change in, that's for sure. The clink of the coins in the offering plate would be too embarrassing. She knew she was poor, but she didn't need them knowing it. So she grabbed the dollar and stuffed it in her pocket. A dollar wouldn't buy dinner for tomorrow night anyway—she still didn't know what she was going to do about that. She didn't get paid until Friday; maybe she could stretch the left-overs? And if they had to go hungry one night, that wasn't the end of the world—she'd done it enough times when she was a kid. She immediately hated herself for that thought, but that was the world she lived in. 

When she got to the church, Linda wasn't there. Of course. Linda had been bugging her about this for weeks, and now when she shows up, no Linda. But the people seemed nice enough, and she hadn't come for Linda, really, had she? She'd been shrugging off people like Linda for years, no problem. It was the bills she couldn't shrug off any more. And the rumors about layoffs. And the horror stories she heard about the welfare offices. That's what dragged her into a church again, not Linda.

It was a small church, and the service wasn't much, compared to what she’d seen before. Just a few in the choir and some simple songs, but the people sang like they meant it. She recognized one she had liked as a child: 

Seek ye first the kingdom of God, 
and his righteousness, 
and all these things shall be added unto you, 
allelu, alleluia.

She liked the "allelu": al-layay-loo. She could remember her mother singing it that way.

Then the preacher got up there, but he kept it pretty short and simple. And there was no collection right afterwards like she was expecting. At a lot of churches she'd been to, the preacher would shout and dance around and get everyone worked up, and then they would pass the plate right away. Like they were saying, "You got your show—wasn't that something? Now what was that worth to you?" Just like everywhere else: people always wanted something from you. But who was she to talk?

They prayed, sang some more, then a few announcements and that was it. And the announcements weren't what she was used to either. Usually pastors talked about all the great community services their church offered, or how they just bought new hymnals, or what they were doing to fix up the church. Which always sounded like they were trying to convince the people that their money was being put to good use. It reminded her of those road signs by the construction sites: "Your tax dollars at work." And the pastors always moved right on to "...but to keep up this great work, we need your full support." And everyone knew what that meant. Whether it was the pastors that said it or the politicians.

People were getting their coats on. She turned to the older lady next to her. "There's no collection tonight?" 

"No, dear, we don't do that here. And somehow God finds a way to give us what we need anyway... not that we need much, you know." The lady smiled, and put out her hand. "I don't think we've met. I'm Betty. Do you live around here?" She told the lady her name and that she lived in the Monroe building. "Ah! So do I. You'll have to come over some time. I'm not going right home now, but how about tomorrow? For dinner maybe?" Betty didn't even mind that she had kids. "Please, bring 'em along! I could use a few little ones around my place again. Number 107. Six o'clock okay?" 

She was stunned. She managed to nod, though, and smile a little, then watched as Betty walked slowly away. But she couldn't move. Something felt like it was coming loose inside of her, and she was afraid that if she moved she would fall apart. "And somehow God finds a way to give us what we need anyway..." She didn't know if she could believe that—but she wanted to. Lord, she wanted to...
She realized she was crying. But still she didn't move, letting the tears fall to the floor. When her nose started running she searched her pockets, but only found a crumpled... She laughed. And blew a dollar's worth.

Ownership

There was an ant on the counter. For a moment he watched it, rushing around apparently without any plan or order in its search. Then the ant found a crumb from his sandwich and stopped. He crushed it with his finger. I'll have to get some of those ant traps, he thought. Because there's never just one. And if you don't get them right away they just keep coming.

He grabbed half of his sandwich and took it outside with him. His back yard was small, but his wife had a nice flower garden there and the tall wooden fence provided privacy. Shading his eyes, he peered up near the roof. Sure enough, the limbs of the neighbors' tree were touching his house, right where they'd gotten in. He'd have to cut that back too. Or the squirrels would just keep coming. The traps in the attic had done the trick—he found the second one this morning, legs and tail straight out, stiff as a board. Then a little patch work and the hole was closed. But if he didn't cut back those limbs, they'd be back.

Gnawing. Everyone thought squirrels were so cute, sitting on a branch nibbling a nut, flicking their fluffy tails in contentment. But the gnawing wasn't cute. It certainly wasn't the sound of contentment. And those things could gnaw through almost anything—every garbage can on the block had a squirrel hole through the lid, and if they wanted into a house, they just chewed themselves a door. That's how he knew they were in his house now, he'd heard the gnawing. At first he'd thought it was mice. But he found them soon enough. He couldn't sleep with that gnawing in his house.

Of course you had to stop them right away or they would do a lot of damage. Then they would be making more cute little squirrels, and the place would be overrun. You had to stay alert; you had to keep fighting. And if it wasn't squirrels, it was mice. Or ants. Always something trying to get in, trying to move into his house, eat his food, and tearing the whole place down in the process. Thieves, really. Like those young thugs he sometimes heard prowling the alley late at night. They didn't just steal, they had to destroy—break in, then throw things around till they found what they wanted, costing people more by the damage they did than by what they took. He'd seen it again and again. But his place was secure, he made sure of that. No one got in—not even a squirrel—without him knowing about it. And he had something in the drawer beside his bed to stop any intruder that stepped foot in his house.

That gutter looks a little rusty, though. He'd have to fix that right away, and repaint it. And the brickwork really needed tuckpointing again. If you let the rust get started, or the mortar erode too much, things went downhill fast and whole sections had to be replaced. You had to stay on top of it. If you didn't, in no time you wouldn't have anything left. Rust, erosion, decay. It kept him busy all right, but he knew what to look for and he didn't let anything go, so his place was in good shape. He wished his body was in such good shape. The heartburn was getting worse. And he couldn't go up the ladder like he could when he was younger, with a full five-gallon bucket in each hand. It was getting harder now. He could definitely feel it. But that gutter did need to be fixed.

He went in to get the rest of his sandwich and came out again to take another look. The problem was that he was slowing down, but the gutters kept right on rusting and the squirrels kept gnawing at their same frantic pace. It kept getting harder for him, but they never seemed to get tired. And even if he stopped them dead, more showed up. It never ended. They just kept coming.

Taking a bite, he looked up. It looked higher than it used to. But he couldn't let that go; he had to take care of that rust. Right away. Tomorrow. Unnh, there it is again—where's my antacid? He started towards the door, then stopped and rubbed his shoulder. Hmm. I must have strained something climbing into the attic...

A mockingbird balanced on a thin branch of the neighbor's tree, showing off its fine vocal abilities. The song went on and on. Below, his wife's patch of tiger lilies were in fiery bloom.

And down in the grass, an ant crawled onto his finger, paused, then rushed on without any apparent plan. But the finger didn't move. It was his other hand that twitched. And twitched again. Then the sandwich came free and the squirrel bounded away with it.

A miracle

Though the coffee shop now offered a wide selection of sizes and shades and frothiness, he still always ordered the same thing, and sunk himself in the same sofa in the corner, every day at the same time. And he always had a novel; only the title changed. But sometimes the caffeine hit him differently, like today, and instead of perking him up it just numbed his brain and made him feel sleepier. This time he must have actually fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes he noticed his fingers had slipped from the pages and he'd lost his place. That's when he heard the man whispering angrily at the cashier.

"That's all there is? There must be more." He glanced at the man, then blinked twice, because his eyes felt sleepy and untrustworthy. But the man was still there, pushing cash into his jacket pocket with his left hand, while holding something long and dark in his right hand, holding it close to his body, but where the cashier could see it. Both the young women behind the counter were staring at the right hand and not at the man's face. The harsh whisper came again. "There has to be more than this! Is there a safe?" "We don't have the combination." "What? You... Your wallets, gimme your wallets!" Now the fear was creeping out of his stomach and up into his chest. He was the only customer in the coffee shop. Had the man seen him? Suddenly his own wallet was uncomfortable under him. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want the women to get hurt, but what could he do if the guy had a gun? And if he approached them, wouldn't that just agitate the man even more? He felt incredibly awake now, but he was paralyzed on the couch with the book clutched tightly in his hands. Just pretend you don't know what's happening...

"Okay, get in the back," the man rasped, "now!" The women started to move, but he kept his head bowed and his unfocused eyes on the pages. They were coming his way. Towards the door marked "Employees Only" not more than ten feet from where he sat. He could feel the man looking at him now, and he didn't move, didn't dare look up and connect with the man's interrogat-ing eyes. As the three approached the door, he braced himself. He was in full view, there was no way the man could miss him. Adrenaline pumped and his legs and back tensed—then they were through the door and he was running.

He was out on the sidewalk in a second, running wildly, jerking his eyes in every direction looking for the dark uniform or white car with lights on top that would save him. And rescue them. But there was nothing, no squad cars, no traffic at all, not another person in sight. Only the sound of his feet. Then behind him the door slammed again and there was a shout and the sound of other feet. He didn't need to look back over his shoulder, but he couldn't help it. The man was coming after him.

Then the adrenaline took over completely and he couldn't hear anything. There was only the instinctive pounding of his legs and the frantic search for a place to hide—then he was throwing him-self through a door and slamming it, pushing all his weight against it as he fumbled with the lock. "Call 911!" he shouted at the startled woman behind the counter. "He's got a gun!" But the man was already there, pounding on the glass door. The woman screamed. He glanced wildly at his pursuer, saw the gun come up, and couldn't move. "Get down!" the woman shrieked. But he could only stare at the man who would kill him.

Then the man jerked his head to the right as if he'd heard something, hesitated, then shoved the gun in his pocket and ran.
"Oh, thank God!" the woman gasped, rushing for the phone. And releasing him from the vision of his own death. He crumbled into a pile on the floor. For several minutes his mind was blank with shock, then the questions rushed in. How had he been overlooked in the coffee shop? Obviously the guy didn't want witnesses, because as soon as he ran the man came after him. Had he really just not been seen, when he was right there in plain view? But thank God the guy came out of there and away from the women. Was this some kind of miracle? Did God hide him from the man's eyes just long enough for him to escape?

"They're coming." The woman was approaching him now. "Are you okay?" He nodded slowly, distractedly. All he could think to say was "I couldn't get the lock to turn..." "Yeah," she was shaking her head, "that's because it's automatic. We put it in because this neighborhood's getting so bad. It always locks as soon as the door closes; I have to push a button to let anyone in. That's what I don't understand. How could you get in?" He just stared at her. "It must have been some kind of malfunction, or some kind of miracle. It never did that before. You've been saying your prayers every night, or something—someone's watching over you." 

He believed that, and suddenly he was saying his prayers right there on the floor. God was so good. And so powerful—he'd managed to save both him and those women. He suddenly believed that without question, and he was filled with gratitude and an overwhelming sense of peace and security. Someone was watching over him. He really believed that. And that changed everything, didn't it? The door buzzed and two policemen entered.

Didn't it? He frowned. But did it? Did it really make a difference?

Did it make him different? He opened his eyes and noticed his fingers had slipped from the pages and he'd lost his place. Then he heard a man whispering angrily at the cashier.
"That's all there is? There must be more." He glanced at the man, then blinked twice. But the man was still there, with cash in his left hand and something long and dark in his right hand, close to his body. Both the women behind the counter were staring at the dark thing. The harsh whisper came again. "There has to be more than this! Is there a safe?" "We don't have the combination." "What? You... Your wallets, gimme your wallets!" Now the fear was creeping out of his stomach and up into his chest. Hadn't the man seen him? He wasn't sure what to do. He didn't want the women to get hurt, but what could he do against a guy with a gun? And he didn't want to agitate the man. He was completely awake now, but remained motionless on the couch with the book in his hands. Just wait...

"Okay, get in the back," the man rasped, "now!" The women started to move, and he watched them. They were coming his way. But the man wasn't looking at him. As the three approached the door, he felt the adrenaline surge and took a deep breath. Now was the time to act, before the man got the women alone in the back room.

He put the book down and stood up. The man suddenly looked at him, startled, and jerked the gun in his direction. "Take it easy," he said to the gunman, holding up his open hands, "just take it easy." "Stay back!" the man shouted. "I'm staying right here," he said calmly, "And I'm not going to try anything. You got your money. Just leave the women and you can go, no one's going to stop you." The gun was as shaky as the man's voice, "You—get in here too. All of you!" "I don't think you want to do that. You don't really want to hurt anyone, do you?" His voice reached out to the man. "And you don't have to. Just walk away, and no one will go after you. It's just money, you don't need to hurt anyone..." The women were through the door now, and one of them made a quick movement and stumbled. The gun immediately swung around and the man started towards them. That's when he took a step forward. "Just let the women go..." Then the gun came back—and fired. He felt the impact low in his body, and fell back heavily onto the couch.

But his eyes were still on the man's face. For a moment he held the startled gaze of his attacker, then the man looked down at the gun like it was an unknown source of pain, and the weapon fell to the floor. He caught the confused eyes again. Then the man fled.

He glanced down at the pain in his side. All he could see was red. Then one of the women was next to him, shouting for the other to call 911. "Oh my God, oh my God," she started crying, "you can't die... you saved us... you'll be okay, they're coming..." She was looking into his face now, thanking and pleading for him with her eyes. He smiled painfully. "Don't worry, it's all right. Someone's watching over me. And you, too." She nodded, but sobbed again. "Hey, don't cry," he said, "that was a miracle just now. Didn't you see it?" 

It hurt when he laughed, but it felt good too. 

Family

She wondered why her wheelchair wouldn't move back from the table, then she looked down and saw the wheels were locked. The table was bright with colors and candles, turkey and cranberries, but she'd had enough. Too much noise. She liked to watch the little girl making faces and hear her laughter. But the man was still talking about football with the older boy, so loudly that she couldn't ignore them. “…into overtime. Hey, any more stuffing, Mary?”

“Yes, just a minute.” The woman turned to her, and spoke louder. "I cooked the turkey upside down to keep the white meat juicy, just like you taught me, Mom. Remember that?" She turned and nodded and smiled, but she didn't remember cooking a turkey that way. "And I made the sweet potatoes the way you always did, too. With brown sugar and pecans, not marshmallows. That's become a family tradition, Mom." Pecans? What was she talking about?

The tradition I remember, Isabel, is that you would always come over if I didn't make it to church. If I was sick, or the sidewalks were too icy, you would always show up smiling. You would read the passages they read in church, and then we would talk about them. And have some tea maybe...

"And of course everyone goes shopping tomorrow. Remember how you always used to take me? Would you like to go to the mall tomorrow, Mom? I don't want to miss the sales, and I could help you buy things for Christmas. The kids gave me plenty of ideas..." The woman looked at the children and the girl giggled.

Of course I was a little shocked when you started inviting those neighborhood boys into your apartment, Isabel. They weren't big, but they were so raggedy-looking. And rough—and you were just a young woman. And you kept it up, even when they stole from you. That worried me quite a bit. I wasn't surprised when the other tenants started talking about you, Isabel, and not in a nice way. What surprised me was that you kept doing it, even after I warned you. But I didn't go along with them when they were trying to kick you out. That went too far. That's when I came over and had lunch with some of the boys at your place. They weren't such bad boys. They didn't know how to sit still, or mind their language when a lady was present, but they seemed softer when they were at your table, Isabel. It even made me think that was the kind of place where Jesus would be. I was so sorry when they made you move. But really more sorry for those boys, and me...

"I heard John quit his job and is going back to school, Mom. Your nephew John, who lives in Colorado, you remember. Ann's son. Your sister, Ann?" She nodded, but... "Oh, and have you heard Helen's big news?"

I didn't hear right away that you'd been killed, Isabel. When you didn't show up that snowy day after I missed church, I wondered, but I never imagined it was that. I guess I just thought God would always keep you safe, even if you did keep inviting in people like that, sticking your neck out that way. Because you were just such a good girl, Isabel. God had to be watching you close. When I heard, I couldn't believe it. Murdered. I cried for a long time, cried and prayed harder than I ever did before...

"The Detroit game's coming on—is everyone as stuffed as I am? So who you bettin' on, Billy-boy?" "Maybe we should just go to Marshall-Field's, Mom, so we don't have to walk around so much. How does that sound?" 

Who are these people, Isabel? I don't think I belong here. And I'm tired, Isabel... so tired...

"Momma, Gramma's got her eyes closed... Mom!" "Shh, honey, let your grandma rest." "That's the tryptophan kickin' in! Heh heh..." "Billy, hush!" "But Momma, I tapped her arm and she didn't wake up." "That's okay, I think she's done. Here, take this into the kitchen."

No, not yet, Isabel. We have to wait a little longer...

"Gramma's awake!" Then softer, closer, "Gramma? You said Isabel. Who's Isabel?"

She looked at the little girl thoughtfully. "Isabel..." she began, then cleared her throat and smiled. "Isabel was like a daughter to me... and a mother.... When I first met her, she...

Ransom

The room was completely dark and he was terrified. And alone—though there were others in the room with him. The man and the woman were whispering in the blackness. The deep male voice said not to worry, they'd get out of this, as long as neither of them panicked. The female voice wasn't so sure. The deep voice said the people who kidnapped them must want something, which meant they needed them alive. "They need you alive, maybe," the higher voice cried, "not me—why did they take me?" The woman's voice broke into a sob. Neither of them had said a word to him. Fear and utter darkness isolated him from them. But he shared the woman's question: Why did they take me?

Those two had been together; he wasn't with them. They looked like lawyers or something; he looked like what he was: a homeless bum. He just happened to be standing there when it happened. Again he saw the long, black limo pull up to the curb, the door flying open, and the men in suits grabbing the man and woman. He froze. It all happened so fast there was nothing he could do—except watch. But then they saw that he saw. He heard "Grab him too," but couldn't move, then they had him in the limo too and it was moving again. The man tried to protest, he seemed to be some kind of executive or rich guy who's used to being in charge. But all the suits said was, "Daddy wants to see you."

Now the female voice was crying openly. "We'll get out of this, it'll be okay," the man's voice was losing its patience, "we just need to be calm and think." Another sob. "Or at least shut up and let me think," the deep voice growled. "No!" the high voice shouted back, "I'll cry if I want! This is a horrible, insane situation and I shouldn't even be here. Whoever Daddy is, I'm sure he doesn't want to see me. This isn't my fault and I shouldn't be here!"

The shock of the light coming on was enough, but at the same moment the door squealed open. The suits entered and the door slammed. The man and the woman were frozen where they stood. And with them, from his place on the floor in the corner, with his knees pulled up under his chin, he stared at their captors in terror.

Both of the black-suited men were very large, muscled, and handsome, but one had thick curly hair and long sideburns. The other was completely bald. Each had an ear plug in one ear, with a wire running down into their collar. The hairless one pointed at the executive, commanding him to "Stand here," and indicating a spot on the floor directly in front of a video camera in the upper corner of the room. The executive hesitated, but obeyed. Then the bald man spoke. "You've had quite a successful life, Walter. A comfortable life. But you haven't made Daddy very happy. You've made a lot of money at Daddy's expense, haven't you?" "What do you mean? I have no idea what you're talking about." But the rich man was sweating through his expensive jacket. "Yes you do, Walter. You know exactly what we mean. And now it's time to pay. So, how much do you think your life is worth?" The man with the curly hair pulled out a heavy, black pistol.

"Ransom? Is that what this is about?" The executive almost looked relieved. Then he started talking about money and seemed to relax, like he was back in his natural environment. But Daddy wasn't satisfied with a million. Or two million. Even when the executive worked his way up to 7.7 million, it wasn't enough, though the man swore to God it was all he had. "You think that's all you're worth, Walter?" said the hairless man. "Daddy thinks you're worth a lot more." The man with curly hair raised the pistol and aimed. "I'd have more but a lot is tied up in my charity. I could turn that over to you—it'll do wonders for your public image. Or you could take control of my whole company!" The rich man was starting to sound frantic. "Your company, Walter?" "All my companies! And I have influence, I have friends in high places who can make things happen for you. Isn't that worth something?" The bald man shook his head. "Not to Daddy." "I can work for him! I'm good at what I do—and I've got the money and power to get things done." The executive implored the camera now. "I'll work for you for the rest of my life!" "Your life is over, Walter." Then a shot. The curly-haired man had finally spoken.

The rich man's body was dragged out, and the two men returned. Then the bald man pointed at the woman. As she stepped in front of the camera, she was weeping, but without making a sound. He noticed he was shaking where he sat, but he couldn't stop himself. And he couldn't look at either of the large men. 

He just stared at the woman, even when the bald man spoke. "So, Susan, how much do you think your life is worth?" She sobbed violently. "No," she whispered, "this can't be happening. I don't know anything about this." "But Daddy knows about you, Susan."

"Who's Daddy?" she shrieked. "I don't know anything. I'm not in on it! I'm just a secretary! I worked for him, that's all." "This isn't about him. This is about you, Susan, as you know perfectly well. Daddy is disappointed with you." She stared at the bald man, speechless. "You've had quite a comfortable life of your own, Susan. You did what you were told, you were a responsible citizen, and so you were well taken care of, weren't you? Some might even say you got more than your fair share..." "Just a secretary," she sobbed. "Yes, Susan, just a secretary. So how much? How much for your 'secretary' life?" When she finally answered, he heard despair in her voice. "I don't know. We have some savings. My husband would give anything. Oh God, this is insane. Insane. This can't be happening. I didn't do anything wrong... just what I was told." She was losing it; rambling. "I shouldn't be here... didn't do anything... oh God. My life isn't worth anything to you! Can't you just let me go? Please..." Her voice fell to a whimper. "Let me go..." "Yes, you may go." He jerked at the sound of the shot, and saw her fall.

He must have passed out then, because the next thing he knew the curly-haired man was lifting him to his feet. For a minute he was shaky and disoriented. Then he was standing alone in front of the camera. "I wasn't with them," he croaked. "We know," said the bald man. "Daddy wanted to see you as well. You have not gone unnoticed." "But I'm just a bum! I just happened to be standing there!" "You weren't always a bum, were you?" the bald man asked. "So take your choice. You can tell us what you think your life was worth then—or now."

How? How could they possibly know? Nothing about this made sense. The room swayed; he thought he was going to pass out again. Then, like a slap, the bald man's voice brought him back. "How much?" He faltered. "I have nothing. I... I had a life, a wife, children... But not any more. I loved them but... I couldn't help myself. I lost it all. No... wasted it—took what should have been theirs and wasted it all. Then ran. That was the best I could do for them." "That's very disappointing." "It was worse for me than them, I'm sure. They were better off without me—and my life ended on that day. But I was dying for years after that. Dying day after day after day, until... But I guess it's all over now." "We asked you how much." He looked at the bald man, then at the camera, then at the floor. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. Finally, he said softly, "Now... to me... it's not worth anything."

He heard the curly-haired man raising the gun. Suddenly he fell to his knees and looked up at the camera. "But please let me live." The gun remained raised, and the man who held it spoke. "Daddy wants you to tell him why."

Now the tears came. He pressed his hands to his face and the tears ran through his fingers and streamed down his arms. They splashed and gathered on the floor in front of him. Then, slowly, he bowed his head. Lower and lower. Until his forehead touched the puddle of tears. Then he answered. The words bubbled though his lips and were muffled by his hands, but he only had to say them once. "I'm sorry. For all of it. But... somewhere in my dying... in my dying—I changed. Now I just want life. That's all. Just another chance at life."

Silence. 

Then he was being lifted. His vision was bleary and he felt terribly weak, but he was upright. Then the door flew open. And there was light, incredible light. So bright he could feel it. But he didn't cringe or turn away. The light seemed to be calling him, and he stepped toward it. And all at once he understood that the light was life, and that he was no longer alone. And he knew that the one who was calling him was Daddy. His Daddy.

He stepped through the door.

Safe

He tried to ease it onto the sidewalk, but the dolly clanked loudly and scraped as it hit the concrete. Then he pushed it out into the flow of pedestrians. They stared at the bent figure, in a shabby trench coat and stocking cap pulled down over his gray hair, pushing a small, shiny safe in front of him. There was a heavy clunk at every break in the pavement. People would look at him for several seconds, sometimes having to look again, and some even made comments to each other:

"I gotta get me one of those." "Not me—all my shit is protected by my boys: Smith and Wesson..."

"That reminds me, Susan, I need to stop at the bank. I'll meet you back at the office." "Do you have to do that now?" "Yes, there's a slight problem..."

He did fine when the curbs were ramped, but some weren't, and the safe fell over once when he was trying to lower it into the street. He slowly bent over and with an effort set it upright. He struggled even more getting it up the opposite curb.

"Harold, help that old man." "Marge, anyone who wants a safe that bad deserves to lift it. Watch where you're going..."

"Y'know, for all we know, that geezer could be stealing that thing.... hey, did you get the renter's insurance?" "Nah. Too much." "Aw man, it's worth it. It covers everything..."
The safe was moving again. Clunk... clunk... clunk, on the cracks in the sidewalk. People looking as they flowed past him. On the next block a well-dressed man was speaking passionately into a small bullhorn, reading from a book. Now people stared at that man instead of him.

"...and thy Father, who seeth in secret, shall recompense thee. Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon the earth, where moth and rust consume, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth consume, and where thieves do not break through nor steal. For where your treasure is..."

"My treasure is right here, brother! Check it out... Twenty-four K! Ain't no rust consumin' this!"

He got the dolly through the door of the building and let it slam. Pulled the knob to make sure the door had latched and locked. Then he looked up the stairs. 

He stepped up one, then another. On the next step he pulled, failed, then pulled again and the safe rose. Thud! One. He stepped up. Pulled—trembling a little—and... thud! Two. He was breathing hard. Holding the dolly, he sat down slowly. With his other hand he took off his stocking cap and carefully pushed it into his pocket. He sat that way for several minutes. Then took a deep breath and pulled himself up...

At the top of the stairs, he started towards his door. His legs were shaky. Slowly the safe moved down the dark hallway. It took several minutes for him to find the key to his apartment, and his neighbor stuck her head out and peered at him. "Whatcha got there? That a fridge? Thatsa safe! Whatcha need that for? Whatchu got to put in there..." Then his door closed behind him and the bolt slid with a click.
In the center of the living room there was a sturdy wooden table. He pushed the dolly up to the table and set the safe on the floor. He stared at it. Then with incredible determination, he grabbed the steel cube and lifted it, almost lost his balance, took a step back, then pushed it onto the table. He stood there a minute to catch his breath. Then he spun the dial several times and pulled the handle. The thick door swung wide open. Stepping over to the couch, he selected a small pillow, and put it firmly in the bottom of the safe. Then, with more energy, he pulled a chair up to the table. And sat down quickly. He scooted himself closer. Then he leaned forward, crossed his arms on the table, and put his head into the safe. 

And sighed. He was smiling.

Baby killer

"Oh, beautiful." The car slowed and he looked up from what he was reading. Traffic had stopped up ahead, and people were in the street. Protesters, from the look of it. "Just what we need," continued the lieutenant colonel, who was driving. They both looked behind them, to see if they could get back to the last side street, but cars had blocked them in. They were going to have to wait it out.

It didn't look like an organized street demonstration; probably a protest at the civic center had spilled out onto the main thoroughfare. He noticed the usual signs: "No Blood For Oil!"; "No War In Iraq!" That one seemed a little out of date. There was war in Iraq. It was mostly over now, actually—he'd just come from there. And while "no blood for oil" was catchy, oil meant money, and because it was such a limited and necessary resource, oil meant power. And people had always traded blood for money and power. Other signs focused on the occupation forces moving into Iraq. One had "Liberate Iraq" in big block letters, then below it said, "from US!" Which could be read "U.S." or "us." Clever. A similar one demanded, "Get US Out Now!" In a way, he agreed. He'd be happy to see all our troops come home. But it wouldn't be right to leave that country in the mess it was in, and the U.S. certainly wasn't going to just pull out now. It was a terrible mess over there. He was glad to be out of it, though he wished the circumstances were different. 

"Here they come, Major." But he already saw what the lieutenant colonel saw. Now that they had stopped traffic, the protesters were getting bolder and had started spreading out among the cars. They were moving this way. And there they sat, two army officers in their dress greens. This wasn't going to be pleasant. 

Someone noticed them and shouted, "Hey! Some Army guys!" That drew the attention of others, and he felt their stares. But he didn't stare back and the protesters kept moving and chanting. A few seemed to pause and direct their chants directly at his window, but no one touched the car and they didn't appear to be violent or even very angry. Until the hippie. She looked like she was about fifty, with lots of gray in her ponytail. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had been protesting nonstop since Vietnam. Now she was right up at the window, so close she was probably steaming up the glass. "Look what we got here! Some brass! When you gonna bring our boys home?" He didn't look at her, though that only seemed to provoke her more. "You got blood on your hands, y'know. Lots of it. Women and babies are dying over there. Do you know how many Iraqi babies you've killed—Major?" Now he turned and looked at her. She stopped shouting and he stared straight into her angry face. He held up three fingers. 

The firefight hadn't been an especially bad one. None of his guys had been killed or even wounded. And the Iraqis had fallen back and disengaged pretty quickly. But someone reported a small explosion on that street the next morning, and soon afterwards an Iraqi had brought a child to one of his men on patrol. Apparently some kids had found a grenade and it had gone off. Two of the children were killed instantly; the third was in the man's arms. Medics were called, but they asked a lot of questions since they weren't supposed to treat Iraqi injuries that weren't inflicted by U.S. troops, unless the injuries were life threatening. When they did arrive, after almost an hour, it was too late. The soldier who told him about the incident was almost crying before the end of the story. It was the helplessness. He felt it too. All this power, but it kept destroying the ones they were trying to save. He suspected it was a U.S. grenade the kids had found. Thrown in an engagement he had ordered. Now his "collateral damage" includ-ed three children.

The hippie woman looked confused. He saw "three" on her lips, but couldn't hear it. But others had seen his response and were shouting now. That's when the traffic slowly started moving. There were more angry shouts, but the woman didn't try to stay with them, and as her face disappeared from view he looked ahead to where the police were clearing the street. Then something slammed against the back of the car. Both men jumped, and the lieutenant colonel hit the brakes. "Dammit!" They looked back. It was a sign. Someone had thrown a sign. It was still there, against the rear window: "Only Cowards Need Guns," with 'cowards' in huge capital letters. Obviously that protester hadn't seen his guys in Iraq. 

They got moving again and he looked back at what he was reading. He was trying to find one particular part. Here... "You have heard that it was said to the men of old, 'You shall not kill; and whoever kills shall be liable to judgment.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be liable to judgment; whoever insults his brother shall be liable...." Wait, that's not it. 

The lieutenant colonel interrupted him. "I wanted to stop and let you get something to eat, Major, but I don't think we have time now. Sorry about that. I hear the food's not so great in there, and it's probably going to be a long ordeal processing you in." "That's okay, I'm not hungry," he replied. "But thanks." "I've never done an escort like this before," said the lieutenant colonel, "I guess they don't want the MPs dealing with officers. We only have a few minutes before we get there... you want to tell me what you did?" He thought for a moment. Then looked over at the senior officer. "I stopped giving orders."
Then it was quiet and they slowed as they approached the main gate. A young MP came to attention and saluted the car, and the lieutenant colonel returned the salute as they moved through the tall fences. He noticed the razor wire coiling along the top. Nasty stuff.

He looked down again. Here it is: "You have heard that it was said,  'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you..."

When they got to the brig, he was surprised at how small and ordinary it looked. They got out of the car.

High school

First it was Steve Pomeroy—now Mike Miller. And this is just the first year. I don't know if I can take this, Lord. I'm used to being called nerd, geek, the notes shoved in my locker, the wads of paper hitting the back of my neck in class. That doesn't bother me so much any more. But these guys don't stop at words. They get physical. It's starting to scare me, God.

Dad keeps saying Mike must be lonely. That his parents don't pay enough attention to him, so he's "acting out." So I'm not supposed to hate him, but try to "identify with him," try to be his friend. But he doesn't know Mike, Lord. You know what he's like. He doesn't want me as a friend. He has friends. If he made friends with someone like me, his friends would be all over him. He's not trying to get my attention like some little kid on the playground. He spit in my face. Oh, God...

Mom wanted to call the principal. I told her no, but she said the only way to stop this was to tell someone who could do something. But I tried that before, with Steve Pomeroy. They sent me to the vice principal, who said he would talk to the coach right away—but I didn't want him involved, Lord! But the vice principal just kept saying "that's the way it works.” Coach must have said something to Steve, because he changed. Yeah—he got better. He'd only go at me when no one else was around, or do stuff I couldn't prove was him. And I could tell people looked down on me even more after that. A whiner. I know they thought I should've done something myself. Fought back. At least tried to stand up for myself. I don't think I could then... but now... When Mike hit me in the back yesterday, it happened so fast and I was so pissed I almost did it, Lord. I know it's not right, not what you want, but I almost did. I could have.

His cheek was pressed hard into the cool steel of the lockers. It hurt. But his arm hurt more, where he had fallen on it. And Mike's breath was right in his ear, nasty, drilling in with practiced skill, but filthy, hating. And why? Why? He never did anything to Mike. Why the hell... ah... ow-OW! SONuva... Thought stopped. His whole body tensed to lash out...

"Hey!" 

Mike froze. It was Steve's voice. "Hey, what have... we... here? You two having a little lover's spat—or are you collecting lunch money, Miller?" Laughter. There were four of them, all football players. They were coming closer. "Guess we should come to the rescue. That would be the right thing to do... You know, Miller, if you want a workout, why mess with little geeks like him? We'd give you a much better work..." Suddenly Mike released him, and he hit the hard tile. There was a struggle above him. Thank you God, thank you. Blows. Mike was grunting in pain. Coughing. Somebody laughed. He started to get up. "Hey! You want a shot? This is your chance..." He looked up—they were all looking at him. They wanted him to hit Mike too. He didn't move. "Don't worry kid, he can't hurt you now… look at him." A dark bruise was already forming under Mike's left eye, but the eye rolled up and fixed on him. And he saw the wet, crimson lips saying, "Do it. I dare..." Mike got hit in the stomach. "Don't be afraid. If he tries to get back at you we'll mess him up again. This is your chance, kid!" He looked at Steve. Then at Mike. Then at Steve. And turned and slowly started down the wide hallway. Thank you...

"Oh, you pussy!" 

Steve. And someone else let out one short laugh. The laugh cut him more.

He was right in my face and called me a fucking coward, Lord. All alone in the bathroom and he was right in my face. "...a fucking coward—or you thought you were having mercy on me! If you think I need your mercy you're one stupid piece of shit. Nobody needs your mercy. You should have done it when you had the chance. Because I'm going to make you pay anyway—you know that, don't you? You're at my mercy now..." Someone came in, but I know that's not going to stop him for long, Lord. A coward. Or a piece of shit. Lord, I know I'm not that. I know. But they keep saying the same thing. They keep coming, one after another, and they keep saying it, Lord. And they don't stop at words...

Us

There were only a few checkers left on the board, all kings, with a lot of space between them. Ralph had him outnumbered three to one. It was only a matter of time.

But that didn't bother him. He was happy to just keep playing as long as possible, enjoying the hot summer buzzing around them, until he eventually lost. He liked the park and he liked the company. He'd found these guys by accident one afternoon, when he had taken a walk and noticed them gathered at the picnic tables, playing. When they were here, there were always two or three games going on. And two or three conversations. He'd also noticed that every one of the guys was missing something.

They had all been in the war and had lost an arm or a leg, or part of an arm or leg. A sleeve was pinned up or a pant leg tucked into the seat of a wheelchair. He wondered how they had managed to find each other. But now they were a lively group, gathering here every afternoon when it was nice; not everyone every day, but most of them on most days. And they were always telling funny horror stories about the war, or the latest hernia operation. Or the wife.

He liked them. But he didn't think they completely accepted him. He'd been coming for a while, and had been regular enough that they'd invited him to play. And he laughed at their jokes and even tossed in a story of his own once in a while. But the way they laughed together, or smiled at something one of them said, or even the easy way they sat down when joining the others showed him they accepted each other in a way that they didn't accept him. Ralph was the one he knew best, the one he usually ended up playing with. And today they were at one end of a table, away from the others, so he asked Ralph about it.

"Well," Ralph began, talking in the slow way he did when he was winning and wanted to relish the moment. "It's just a fact of life. People like to be around their own kind. They feel more comfortable with others just like them. Maybe it's about being black or white. Maybe it's about being a veteran—or being distinguished veterans, like us. That's just it. Everyone's got a sense of 'us,' and when someone new comes around, you size him up, 'Is he one of us or not?' Don't you do that?" He looked up from the board and nodded slowly at Ralph. "Yeah, but..." "But nothing. Everyone does it. It's always 'us' and 'them.' You weren't in the war, were you?" He shook his head. "No," Ralph continued, considering his next move. "At first I thought you might have been, with that limp you got. But you know what war is—Us vs. Them. It helps if they look different or talk different, but it's really something deeper. You're either one of us or you're not."

"So, what, since I have all my arms and legs I'll never be part of your group?" He immediately felt ashamed for saying it that way, but he was irritated. Ralph didn't seem to notice, though, reaching across the board with his left hand to move his king, because his right arm ended just below the shoulder. "It's not just that we don't have something," Ralph said. "It's that we lost part of ourself and lived through that and accepted it. That's a life-changing experience we have in common. And it's a fact of life we know that most other people don't. Or at least they won't admit it." "A fact of life?" "Yes, a fact of life. That you gotta cut your losses if you want to survive. The doc cuts off your arm and you thank him, because he saved your life. Or the general points at some guys over there and says that's the enemy, and you say yes sir and fire. Not that you have any personal argument with them, but if you're going to survive the enemy has to go." Ralph had him now. There was only one place to move and he moved and Ralph jumped him.

They stared at the board in silence. Neither of them seemed ready for another game, but they didn't get up from the table. Ralph looked over at some kids playing soccer. "It ain't pretty, but it's a fact of life. Us and them. It's everywhere. In sports, in companies struggling with each other to get ahead, guys fighting for a job so they can support their family, in politics, even religion. Look at those churches over there. Three different churches at one intersection. You don't think they're in competi-tion, fighting to survive? You think someone walking into one of those churches sees someone walking into the other one and doesn't think about 'us vs. them'? And they're all supposed to be Christians. But that's life—you gotta cut your losses."

"Well I'm not cutting off nothin' for you old farts," he said, grinning at Ralph. He got up. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Walking past the churches on his way home, he thought about what Ralph had said. But why couldn't you go to more than one? Was there any rule against that? Then he wondered if maybe there was. He'd have to ask his pastor about that.

He got to his building and took the stairs slowly, holding the rail, as he always did. There were a lot of stairs. Then the long, dark hallway to his room, where he plopped down on the bed and stretched out, his hands behind his head. And who got to decide who was "one of us"—Ralph? The general? The boss? The bishop? It seemed that way. It seemed like a fact of life, all right. But could someone else really cut him out of "us" if he still thought he was in? Or make him cut someone else out, if he still thought they were in? He didn't think so. And he knew he wanted his "us" to be bigger than Ralph's. Much bigger. He was glad to have met those guys, though, and planned to keep going as long as the warm weather lasted.
He sat up on the bed and pulled up his pant leg. Then he released a buckle just below his knee and the heavy plastic ankle and foot, with its shoe, dropped to the floor. He stretched out again. Sometimes he was sure he could still feel that foot.

To the end

The small room was crowded. So many people had gathered around the bed that she couldn't get any closer than the doorway, but it was exciting just to be here. She only worried that she might not be able to hear what he said. 

But it was surprisingly quiet, even with all the people packed in, shoulder to shoulder. Then the priest began to pray over him. She bowed her head and listened intently; she wasn't Catholic but she found herself very interested in the "anointing"—it used to be called "last rites." The man on the bed was a Catholic she looked up to, and that made her want to understand the meaning in this religious practice that he'd requested, foreign as it was to her. Everything that was happening in this room seemed full of meaning and significance, and everyone seemed to sense it. She didn't want to miss anything.

Soon she recognized in the priest's words, not a prayer about dying, but a prayer about healing and life. But she knew the people here weren't looking for a miracle. Ever since he'd decided to stop taking chemotherapy they had been bracing for his death, and it seemed to be close now. She knew it was going to be a terrible loss for them. He had been the heart of this community and their peace efforts, an inspiration and guide, a model of fearlessness and compassion. She couldn't remember how many times he'd been in jail for demonstrations against war, the draft, nuclear weapons and nuclear waste, against globalization—he'd never flinched from speaking the hard truth to those in power, and he'd paid the price for that. His life would certainly be remembered. She just hoped they'd be able to go on without him, and live up to his example. The priest finished and it was quiet again. 

Then someone helped him sit up a little and he began to speak, and she felt them all press in around the bed. His words came slowly and distinctly. As if he'd been preparing this in his head for days and was now reciting his final message to them and to the world. His voice was weak, but she could hear every word.

"I die among my community and family," he began. "My beloved wife Catherine, and friends, local, national and even international, including some who cannot be here now because they have been imprisoned for speaking the truth. This community has always been a life-line to me. I die with the conviction, held for over thirty years, that nuclear weapons are the scourge of the earth; to mine for them, manufacture them, deploy them, use them, is a curse against God, the human family, and the earth itself.

"We have already exploded such weapons in Japan in World War II and the equivalent of them in Iraq, in Yugoslavia, and in Afghanistan, all in the past decade. We left a legacy for other people of deadly radioactive isotopes—a prime counterinsurgency measure. For example, the people of Iraq, Yugoslavia, Afghan-istan and Pakistan will be battling cancer, mostly from depleted uranium, for decades. In addition, our nuclear adventurism for more than fifty years has saturated the planet with nuclear garbage from testing, from explosions in high altitudes—four of these—from over a hundred nuclear power plants, from nuclear weapons factories that can't be cleaned up... and so on..." His voice faltered. He tried to clear his throat, coughed, then the words came again. "Because of myopic leadership, of greed for possessions, a public chained to corporate media, there has been virtually no response to these realities..."
The voice was choked off in a gurgle and again the coughing shook his weakened body. His utter helplessness brought tears to her eyes. His wife put an arm around his shoulders, but he couldn't continue. Someone else helped him lay back. There was a sympathetic murmur and people started backing out of the room. She tried to catch what they were saying. Apparently he was just too tired now; they would try to come back later to hear the rest of what he wanted to say.

But there was no later. He died that night. She had only been home a few minutes when she got the phone call.

When she hung up, she turned off the light and sat down on the floor and closed her eyes. First there was only the darkness. Then the question. Why did it have to end this way? He was such a strong man, a fighter—and he had fought to the very end. Just as he had always told them, he never gave up. So why did he have to be dragged down and choked into silence like this? Not by enemies—who hated and feared him, and in their hatred and fear demonstrated their respect for him—but by disease, his own body turning on itself, without cause or sense. Without respect for who he was. Without respect for the man or his message, what he was meant to say to the world, what they needed to hear from him. What she needed to hear from him.

She knew that in the coming days the others would say that his spirit lived on in them. That his death didn't mean the death of their movement, but that his fighting to his last breath only inspired them to fight even harder. But she didn't feel inspired. She felt cheated. Why, God, couldn't you just let him finish? Why did he have to be cut off that way, gasping to say one more thing?

Why couldn't you let him say, "It is finished"? Is that too much to ask, God? Didn't he follow in the footsteps of your son? 

Her tears fell into her hands, and she noticed they were trembling. She couldn't stop it. So she reached for the bible on the table beside her bed, opening it at random. She knew it was a silly, superstitious habit, but she'd done it ever since she was a child. It fell open to Isaiah. She read, "He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; like a lamb that is led to slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth..."

Jesus standing silent before his accusers, the soldiers, the rulers; not struggling to say one more thing, but silent. "It is finished" came out of that silence. She suddenly knew that. What she didn't know was whether she could ever bear that terrifying silence herself.

Put down

She ran her fingers through his thick hair and scratched the back of his head. He smiled at her. He liked that. "Good boy," she cooed, "you're a good old dog."

"But unfortunately you have good old dog breath, too." She wrinkled her nose. "Too many meat by-products." Then she moved around behind  the big dog and her hands began to work the strong muscles of his shoulders and back. There was still a lot of raw animal power there. And when his large head swung around with its long, jagged rows of teeth, it still inspired a healthy respect. But his fearsome days were over. He slept most of the time now, and when he did get up, it was always a struggle. "But you always get up for me, boy, don't you?" He flashed a wolfish grin at her.

Tomorrow he was supposed to die. Be killed. Though her father always chose to say they were having the dog "put down." She didn't see how that changed anything. She scratched behind his ears and tears came to her eyes. He had been part of their family since she was four—how could they kill him? He was in pain, they said. But he never whined, even when he fell; he always got up and wagged when she came home; he danced around like a puppy when they filled his dish; and he still loved taking a walk, even though he couldn't go far. He still strained at the leash when a squirrel appeared. Strained for life. How could they destroy that?

He was sprawled out now, relaxed by her massage. Then with a twist he was on his back, presenting his fuzzy belly for a rub. She smiled. Her father said she was selfish for wanting to keep him alive any longer. But she didn't feel selfish. And she wasn't asking them to "keep him alive"—just not kill him. She didn't want any special operations or expensive drugs. But why not let him strain at life's leash as long as he wanted to? Why send him away, when he wanted to stay with them?

Her father came into the living room and she turned away, not wanting him to see her crying. "Oh, hi honey," he said. She got up and left the room.

She had to get out. Grabbing her keys, she fled the house and jumped into her beat-up car. Squealed away from the curb. But then she didn't know where to go. She needed to talk to someone, but her thoughts felt too heavy, too adult, to lay before her teenage friends. And she was sure they couldn't answer her ques-tions. Then she noticed she was on her way to the facility where her grandmother lived.

Gramma invited her in without any questions and put on some water for tea. She plopped down on the ugly sofa. "Why do they have to kill him?" she cried. "I mean, I know he's gonna die, everything dies, but he's not dead yet, he's old but he's still alive, you should have seen him just now, he still wants to live, I mean, just look at how he eats, he gulps it down... God! Why do they have to kill him?" She looked at her grandmother, her eyes pleading.

"Because they can't bear to watch him die," said the old woman. She frowned at that. "What?" "It's easier to kill him than watch him die," Gramma said softly. "Dead is not so bad. It's the dying we're so afraid of." The old woman went into the kitchen, leaving her to puzzle over that. When her grandmother returned with the teapot and two flowered cups, she asked softly, "What do you mean, Gramma?" Her grandmother's lips tightened. "People don't want to see dying. Just look around. They hide it away in places like this place; get the dying out of our homes and our hospitals and hide it in nursing homes and hospices. It's dreadful, really. I have a private apartment here, for now, so it's not so bad. But I've seen where they'll move me if I can't take care of myself anymore. It's not very nice, even if they decorate it pretty and everyone smiles all the time. How could it be? It's a death house." Her grandmother's hand trembled pouring the tea, and her voice softened. "But it gets the dying out of sight. For everyone except us." She was speechless. Then Gramma noticed her eyes. "Oh, dear, it's not your fault. I got carried away—I'm sorry... Tell me about your dog."

She told how her father explained it, how he said it was compassion, to spare the dog's suffering. "But the dog never complains! If he's suffering, he's taking it better than anyone I've seen. You know, maybe you're right. Maybe it's our suffering he really wants to spare. Dad even said it was his duty. I hate that word!" She fell into an angry silence as Gramma watched and sipped her tea.

Then the old woman put down the cup. "Why don't you bring him here?" She looked up at her grandmother, who seemed to be completely serious, and she didn't know how to respond. "We're not supposed to keep pets, but no one comes in here. And there's always dogs around, for pet therapy or when relatives bring them for a visit. We could just take him out when you're here. Do you think you could come before and after school to walk him a little? I think I could handle the rest." Gramma was serious. All she could think to say was "He's gonna get worse...." The old woman smiled. "Yes, I know, he's dying. Like the rest of us here. It's not pleasant, but it's not all bad, you know. I've even come to see that dying is an important part of living, do you believe that? If we're not willing to die, we can't really live. Did you know it even says that in the bible? But there I go again... So what do you think? Are you willing to be with him even though he's dying?"

No one was home when she got back. And with some peanut butter on her fingers it was easy to coax her old friend onto the back seat of her car. Then she tossed in his leash and dish and bag of Healthy Chunks dog food and they made their escape.

The last thing Gramma had said was that when her father started demanding answers she should tell him to call his mother.

The blood

Something was different, but she couldn't figure out what it was. It was distracting her so much she couldn't concentrate on what the priest was saying, though she always tried to. Could he be what's different? It was somewhat unusual for the assistant pastor to be celebrating the 11 o'clock Mass, but he'd done it before. No, that wasn't it. Could it be the first snow they'd had last night? No, that was silly. But there was something different this morning—she felt it. It made her a little uneasy.

Which was annoying, because she loved the liturgy. When it was done well—and it was always done well here—the procession, the music, the readings, the homily, they all led beautifully into the Eucharist. Building to the high point, when all the people approached the altar to share the sacramental meal together. The bread and the wine, so real and earthy. And the prayers, weaving together the most ancient traditional phrases with the most relevant modern theology. With the people responding again and again, drawn into the prayer and drawn together as one. It was really beautiful. And she loved how it quieted her and impressed upon her a strong sense of the sacred. It had taken hundreds and hundreds of years to produce such a liturgy, but she thought it was definitely worth it. When it was done right, it offered an incredible religious experience.

The priest finished his homily and returned to his seat. She only regretted that more people couldn't appreciate the Mass as she did. Those seminary courses had opened up the liturgy for her in ways she'd never imagined. But how many people got that kind of training? Everyone stood to say the creed together, and she noticed Sister Pat two rows in front of her. Of course Sister Pat had received plenty of religious training. But she'd always thought that Pat was a little too traditional, and too pious, to take full advantage of the liberal education the Order offered. Which was unfortunate. Because feminist theology and the church's recent teachings on social justice were revolutionizing the church. Women like her and Pat now had many more opportunities to be leaders and teachers—still not enough opportunities, but even so, the church was becoming so much more relevant and able to promote real social change. But Pat seemed more interested in the "spiritual" world than the real world. It was really a shame. Then she saw the ushers moving her way and reached for her purse.

But as the bread and wine were taken up to the altar and the liturgy of the Eucharist began, her feeling of uneasiness returned. What was it? She couldn't identify what was different, or why she felt strange. Everything was as it should be, as it always was—which was one thing she loved about the liturgy. But something was distracting her.

Which was not good, because she was serving as a Eucharistic minister today. She enjoyed doing it, offering each person the body or blood of Jesus, and she thought she did it as it should be done: sincerely and happily, with a full understanding of its significance. But today she couldn't seem to focus. The priest was already blessing the wine now; she tried to pay better attention. "...Again he gave you thanks and praise, gave the cup to his disciples, and said, 'Take this, all of you and drink from it: this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.'" She tried to remember what she'd been taught about this in seminary—the word anamnesis came, but she couldn't remember exactly what that meant. Which frustrated her. And made her feel even more distracted as she went up to the altar with the other Eucharistic ministers. But she pushed the feeling away, willing herself to just think about how she would serve communion. Maybe she should try using the person's name when she served them. She'd been working on learning people's names and knew most of them now, and she thought it made the experience more personal, more meaningful. Yes, she'd try using names this time. She finished that thought just in time to say with everyone else, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed."

As the priest took the glass pitcher and started filling the chalices, she moved forward to take the first one, reminding herself that she was supposed to serve in the back of the church today. Which meant she needed to get back there pretty quickly. The glass filled and she smiled at the priest as she took it. Then she turned quickly to start down the side aisle.

But one of the ministers, or one of the ushers, must have come in from outside just before communion. With snow on their shoes. Because there was a dirty puddle on the stone floor right in front of the altar—a puddle she didn't see as she turned and stepped quickly. She slipped. Her foot went forward, her left hand went up with the glass chalice, and her right hand went back to break her fall. Just as the priest leaned forward to fill another cup. Her elbow knocked the pitcher from his hands, and it dropped to the stone altar and shattered. Deep red wine, the Blood, splashed and poured like a waterfall over the edge of the altar.

She felt the impact, but didn't hear the sound. The shock was too great. Then she was sitting on the cold floor, with the cup broken in her hand, and her hair and back thoroughly wet. Wide-eyed, and as if in slow motion, she looked to her right and saw Ruth, one of the older Eucharistic ministers, staring at her in horror. Behind and above her, she heard the priest whispering fiercely for someone to help him contain the mess. Then she looked down at herself. Down the front of her blouse was a dark, red stain, and she felt liquid trickling onto her belly. And her left hand... Sister Pat had appeared at her left hand. "You're bleeding a little, but it's not a bad cut. You'll be okay." It stung as the wine ran into the wound. "Don't worry," Pat whispered, "it was just an accident. It happens sometimes. We'll just clean it up and go on." Pat smiled gently at her and carefully took the broken chalice from her hand.

That's when she started to cry. She looked at her blouse again, then at the crimson puddles on the floor. People were hurrying around her, cleaning up, but Pat just held her hand and said, "It's okay." She sobbed and gasped for breath and couldn't speak. Pat moved closer and put an arm around her wet shoulders.

It seemed like they sat that way for a long time, before she finally stopped shaking. Then she glanced at her stained blouse and turned to Pat and whispered, "It's real." Pat paused, then smiled and said yes. "But, I mean," she continued, stammering, "this is all my fault. And it's all real, it's all true, and I caused it... and it's all over me. Oh my God..." She started crying again. Then Pat touched her face and said, "Look at me. It's okay. It's all right." Pat smiled broadly. "It washes right off."

She laughed, and then she nodded. "Yes, I know. I see now... I'm just sorry I wasn't paying attention before. This is the first time..." She looked down at her left hand, and stared for a moment at the cut on her palm and the drops of wine still clinging to her fingertips. Then she slowly raised them and touched them to her lips.

Holy fool

Climbing the winding stone steps that rose into the pulpit, he felt a peace come over him. As it almost always did. The pulpit was a secure place, solidly clinging to the huge pillar, raised above the crowd, wrapping close around him. And the elevation, along with the ornate carvings and the focused lighting, reinforced the authority of the words he spoke there. God's words. He held up the large, gilded book for all to see, then opened it and read. His voice, amplified, filled the grand old church, rising with emotion as he concluded. "...God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise. God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong. God chose what is low and despised in the world, even the things that are not, to bring to nothing the things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God." The words echoed and disappeared, leaving a powerful stillness. But then another voice piped up, from almost directly below the pulpit. 

"Amen, brother! Preach it!"

An amused murmur rose from the people, and he smiled generously. Once in a while there were strange moments like this. Last week, a tall, gangly fellow had stepped into the aisle during the prayers and sprawled out face down on the stone floor. But the congregation was very understanding. There was a psychiatric care halfway house not far from the church, and people from there often showed up for services. Some of them regularly. So occasionally there were minor disturbances, but he'd learned to just smile and carry on, as he did now. Their presence added a little color to the church, he thought. And didn't Jesus try to be friendly with social misfits like these?

Two weeks later there was another incident, involving a man he had never seen there before. Probably a new resident at the halfway house. It was in the second or third row, right in the middle of his sermon; all of a sudden the man's head lolled back and snoring was heard. At first this was ignored. And he had continued to preach, just raising his voice a little and watching the scene out of the corner of his eye. But then the snoring got louder and people started looking and there were some laughs, so an usher approached the man. The sleeping eyes popped open and stared at the usher. Then a gruff voice. "The sabbath was made for man, not man for the sabbath!" The volume of this proclamation, and the laughter that warmly welcomed it, sent the usher scurrying away.

It had been difficult enough to get back into the flow of his message after that; but the next week was even worse. The man—who he later found out was named John—showed up again, and again sat up front. This time, however, John did not fall asleep but listened intently. Throughout the sermon John stared at him. And there were no interruptions as he preached eloquently on the building block of society, the family, ordained by God as the fundamental human community. He finished with an Amen as usual, closed the large bible, and turned to descend the steps. That's when John spoke up.

"Who are my mother and my brothers?" John cried out. And spread both arms wide. "Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother—amen, preacher?" He hesitated. So John answered himself, "Amen!" Then wrapped an arm around the person sitting on either side—a young man to the left and an elderly woman to the right—and gave each a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek. "Amen!"
That scene inspired him to preach about peace the next Sunday. Specifically the passage that concludes, "For God is not a God of confusion, but of peace." About orderliness in worship. But he didn't limit himself to that; he also spoke about how Christians can spread their peace throughout the wider society. How Christians can be a calming influence in a world full of conflict. This time John listened without any outbursts. He was relieved. Perhaps his message had touched something deep in the man's troubled psyche. As he stepped from the pulpit, he thought he recognized a quiet, thoughtful look on John's face.

But when an usher approached to collect the offering, John suddenly jumped up and grabbed the usher's long pole with a basket on the end. Then leapt into the aisle, shouting. "Do not think I have come to bring peace on earth—I have not come to bring peace, but a sword!" And immediately John began swinging the pole-and-basket with both hands, like a longsword. A woman shrieked. The rest of the people were frozen. Then two ushers rushed over, and John took a wide swing at them. There were several dodges and lunges. Then the madman was subdued. From behind the altar, as he watched them drag John away down the aisle, he was pretty sure he heard John say, "Yeah—this is more like it!"

The following Sunday, he stationed an usher at each church entrance. If John returned, they were to tell him that those who did not respect the other worshippers' here were not welcome. But none of the ushers saw the man. And John's face was not among those in the first few rows. He climbed into the pulpit with the familiar sense of peace.

But he didn't even make it through the scripture reading. A loud slam silenced him and he jerked up to see the front doors flying open and John lunging through. The man was surprisingly fast. And completely naked. Streaking up the aisle, John wailed, "Naked I came from my mother's womb and naked shall I return!" Then the nude man was standing up front, by the altar, with eyes closed and both arms raised. "Blessed be the name of the Lord!"

He could take no more. He shouted from his perch in the pulpit, his angry voice booming through the church. "A God of peace, not confusion!" 

John opened his eyes. Looked at him. Then smiled serenely and spread both arms wide. "Who's more at peace than this?"

As John strode towards the door, none of the ushers tried to grab the naked man. And no one made a sound. So even from way up the pulpit he heard John say to a woman in the last row, "The kingdom of God has come near to you!" And with a laugh, the fool was gone.

The womb

She sat down heavily on the bed, holding the plastic wand in front of her, staring at it. These things weren't always accurate, she reminded herself. But her body also was telling her that something new was happening, the beginning of something that was so small, barely noticeable now, but something that would soon be very big. Bigger than she could contain. Bigger than herself even, much bigger. She fell back and lay there feeling horribly small and weak.

It seemed like she lay that way for hours, not wanting to look at the clock and see how late it was and he still wasn't home. But she knew it was time to get up and take off her clothes and crawl into bed again. It was the second night in a row she would go to sleep without her husband beside her. But, in a way, she was relieved he wasn't there. She couldn't bear to tell him what the pregnancy test had told her.

Losing his job had been hard enough, and with the economy the way it was there was no telling when he'd find another one. The idleness was tormenting him. And if it wasn't for her working, they would be in serious financial trouble as well. But he hadn't stayed out late drinking until she'd told him what her boss had said.

Maybe she shouldn't have. But she'd needed to tell someone, and it certainly affected him as well and he had a right to know. She'd also hoped a male perspective might help her figure it out. It wasn't the stereotypical case of sexual harassment. She had worked for Carl for years; she thought of him as a friend—and even after what he said she didn't hate or fear him so much as despise his weakness. He loved her, that's what he said. He'd always loved her. But now Carl's wife had found out how he felt and was demanding that he "get rid of the temptation." What could he do, he'd begged. He didn't want to lose his wife, who was adamant that she be immediately transferred or let go, and there just wasn't anywhere to transfer her. He said it would be easier for her to get another job if she quit rather than being fired. But she knew it would also be easier for him that way. Apparently Carl hadn't considered quitting himself—but she really didn't want him to lose his job either, did she? He was so pitiful in his helplessness. But his helplessness was crushing her. Especially coming right now, when John was out of a job. John's first reaction was to say he'd crush Carl with his own hands, then he'd wanted to call a lawyer and see if there was a case against the company. It had taken hours of arguing before he'd agreed to let her handle it.

And she still thought this was important, though she wasn't sure yet what she would do, what she could do. She didn't feel right about litigation. Or going over Carl's head. She didn't like to treat people that way, especially friends—even former friends. But now, with a child coming... it was like circumstances were closing in on her. Leaving her no options. And with John acting angry and hurt and vengeful, she felt more alone than ever. She could imagine his feelings of impotence: His inability to provide, and now her rejection of his attempts to protect her. But this was her job, her relationships, her situation, pressing her for a response. And she was in the best position to see and understand all that was involved and what the implications might be. Unfortunately, this also meant she saw clearer than anyone else the impossibility of her situation. God, what had she done to deserve this? She crawled under the covers and pulled herself into a ball. John still wasn't home.

Then she felt a strange stirring in the darkness. Movement. Something was happening. She tried to turn and look but the warm dark was close around her, and now it seemed to be pressing. She tried to push back. But she couldn't even make room to move and then everything around her was up against her fragile body, crushing her. The violence of the assault shocked her. She panicked. Then the pressure suddenly released, but her heart continued to race. What was that? She'd never experienced anything like it before. It was like reality itself was attacking her.

Silence, except for the pounding of her heart. Then movement again in the dark. And immediately her body was powerfully gripped and squeezed a second time, her head jammed against something hard so quickly and forcefully that she thought her neck might break. Then the crushing force was gone. She squirmed, trying to escape, but couldn't. She was held. She remembered being held in safety and comfort, as in a warm embrace, but now she felt held in a prison—all alone in a prison where the walls were caving in. Again the incredible pressure fell on her. Again and again, each time more violently and with shorter breaks in between. Until she no longer was expecting them to end. She was just bracing for the one that would crush the life out of her. Then it came. The thrust was so hard it compressed her skull, squeezing her brain, and then the dark wasn't just around her but behind her eyes and she let it rush over her and just went limp. Oh God...

And suddenly everything was light. And she could see. She'd been born.

Her last memory as she awoke was of her lying at her mother's soft, warm breast, listening to the steady heartbeat that had comforted her in the womb. That and the priest. She shut off the alarm clock. She remembered the priest because that was the strangest part of her dream. The priest from her church was in the delivery room for some reason; she recognized his deep, sonorous voice as he was reading, repeating... what was it? "In Him we live and move and have our being." Over and over.

She lay there for a while then slid out of bed, being careful not to wake John. He was snoring softly. She watched him for several minutes before going to get dressed for work. She wondered what he would say tonight.

"That's not love, Carl," she said, standing directly in front of his large desk. "That's not what love does. Love might make you give up your job, or maybe stand up to your wife. But love doesn't tell me I have to choose between quitting and getting fired. That has nothing to do with love." He didn't argue; she waited, but he didn't say anything at all. He couldn't even look at her. "I'm not going to quit. And if you fire me, I'm not going to sue or complain to anyone. Even you." Again she was tempted to mention John's unemployment and the child that was coming—then reminded herself why she was here. She wasn't here to beg. "I'm just going to tell you right now that it's wrong. Please don't do it. I'm not saying that for myself; I'm saying it for you. If you do this I know you'll regret it. Please don't." Okay, maybe she was here to beg. "Carl," she said gently, and he looked up. "You don't have to do this. I know it seems to you like your only option, but there has to be another way. And I'll help if you let me. Because I do love you, Carl. And your wife. That's how I know this isn't the only way—because it's not love." She looked deep into his helpless eyes, trying to reach something. "I'm asking you to love, Carl."

As she turned and started for the door, the dark rushed in on her again, pressing. John's weakness, Carl's weakness, her child's weakness, her own weakness rushed over her, darkness behind her eyes, and the door seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. But an incredible force was behind her, pushing. She let it. And suddenly the door was opening and she was through—and everything was light. 

And she could see.

Confession

That was the house. Right there. He pulled up to the curb and shut off the car. It was suddenly very quiet. He looked at the house again.

When he'd stepped into the pastor's office, he'd known it was a desperate attempt. Maybe he'd been hoping for a reasonable, neutral adult to talk sense to him, to tell him he didn't have to do it. And that's basically what the pastor had said. "We all make mistakes—it's human. There's no point in beating ourselves up over it. Jesus told us not to judge. And I think we especially need to remember that when we start judging ourselves. We do many things for reasons we don't fully understand and can't always control. Even Paul said, 'I do not do what I want, but do the very thing I hate.'" The pastor paused. "There are just some times when it's not helpful to talk about 'sin,' or 'right and wrong.' I think your situation is one of those times. What could you have done, under the circumstances? I think it's best to just look at this in a non-judgmental way and work on healing your pain and confusion, and restoring your self-confidence."

He'd stared at the pastor across the large desk. "Are you trying to tell me I didn't do anything wrong?" "I just don't think we need to talk about anyone being 'wrong.' You were hurt by this too, and..." "But I was wrong! Don't tell me I wasn't—you weren't there. I didn't come here for you to make me into some kind of victim. I came here to..." What? To escape? Then why did he get so angry, when the pastor was providing the easy way out? "I'm sorry," he'd said, getting up. "I shouldn't be here. I know what I have to do. Sorry..."

He was pretty sure both her parents were at work now. But he couldn't tell if she was home or not. The car door squeaked as he opened it.

And it was that night again. His romantic, teenage-boy hopes for the evening had ended with the squeak of that door. Both doors had opened suddenly. Then he was hauled out of the car into the darkness and thrown to the ground. Then there was the pain. But he could still heard her cries, even when they were reduced to whimpers. When he stopped struggling, they left him there, but he didn't know if he could get up because he didn't try. He didn't even open his eyes. He didn't need to see because he could hear her, not calling for his help any more, but God's. He kept his eyes closed. It was too dark that night to see.

He made himself get out of the car. Walk up the driveway. Ring the bell. Movement. She was home. Then she was standing in front of him.

He spoke to her through the screen door. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again." She eyed him nervously and said nothing. "I mean, I assumed you didn't want to see me after what happened. Then you weren't at school and the next thing I hear is that your family moved, so... it seemed like you wanted to start over. Which makes sense. But... I just had to find you and tell you... I'm sorry."

She looked down and then met his eyes again. "It's okay," she said. "I don't mind that you found me. And I don't blame you. You don't have to apologize." "Yes I do, I..." "No—that's all over. I've moved on. For a while, yeah, I was angry at everyone. Including you. But I got some help and realized I needed to forgive, so I could put it behind me. I needed to forgive for myself. So I did. You don't have to apologize. It's over." "But how can you forgive me when you don't even know what I did?" "You took us there. I was worried, but you didn't listen, you insisted, so that's why we were there. But you didn't do it to me. There was nothing you could do—I understand that. I don't blame you. I'm past it." "Nothing I could do," he echoed softly. "But I didn't even try."

"They left me, and I could hear you crying, and I didn't move. I didn't even try to move. They were on you and I just lay there and told myself it wasn't happening. I was still lying there when your parents found us—and all that time you were alone. While I hid from it all! You were all alone and I should have gone to you but I didn't! How could you know that? How could you forgive that?" She'd been staring at him, frowning, then began shaking her head. "Don't. Please..." "I'm so sorry," he said, "I should have done something. I should have at least tried. I should have gone to you. I'm so sorry." "No—it's over. Leave it alone. I don't want to know." She was starting to cry. But she didn't close the door. He thought maybe he should go—he hadn't come here to hurt her. But how could he leave her like this? He looked at her wet eyes through the screen and searched for words.

Finally he said, "You didn't do anything wrong. You know that, right?" She sobbed. He went on, "It was them. And me. You didn't do anything wrong." "Didn't I?" she cried. "How do you know what I did? You weren't there—you left me alone, remember?" She was crying freely now, trying to catch her breath between sobs. He stared, speechless. "You want to know what I did, lying there alone, bleeding, in the dark? I asked why the hell God stood there and watched. I didn't care that you didn't do anything. Why didn't God do something? I didn't even hate those animals that attacked me—I hated God. He was the one who was supposed to love me. How could he see them doing that to me and not do anything?"

"I don't know." It was all he could say. When he looked up, her face was angry, demanding. "Then how can you come over here talking about right and wrong and apologizing? We're not the ones who should be apologizing. God should be apologizing—to us!"

He was quiet, with her fiery eyes on him. Then he said, softly, "You can ask him for an apology. But I don't think you'll get the kind of answer you want." She looked away, but she was still listening. "Look," he said, "I came over here to ask for forgive-ness. Because I don't want to lose you. And telling the truth and being forgiven and changing is how we stay together. But we can't be together if we're apart from God. I don't know why God let you get hurt—but he showed me that I was wrong. So I'm here. I'm sorry. I don't want to lose you." 

She sniffed. Then wiped her eyes and sniffed again. "Okay... I forgive you." She looked at him quickly and offered a little smile. "But if you're going to say that means God will forgive me too," her eyes flared, "I'm not asking. Not yet." She took a long, slow breath. "But thanks. I don't want to lose you either." The screen door opened and she stepped out to give him a hug. Then she went back inside. She glanced at him again briefly before gently closing the door.

The least of these my brethren

They were chopping onions when the fight broke out. A coffee mug hit the floor in the dining room and shattered, and there were shouts. She heard Steve sigh "not again" as he rushed from the kitchen. Then she looked out through the serving window and saw Jack take a swing and miss. Steve was there before he had a chance to swing again.

There was a struggle, then Jack said okay, okay. But Steve started him towards the door. "You've been drinking again, haven't you?" Jack didn't say anything, but he tried to get out of Steve's grip. "You know the rules, Jack. You can't be in here if you're drunk." "I'm not drunk." "And if you get in a fight, you're out too. You know that. C'mon, let's go." Jack resisted, but Steve was firm and calm and kept him moving towards the door. Then a brief wrestle and Jack was out. But from the sidewalk she heard "You wouldn't treat Jesus like this, you sonuva..." The door slammed shut. "I would if he was drunk," Steve said angrily, and went to get the mop.

Situations like that always made her uneasy. But she wasn't sure what else to do, and someone like Steve, more experienced—and bigger—usually stepped in right away. And there was the rules, which were pretty clear cut. How could they run a place like this without them? But she still didn't feel quite right—especially when it was up to her to enforce them. 

And once again she asked herself the question, How do we see Jesus in people like Jack? I know we're supposed to be able to see Jesus in everyone, especially in the "least of these," but it's not easy. Especially in the "least," the poorest, the most down and out, like Jack...

She wasn't sure what she heard first, the crash or the words. It was almost as if the front window exploded from the force of words alone. "...damn hypocrites—screw you!" Large pieces of glass, and the garbage can he had thrown, crashed to the dining room floor. Steve stumbled back against a chair and fell. But none of the tables were near the window, and no one seemed to be hurt. Steve jumped up and looked, but apparently Jack had fled. She started into the dining room to help, but Steve told everyone to stay back, he didn't want anyone getting cut while he was in charge. She brought gloves and a bucket from the kitchen, and some coffee to refill the mugs of the men still there. They didn't look like they wanted to leave, even with stuff like this happening. Actually, they didn't even look surprised.

As she started on the potatoes, she heard one of the men ask, "Do you want to know why you couldn't see Jesus in that guy just now?" She looked up. The man wasn't a regular, she didn't recognize him; but his army field jacket was familiar, lots of the guys who showed up here wore them. He was looking at Steve when he said, "Because Jesus didn't act like that—and he still doesn't." Steve glanced at the man. Then going back to work, he replied, "Jesus said he was even in 'the least of these'... hey, is there some plastic sheeting back there? Something to cover this window?" She took him the plastic and some duct tape. The man asked, "Did he call them 'my brethren' just because they were 'the least,' the poorest?" The man leaned forward. "Or did those 'least' get that way, poor, powerless, outcast, oppressed, because they were his brothers and sisters, because they did what he taught and followed his example—and so ended up just like he did..."

She didn't hear Steve say anything, but when she was back in the kitchen she heard the man say, "Instead of looking for him, trying to serve Jesus, you should be him. His body—his hands, his mouth, his heart. Be Jesus to others..." Steve came into the kitchen to wash his hands. "We need to replace that with plexiglas. Should've done that a long time ago." She asked softly, "Who is that man?" "I don't know, I don't think he's from around here." He turned off the water. "Someone with too much time on his hands..." Steve smiled and went back into the dining room. 

Yeah, she thought. And what's he talking about? We feed over a hundred people a day here, take in thirty off the street every night, and are constantly giving out clothes to whoever needs them. How can we "be Jesus" any more than that?

Then she heard the man ask, "How many stories do we have of Jesus feeding people, compared with all the times he was fed at other people's tables? Who did he clothe? And how many did he take in off the street—Jesus, who himself 'had no place to lay his head'?" She looked up. Huh. I never thought... wait—how did he know what I... The man continued, his eyes on Steve, her eyes on him. "You don't have to serve blindly, like those who helped Jesus without recognizing him. You too are called to be one of 'these my brethren.' To be 'one of the least,' in his kingdom where the least are the greatest. To become 'the least of these' yourself. The poor, the powerless, the outcast—who are like that because of him. Who Jesus identifies with because their life is just like his. But then you won't be in charge anymore, you won't be the benefactor..."

"Shut up!" 

It was Slim, one of the older regulars. "You shut up about Jesus. He wasn't no bum like you! An' these people here, they're doin' sumthin'. They're makin' this a better place. We need more people like them... so just shut up. Or get out." The old man stopped and it was very quiet. Then the stranger looked at him and said, "The one who has ears will hear." "What? What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Slim was on his feet. Now Steve looked up. "All right guys, we don't need another fight today. I think it's time you took a walk, buddy." She saw the stranger get up, zip his jacket, and move quietly to the door. But before he went out, he bent and said something to Steve that she couldn't hear. Then the door closed behind him.

Steve brought the bucket of glass through the kitchen. But just as he was going out the back, she turned and asked, "What did he say to you?" He stopped, but didn't look at her. 

"He said, 'Would you treat Jesus like this?'" 

She watched the back door close. And slowly put down the knife. Then she quickly took off her apron and rushed through the dining room, grabbing her coat—then paused at the door. "Tell Steve I won't be here for lunch." And she was out on the sidewalk, looking up the street. 

"Hey! Hey mister, wait up!" She jogged to catch up with him.

Repnt

The pastor's eyes blazed at him. "Did you see the sign?" He shook his head, not knowing what the pastor was talking about, but sure he would soon find out. "Someone changed it. The sign out front, with the letters you put up, it said 'God Bless America' and now it doesn't. You didn't notice when you came in this morning?" He didn't bother to explain to the pastor that his janitor duties at the church and school brought him into work when it was still dark. He just shook his head. "I want that fixed. Right away." He nodded mutely and went outside—then understood why the pastor was upset. The sign now read "GODLESS AMERICA."

Kids, he thought, as he was moving the letters back. Probably some kids from the school playing a prank. Except that the rebellious tone of the message didn't sound like grade school kids. They weren't that bitter yet. So who? He didn't like the thought that someone, some outsider, some adult, was messing with his church. This place, these grounds, were his responsibility. And this was vandalism, really. Even if nothing was damaged, it was still vandalism—and trespassing. Now he was angry too. He went back in to tell the pastor it was fixed.

Weeks passed and there wasn't another sign incident. Until they started a preaching series on the Sermon on the Mount. When he arrived that Sunday morning to unlock the church, the sign no longer read "BLEST ARE THE POOR." Instead, it crudely proclaimed "AREST THE POOR." He was the first one there, so he could change it back before anyone else saw it, but it annoyed him. What was the point of this? Just to make more work for him? What kind of message is "arrest the poor"? He couldn't understand it.

But he did remember it. It came back to him clearly when the sign was transformed again two weeks later: "BLEST ARE THE MEEK" had become "THE MEEK R LAST." Again he was able to fix it before the people arrived for church. But this time it somehow got changed back to "THE MEEK R LAST" almost immediately, and many in the congregation saw it. The pastor was furious.

He was given strict instructions to prevent this from happening again, and the pastor began taking steps to purchase a new, lockable, sign. In the meantime, he was also supposed to try to get evidence against the vandal. But then the sign was not tampered with for over a month.

And during this time he wondered. Why these severe messages? And why was someone working so hard to get the messages seen? This wasn't just a prank. Someone seemed serious about communicating something here. He didn't understand it, but he began to wonder if there might be something in the mysterious messages worth understanding. It was during these thoughts that he remembered two troubling experiences from the previous weeks.

First, when he'd had to bail his sister out of jail. Nothing really bad—she had just been pulled over and happened to have several unpaid tickets outstanding. So she'd been arrested and her car towed and she would have to appear in court in a month. She had looked frightened and miserable when he picked her up. And when he'd asked about the unpaid tickets she'd started crying. She said that single mothers like her had to make certain choices, there just wasn't enough to pay all the bills, and she needed to keep that job even though it was so far away and gas was expensive. So she'd taken the risk. What else could she do? He knew the feeling. Society wasn't very forgiving of those who couldn't afford to play by all the rules.

Second, when his son had come to him about a bully at school. The latest insult had been when the bigger boy asked, in front of everyone, "How long has your dad been a Master of the Custodial Arts?" It had pained him that his son was embarrassed because of him, his job. He'd wanted to smack that smart-mouth kid himself. But he didn't want to teach his son that violence was the way to handle these things—and smacking the kid wouldn't change the reality. He was a janitor. And people didn't respect janitors much. If his son let this go on, though, wouldn't that just make him a bigger target? A more welcoming doormat?

But to say that to his son seemed the same as admitting that the meek are last. Could he bear to teach his children that? For that matter, could he bear to tell them their aunt was put in jail because she was poor? But what could he say instead, except that it was all so wrong?

When he arrived at church that Sunday and saw the sign, he suddenly wondered if that's what the "vandal" was saying. Friday he had dutifully spelled out "BLEST ARE THE PEACE-MAKERS." Now the sign read "BLAST THE PEACEMAKERS."

He restored the sign, then did as the pastor had told him. He waited and watched. With a camera ready to catch the culprit in the act. But when she appeared and started rearranging the letters again, he couldn't move—he recognized her. It was his sister. He watched in stunned silence as she calmly reaffirmed that the real message being preached in society was "blast the peacemakers." And how could he resist or deny it? He looked down at the camera. Right there was the means to blast her, and he'd been ready to use it. On his sister. A poor, burdened mother, who yet had the energy and conviction to try to wake people up, to preach in her own way, to tell the hard truth with her own small voice. His sister.
He watched as she marched away without fear, without ever looking over her shoulder. And he knew then that he wasn't going to touch those letters. When the pastor stormed in and asked if he'd seen the sign, he calmly stood up and said yes.

Sovereign

She arrived for work a half hour before the bank closed, as usual, but she was nervous. Friday they had told her that she might have to leave. She didn't want to. Cleaning the bank was easy, and it was air-conditioned, and the people there dressed nice and smiled. And after they locked the doors, the tellers relaxed and talked and laughed while they counted the money. She liked that. It was nicer here than where she lived, even. All weekend she had worried about having to leave the bank: Had she done something wrong? If she did better could she stay? Thinking like that made her nervous.

But she knew how to act normal. They'd put her in the nuthouse because she was so nervous—only they called it "psychiatric hospital." Then she'd learned how to act normal: Not-nervous. So they let her out of the nuthouse and gave her a room in a regular house, where some other not-nervous women were living too. They also gave her a job cleaning the bank. There she was glad she could act normal, because it was a nice place.

The bank was called Sovereign Bank. She didn't know what that meant so she'd asked someone, and was told that sovereign meant king. The bank sign had lots of gold on it. One big, gold eye with gold lines coming from it like sun beams, and "Sovereign Bank" in gold too. Gold like a king.

That had made her curious. If this was a king's bank, she wondered who the king was. Probably not a real king—this was America—but it had to be someone very important, to be in charge of a big bank like this. The tellers were the easiest to talk to, but she already knew they weren't in charge. Their boss was Mr. Murphy. He had an office for himself, with a shiny sign that said his name and "Branch Operations." She picked up the trash from his office every day. There were more offices too, upstairs, but she didn't work up there. So she'd decided to ask Mr. Murphy.

"Well, there's the president of this branch—Ms. Kennedy—but then there's lots of branches, with regional administration over them. Overall, the highest position is the CEO, who's also the chairman of the board of directors. The board runs the bank. But of course they routinely have to answer to the Audit Committee, which acts on behalf of the bank shareholders. Ultimately, the board has to make the shareholders happy—and the customers, of course. The bank's here to serve the customers. It's their money, after all. Without customers there wouldn't be much of a bank, now, would there?" Mr. Murphy laughed. "So who's in charge? Good question! With an institution this big, it's hard to say. Sometimes it's like it has a life of its own, and we're all just trying to hold on." He laughed again, grabbing his briefcase on the way out the door.

She had a hard time making sense of all that. The CEO seemed most like a king, but Mr. Murphy had made it sound like the customers were in charge, since it was their money after all. But she had seen the customers and it didn't seem like they were in charge. Sometimes they looked sad or angry and no one seemed to pay much attention to that. And some looked nervous. Usually those were asking where the loan office was. But mostly they were just normal, not-nervous, working people like her—she had even thought of getting a bank account herself. Then she would be a customer. But she didn't think that would mean she was in charge.

Most of the tellers and office workers were gone now. Only a few cleaning people left. And the security guards, who stayed all night. She got out the vacuum cleaner.

What had Mr. Murphy said about "a life of its own"? The bank had a life of its own? What did he mean by that? She wasn't sure. But it made her think of something she'd seen her first day here.

It was a video for new employees. The last part of the video was called "Team Spirit." Everyone in the video was smiling during that part, she'd noticed, but seeing "team spirit" again made her feel a little nervous. She remembered the "team spirit" rallies they used to have in her high school, every Friday afternoon. Those had made her very nervous. She hadn't known what the team spirit was—except that it caused the kids to go crazy on Fridays. She'd wondered if it could be what made some of the athletes and cheerleaders so mean. Now she wondered if "the life of its own" was the team spirit. Here.

This stopped her in the middle of the long carpet, her skin crawling. She glanced nervously around the large, empty lobby. All by herself. Alone. Then she saw a security guard and he smiled and she felt a little better.

She finished the vacuuming, trying not to think about a spirit in the bank, trying to act normal. Now most of all she needed to act normal, if she wanted to keep working here. But did she? Of course she did. She didn't know if there was a spirit at all. Probably there wasn't. Even though it said that in the video and Mr. Murphy said "life of its own." No—this was a nice place. She liked working here. Especially the last part of her job, going around turning off all the lights. It was so cool and quiet and dark then. It always made her think of the church she went to as a child. Yes, nice. She didn't want to have to leave the bank. But what could she do to stay?

She switched off the lobby lights and it felt like church. She gazed at the carved pillars and polished stone floor. And the open, high-ceilinged lobby, where people gathered not just on Sunday but every day, and spoke softly and were polite. Respectful. Then suddenly she understood why.

The spirit. Who protected all their money. Who could give them what they needed. The spirit was the one in charge. The thought made the back of her neck tingle.

Then she turned around and there it was. Huge. The golden eye. Lit so it gleamed at her, with its beams shooting out in every direction. She stared at it from the shadows and couldn't move. Then, bathed in the golden glow, she knelt. And slowly her hands came up, palms pressed together, fingertips almost touching her chin. Her eyes on the eye. 

Silence. Cool stillness. Then her whisper. "Sovereign?"

"Are you there?"

She waited, listening, her knees growing cold on the polished stone.

Robin Hood

As the ushers approached him with the offering baskets, he gently raised his hands over them and closed his eyes. "Lord, you have blessed us. We thank you for all you have given to supply for our every need. And now we offer back this small portion." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter as the emotion rose in his voice. "We liberate this money for your work, Lord. Caesar says it is his, and puts his mark on it, but we say it's yours now. We set these resources free for your use, God. Here and now, and where and when ever we can, we take what is Caesar's and give it to you, God. Please bless it. Make it fruitful, Lord. In your name we pray. Amen." From the people a low amen rumbled in reply.

After the service, a young woman approached him. Robin. He had watched her grow up in his church and was proud of the intelligent and passionate woman she had become. She hadn't been around much over the past few years, because of college and other summer trips and projects. But today she was back. And her young, beautiful face was beaming.

"Thank you," she said, grasping his hand warmly. "Your prayer over the offering meant a lot to me." He smiled and nodded. "It's nice to be back here," she went on, "I don't go to church much at college. There's just no good churches there, not like here. Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. You're an inspiration." Then she ran off, before he could ask her how school was going. A fleeting moment. But moments like this one were what kept him going.
She must have just been home for the weekend, because he didn't see Robin again for weeks. Then he got a letter from her. It was actually just a short thank you note, with a copy of a letter she had sent to the IRS. When she'd filed her taxes, she had included this letter explaining that she believed the government's spending was unjust and that its taxation was simply extortion. She would not pay. But Robin had carefully figured out what her taxes were, and told the IRS she would donate that amount to a Christian charity. She had even used the phrase "take what is Caesar's and give it to God." The IRS must have loved that. Her note to him thanked him for inspiring and encouraging her; she hoped to see him again soon.

He suddenly felt a little sick. Robin could go to prison for this. He had to do something. So he quickly pulled out some paper and wrote to her, telling her she shouldn't have taken his words so literally, and he wished she had talked to him before taking such a drastic and risky step. He wondered if there was still time to correct it. It was a rushed note, not as well-composed as he would have liked, but he sent it off immediately.

Robin's reply came back just as quickly. "I'm disappointed," she wrote. "Didn't you mean what you said? Are you taking it all back now? What's 'Caesar's money' if not taxes? And you know it's used for wars and propaganda and supporting dirty governments and dictators whenever it suits our 'national interests.' How can we keep paying for that, instead of giving that money for God's purposes? Don't tell me all you said about that was just words. You've been a big influence on me. You're not like those other preachers. Please don't back out on me now." It was signed, "With admiration and hope, Robin." He didn't write back to her.

But her words haunted him. Wasn't she right? And didn't "take what is Caesar's and give it to God" lead directly to what she had done? But it troubled him. And it wasn't just her rebelliousness or the danger of prosecution. There was something else.
When Jesus had spoken of Caesar and God, he recalled, it had been in response to a question about taxes. But Jesus' answer hadn't called for tax resistance. He knew the passage well, but opened to it again. "Jesus said to them, 'Show me a coin. Whose likeness and inscription is on it?' They said, 'Caesar's.' He said to them, 'Then give to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's.'" Reading this again, he noticed that Jesus hadn't even had a coin then. He frowned and closed the book.

Over the next few months, he began to hear rumors about Robin. But he tried not to listen. Until the Sunday her parents requested prayer because Robin had been arrested.

He visited them several times during the week that followed and learned that Robin had been suspected of some kind of embezzling. But the charges were dropped within a few days and she was released, apparently due to lack of evidence. Her parents were still terribly worried, though. They asked if he would visit her.

When she answered the door, the first thing he noticed was that her young face seemed hardened. But she smiled when she saw him. "Pastor! Come in!"

And when he asked her what had happened, she hid nothing. "I found a way to use the computer to tap into some corporate accounts and divert some resources," she said. Then added with a grin, "For God's work." He stared at her, expressionless. "But that's... theft." She laughed. "Sure. But how do you think they got that money? Fair and honest business practices? These big companies get control of a market and then force costs down and prices up. So they pay less and less to their workers and we pay more and more for the product. It has nothing to do with what the thing's worth. It's simply stealing. Legal, systematic theft."

"Well, maybe," he faltered, "but that doesn't make it right to..." "C'mon Pastor," she interrupted, her dark eyes burning. "There's only two ways to get what's Caesar's. Either obey Caesar and get paid off for your service, or use Caesar's methods to take Caesar's wealth. And there's no way I'm gonna be Caesar's paid lackey."

He didn't know what to say and couldn't meet her eyes. She continued, "Look, it's okay. I'm very good; they can't get anything on me. And the money's all going for good work. God's work. Your church gets a large cut too, y'know..." He looked up sharply. "Wait a minute. I didn't know... we can't accept that. Especially now that I know how..." Suddenly she was on her feet. "What? I go through all this, risking it all to liberate these resources, and now you're saying you don't want it? What about 'take what is Caesar's and give it to God'? That's exactly what I'm doing, what you preached—and you're going to turn your back on me now?" He couldn't think. He heard himself murmur, "I don't know..."

Robin stepped towards him, powerful, demanding, "You have to choose, Pastor. Do you want what is Caesar's? Yes or no?"

In God I trust

I sat down on a bench under a tree, feeling weak and slightly sick. Took a long, slow drink from my canteen. Apparently, I'd pushed myself a little too hard and gotten dehydrated. After a week at the monastery, I had started out early that morning, and had walked hard. I'd been anxious to get going. And the walking had been soothing, in a way. The shoulder of the highway was rough, not built for pedestrians, and the highway drivers weren't used to walkers along that stretch of road. So I had to focus on what I was doing and forget my other thoughts. But maybe I'd been focusing a little too hard. I hadn't even taken a break for lunch, just leaned against a guard rail while I ate an apple and one of the three sandwiches I'd brought with me. I wouldn't make that mistake again. I drained the canteen, stretched out in the shade, and closed my eyes. 

When I woke up an hour later I felt better. So I refilled the canteen and started walking again. I wasn't sure how far I would get, but there were several hours of daylight left, and it felt better to be moving. Not knowing how far I would get also meant not knowing where I would sleep that night.

In the quiet of the monastery, early that morning, I'd read again the words of Jesus that began, "I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat, nor about your body, what you will put on. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing..." It ended, "Instead, seek God's kingdom and all these things will be yours as well." I tried to keep my mind on that. But other questions pushed their way in, questions I imagined people demanding an answer for, questions I had to answer for myself before I could even approach those people. "How can you be so irresponsible? How can you ignore your duty to support yourself, carry your own weight, pay your own way?" But how could they be so responsible? Did they really think that they could support their own life, or pay their own way? It seemed to me a dangerous delusion. And an excuse. For the endless gathering and heaping, fencing off, posting no trespassing signs with the threat "...will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law." And for all that backed up that threat. Was Jesus so responsible?

As the sun was setting, a sign told me I was entering the town of Hayfield. And from what I could see it was aptly named. Where would I find shelter for the night? I hadn't brought a tent or sleeping bag. Just a small pouch and an army jacket. Not much. But when Jesus' disciples were sent out, they hadn't taken much with them either.

Then I came up over a rise and saw a little church. And next to the church, a house. And next to the house, a large shelter, with several picnic tables under it. I hesitated, unsure. Then approached the house and knocked on the door—the first of many I would knock on in the years that followed. When the pastor appeared, I explained that I was on a kind of pilgrimage, and was hoping to stop here for the night. The pastor suddenly looked like he wished he hadn't answered the door. So I asked, "Would you mind if I slept under your picnic shelter?" "Make yourself comfortable," the pastor replied.

The table was hard, but I felt excited as I lay there, listening to the night noises, with the pouch for a pillow and the jacket for a blanket. My first night out, and I was sheltered. And I'd been able to knock and present himself, though I knew I'd likely be met with nervous looks and suspicious questions. I was here. And it was okay. The emotions of fear and excitement are so close, I thought. How easy it is to move from one to the other.
The feeling reminded me of something from my early childhood, something so far back I knew it more from stories my parents told than from my own memories. My father was standing chest-deep in the pool, about six feet from the edge, waving for me to come. And I did come. Pumping my little legs, I rushed to the edge and threw myself into the air. Out over the water. But all I could see was the strong hands, and my father's face. There was a terrific splash. And then I was held and was safe and my father was laughing. And I was laughing. "I do it again!" I scrambled out, stepped back, dripping, and again I leapt out over the water that was too deep for me. Again and again. An old lady in a deck chair poked her husband. "Harold, look at that kid."

I woke up several times during the night. Mostly because of the hardness of my bed, but also because of the cold that settled in just before dawn. Then I couldn't go back to sleep and lay shivering in the morning dark, my mood significantly altered from the night before. Why do I have to be out here in the dark, cold and ignored, a nobody? I sat up and looked at the pastor's house. I remembered, with some shame, how the pastor had looked at me. Or am I doing this to myself, God? 

I warmed myself in the rising sun, then washed my face and prayed. And ate the last of the food I had brought with me from the monastery. I had brought no money. Not wanting to sit and think about that, I tied the jacket around my waist and started walking again.

After a couple hours, the sun was hot on the back of my neck and I needed a break. So when I came to the neat, white, historic-looking church, I stopped. I drank and refilled the canteen. Then noticed that there would be services there in about an hour. It was Sunday. I wasn't sure how I would be received in churches, but here I was and it was Sunday morning. So I waited.

A woman showed up early, to open the building, so I introduced myself. And she invited me in. I shaved and washed the morning's sweat from my face, and soon after, the pastor arrived. That introduction set off a barrage of questions. His third was, "So how are you financing this thing?" "Actually, I'm not," I replied. He reminded me that Paul had said, "If any one will not work, let him not eat." I reminded him that Jesus had said, "Do not work for the food which perishes, but the food which endures to eternal life." He smiled and nodded.

The congregation was small and the singing weak, but the preaching was good to hear. I didn't join them, though, when they stood and declared their allegiance. To the flag. And I was disappointed to see the small altar decorated with red and white carnations and little American flags, for Independence Day. When the ushers put the offering plates up there, the image was complete. Trembling plastic flags, begging allegiance and promising "liberty and justice for all," surrounding shiny gold plates piled with ones, fives, and tens. Every bill insisted "In God We Trust!" but I couldn't help wondering.

After the service, when I shook the pastor's hand, he told me to wait. And once the people had cleared out he took me to the corner store. There he told me to pick out a sandwich and a soda. Then we walked out together and I thanked the pastor, both for the preaching and for the meal. He smiled broadly. And handed me the change from the twenty dollar bill. "Be careful out there."

I ate happily. Seek God's kingdom and all these things will be yours as well. Yes, I thought. That was why I was out here. For life is more than food. That's what I wanted people to see. 

When they stare from their deck chairs and say, "Harold, look at that kid," that's what I want them to see.