Hate to Wait--A Short Story

The short story below, written in 2001, was my first attempt at fiction since perhaps 7th grade.  It may be a bit rough, but I hope you enjoy the effort anyway.  I based the premise on a dream I had once in a hotel room.  If you do read the story, you'll understand the significance of that fact.

I must warn you.  This story is a bit dark...and at a couple of points maybe a bit gross.  Read on, if you dare.  Mike

Hate to Wait

 

Dan Curley woke at 6:00am, just like every morning.  It was very important to him to keep

a consistent schedule because everything works better when you’re consistent.  This particular morning he felt rather crappy.  He’d been out drinking with clients the night before, and he’d had at least one too many.  He was hungover, his head throbbed, and his mouth was sticking together, but he got up.  He forced himself.

He sat on the side of his bed in his boxer shorts, rubbed his face, and looked around.  His wife was still asleep.  She lay there, breathing deeply, and smiling with contentment.  Most men would think this a good thing, and would leave the little woman alone, but not Dan.  It ticked him off!  If she were still asleep, he would have to wait for his breakfast.

Dan got off the bed and began to rummage around.  He banged a few drawers and threw some shoes loudly into the closet.  He bumped into the bed and knocked some pictures off of his wife’s curio table before she finally stirred.

“Mornin’,” she mumbled.

“You finally awake?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she replied with a yawn.

“Good,” he said.  “You better get movin’.  I don’t wanna wait for breakfast.”

“I know.  I know.  No waiting for Big Dan.”

“Don’t call me that!  You know I hate that!”

“You hate everything, Dan.”  With that she scurried out of the room. 

A few moments later, as Dan pulled together the last of his clothes for the day, he heard the toilet flush and his wife’s footsteps heading for the kitchen.  This was good.  Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait for breakfast after all.

As he stepped out of the bedroom toward their only full bathroom to take a shower, he saw the door close.  Kristen, his sixteen-year-old daughter, had beaten him in.  This really honked him off!  She took forever in the shower and spent what seemed like an eternity in front of the mirror.  Lately, she’d made it her goal in life to beat him to the shower in the morning.

“Kristen, let me in first.  I’ve gotta go to work.”

“Sorry, Pops.  Beatcha again.”  She replied.  “Guess you’ll just hafta wait.”  A little giggle leaked through the crack around the door.

She wasn’t coming out.  She’d beaten him and he would have to wait.  He hated to wait.  He hated lines.  He hated waiting rooms at doctor’s offices.  He hated anywhere where he had to wait.  Of all the things that Dan hated, he hated waiting the most, but wait he would.

He rubbed his face, again.  His head was beginning to pound.  He hated hangovers, too.  The night before, he’d taken two prospective customers to Bambi’s Palace, a strip club on the other side of town.  Despite the fun time Bill and Ron, the customers, thought he was having, he hated that too.  Oh sure, he liked the girls.  He liked to look at their bodies and lust over their youthful figures.  He got his jollies just like most other men.  He just didn’t want to be there with those losers.  Outwardly, Dan gave the impression that he really liked these fellows.  He laughed at their stupid jokes and looked at their stupid family pictures.  He made them feel special.  All the while, he despised them.

He did it because it was his job.  He was a salesman for an industrial supply chain.  He traveled a territory and did the wining and dining routine.  He put on the smiling face, but he hated his job too.  It felt like waiting tables.  Dan hated to wait.

Rather than stand outside the bathroom, he busied himself with preparing his necessary supplies and clothes for the next few days.  He was going to be on the road for the better part of the next week.  Hotel rooms would be his home, restaurants his kitchen.  That suited him just fine.  His wife was a nagger, and her cooking left a lot to be desired.  The one thing in life he seemed to enjoy was being away from his family.

Kristen finally emerged after almost a half an hour and Dan pushed past her as she came out.  He gave her a sour look and grumbled about how long she’d taken.  He jumped right at it and was completely showered and shaved in less than fifteen minutes.  He had this routine down to an art.  As he came back out, Kristen ambled back in.  She wasn’t even close to being finished.

Kristen didn’t speak much to her father.  She knew that he didn’t really like her.  He never spoke to her unless she’d done something that he especially disapproved of.  He never took an interest in her education or her sports.  He didn’t know who her friends were.  She felt alienated from him and she resented him for it.

Dan went downstairs and his day got worse.  The breakfast wasn’t ready.  Jan, his wife had burnt the toast and spilled the eggs on the floor.  She’d started over.  He had to wait, and he hated it.

“You’re such a klutz,” he said.

“Thank you, Sweetheart.  You’re such an encouragement,” Jan replied.

“Just hurry up.  I need to get going.”

Jan said nothing more.  She finished up the second breakfast that she’d fixed for him that morning and sat it in front of him.  Then she wandered off into the family room to watch a morning news program.  She was just as alienated from Dan as her daughter.  She used to love him, about a million years before when he had been young, handsome, and very sweet.  Now, that sweetness had turned sour and she was biding her time.  She wouldn’t leave yet, but leave she would.  As soon as Kristen was grown and on her own, Jan would move on.  She needed this awful man at the moment, so stay she must, and stay she would.  She didn’t mind waiting.

Dan finished breakfast, loaded his car, and left without a word to his wife or daughter.  He just hopped in and sped off.  He thought life was better in the car.  He was away from his ball and chain.  He popped a couple of aspirin without water (He thought chewing them made him tougher.) and headed south.

He needed gas, so he pulled into the Food-n-Fill.  His frustration immediately resurfaced because of a line at the pump.  He would have to wait.  After a few grueling minutes, he finally reached the pump and started to fill his tank.  He couldn’t get the pump to work, and as he stood there looking dumbfoundedly at the nozzle, a voice sounded over the intercom.

“You have to prepay,” the voice said.

“What?”

“You have to prepay.”

He mumbled some crude words to himself as he trotted off toward the attendant.

Most people didn’t have to prepay, only Dan Curley.  Julie, the attendant, had been the target of several of Dan’s outbursts and she went out of her way to make his life difficult.  She knew he had very little choice for fuel.  The only other station in the area was five miles in the other direction.  If he was in a hurry, and he always was, he would have to come in the Food-n-Fill.

When Dan got inside, his pressure gauge registered a new high.  There were four people in line ahead of him.  He stood there, waiting, rocking from foot to foot for nearly ten minutes before he finally got Julie’s attention.

“Come on!  I’m in a hurry!” he nearly shouted.

At that, Julie slowed down.

“Oh, sorry,” she lied.  “I’ve gotta change the receipt roll in the register.  It’ll only a minute.”

She loved to see him squirm.  She felt a particular satisfaction if she could force the veins in his neck to stand out.  They were way out this morning.  Steam was practically puffing out of his ears.  He paid her and mumbled some obscenities as he rushed out the door.  He’d get her back.  He didn’t know how or when, but he knew he would.

He pumped his gas and got back on the road.  As he merged onto I-65, his frustration level returned to its normal level, which is a few notches higher than most every one else.  He had 200 hundred miles to go and only three hours to do it in.  He had to buzz, but that was his normal mode of operation anyway.

Ten minutes into the trip, traffic halted and Dan popped his first gasket of the day.  He began to cuss out loud and wave his arms wildly.  He honked his horn.  He cursed the windshield.  He had to wait.  He hated to wait.

When he got himself under control, he turned on the radio and learned that there had been an accident about a mile ahead at the mouth of a new construction zone.  This would be slow going.

Eventually, traffic began to move just a bit and Dan began to try to improve his position in the line.  He darted in front of traffic moving up on his left.  Then, moments later, darted back into the right lane as it began to move.  He gave a guy in a red Camaro the finger, when the guy took exception with his horn to one of Dan’s more daring moves.  They exchanged some more pleasantries and then were separated by the moving traffic.

The balance of his day was much of the same.  He reached his first appointment twenty minutes late and had to wait to see a man that he could have seen right away, if he’d been on time.  He had to wait fifteen minutes to get a table at lunch.  He had to wait another half an hour for a new customer who had taken another salesman into his office just before Dan came in.  This especially frustrated him because he was on time and the other guy didn’t have an appointment.  Of course, he just stuffed this because, after all, this guy was his customer.

He reached his hotel after having to wait forty-five minutes for a table at dinner.  It seemed that was all he had done all day.  Wait, wait, and wait.  He hated to wait.  The front desk attendant was sorting some papers.

“I’ll be right with you, Mr. Curley,” she said as she looked up.  She’d recognized him.  How could you forget someone as disagreeable as Mr. Daniel F. Curley of 1173 Freemont Court, Mandalay, Indiana 47775?  Thank you very much!

“You’ll be with me right now,” he demanded.

“Yes, sir.”  She said and dropped her papers.  Unlike Julie at the Food n Fill, Fran needed her job.  She couldn’t afford to displease even a client this nasty.  Her boss just wouldn’t understand.

“I want that corner room again.  The bigger one with the double beds, smoking, of course.”

“I think that one is taken, Mr. Curley.”

“Look, you homely little high school reject!  I want that room.  Do you understand what I’m tryin’ to get into that little brain of yours?  Huh?”

“But, Mr. Curley…”

“Don’t ‘but’ me sweetheart!  I don’t care what your excuse is, just get me what I want, and I don’t want to wait another minute for it.  NOW!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I was mistaken.”  Fran was near tears, but she refused to show it.  She wasn’t mistaken, of course.  The room was already spoken for, but that party hadn’t arrived yet.  They had to be more reasonable than this jerk.

“Of course, you’re mistaken.  You’re a walkin’ mistake.”  Dan wouldn’t let up.

Fran couldn’t hold it in any longer.  Her eyes began to tear up and her mouth to quiver.  She held it together long enough to get Dan checked in and then began to cry bitterly.

“Oh, by the way,” Dan said, as he began to walk away, “Make sure that you inform your stupid little housekeeping pests not to come in my room if the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is on the door.”

“Yes, sir,” she struggled to say.

“Don’t screw that up,” Dan continued.  “Last time it was ignored and I was woken from a dead sleep for a stupid nighttime turn down.  If you screw that up, I’ll have you fired!  You got that?”

“I’ve got it.”

Dan didn’t realize that that last instruction was the worst mistake he’d made all day.  Oblivious to the events that were to transpire in the upcoming hours, he headed for his room.

“You know, you’re just not a nice man,” a small woman, also a guest in the hotel, offered her assessment.  “I suspect one day you’ll regret that.”

“Who pulled your chain?”  Dan asked, and went on to his room.

He opened the door, placed the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outer handle, and pulled his bags inside.  Finally, he could relax.  No more ignorant clerks.  No more slow-minded, speed-deficient waiters.  He could kick back, watch TV, and not have to think about anyone else but himself for the next eight hours or so.

He heard a buzzing.  Looking around, he let out some more crude words as he realized he was not truly alone.  A housefly had entered with him, and he followed it around the room with his eyes, annoyed at the extra trouble.  He’d have to find another hotel the next time he came here.  Between the incompetent help and the flies, the place was going to the dogs.  He rolled up some work papers into a makeshift fly swatter and chased it around.  He couldn’t catch and kill it, but he cornered it in the bathroom and locked it in.

Dan undressed to his boxers, pulled back the covers, adjusted the room temperature, and turned the tube to HBO (hoping for something that showed a little skin).  Now that he had the room adjusted, he accessed the whiskey bottle that he kept stored in his duffel bag.  As he pulled it out, a small bottle of tranquilizers slid out.

“Oh, well.” He said, “I might as well.  It’s been a tough day.”

Popping a few pills, he chased it down with the whiskey.  He poured another glass of the stuff and lay back on the bed.  Oh, how nice it felt to just zone out!  It would be more perfect if it weren’t for the slight tightness he felt in his chest.  He might have been concerned, but it had been a long day.  He was just really, really tired.  He sipped some more whiskey and then closed his eyes for a few seconds.

A short time later, out in the hallway, Maria began the nightly task of turning down the bed covers.  Maria was a good worker but not all that bright.  She sometimes neglected to pay attention to the signs hanging on the doors.  She had walked in on several embarrassing situations.  Most people didn’t complain, and those who did, Fran would pamper until they were satisfied.

After Dan had checked in, Fran had to take a few minutes to gather herself.  By the time she had, more customers had arrived and she had gotten herself swamped with check-ins.  She nearly forgot to warn Maria about Mr. Curley.  Realizing what time it was, she panicked, darted around the counter and sprinted down the hall. 

Fran rounded the corner just in time to see Maria knock on Dan’s door.

“Maria, no!” she screamed.

Maria jumped and spun around.  She looked like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Oh, Fran, you scare me to death,” she said with her unusual accent.  “Why you not want me do my job?”

“I do, Maria, just not that room.  Come on.  Let’s get back around the corner before he opens the door.”

Inside, Dan heard the knock and opened his eyes.  Anger welled up and coursed through his veins.  He would have both the maid’s and the desk attendant’s jobs before the night was over! 

In the two seconds between the knock and when he opened eyes, several thoughts flashed through his mind: That little dipstick maid was trying to get in to turn down his bed.  He would get her and that stupid clerk fired this time.  He was a good customer.  He deserved better treatment than this.  He was in the sales business and he knew good service when he experienced it.  He wasn’t experiencing it now.  No, this was last straw, the one that broke the camel’s back.  He would get them.  He wouldn’t wait until morning.  He’d get up right now, and finish the job.

He tried to yell at the door.  He couldn’t.

He tried to get up.  He couldn’t.

He couldn’t move.  He couldn’t turn his head.  He couldn’t speak.  It was like his brain, while aware of everything around him, had forgotten every motor skill.  He couldn’t even move his eyes.  He could see, but only straight-ahead, and he could hear.  That was all.

His sudden anger just as suddenly turned to terror.  What was wrong with him?  Did someone drug him?  Was he in some kind of coma?  His mind was racing, trying to get a grip.

He tried to force a word, a sound, a grunt.  Anything!  Nothing would come.  He tried to move his little finger.  Nothing!  His little toe.  Nothing, again!  Panic overwhelmed his mind, and he blacked out.

Out in the lobby, Fran and Maria were leaning on the check-in counter and discussing the jerk in the corner room.  They were both thankful that Fran had intervened when she did.  Both wished that Mr. Curley would change hotels in the future.

At home, Jan and Kristen enjoyed a nice evening together.  They ordered pizza and rented a movie on DVD.  They curled up together on the sofa, more like friends than mother and daughter, laughing and enjoying an evening of peace.  Both blurted out wishes that Dan wouldn’t come back.  Both claimed to be joking.  Both were lying. 

Some time later, he woke again.  He was flat on his back.  He could see light flashing off the ceiling from the TV that he’d left on for company.  The volume was low, so he could only hear murmurs.

It must have been a dream, he thought.  He had to go to the john; his bladder was full, so he tried to get up.  Again, he couldn’t move!  Again, he tried to scream for help and nothing came out!  Again, he panicked and blacked out.

When the night shift clerk came in at 11:30, Fran warned him that Mr. Curley was in the hotel.

“Oh, no.  Not him, he’s such a horrible dude.” He said.

“At least he’s asleep when you’re here.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I’m still here when he checks out in the morning.”

At that, Fran wished him luck and left for the night, free of the fear that Dan Curley would come screaming out to the counter to complain about some minor inconvenience.  “Ya know, if he died tonight, it wouldn’t be too soon for me,” were her parting words.

Jan and Kristen had gone to sleep.  They always slept better without Dan at home.  It was just so much more peaceful.

When he woke for the third time, he knew it wasn’t a dream.  He was immediately aware of his predicament, and started looking for a way to get help.  That line of thought didn’t last long because there wasn’t anything he could do.  He would have to wait for help to arrive.  He hated to wait.

As he lay there looking at the same spot on the ceiling, he became aware of his other senses.  He realized he could hear so many little things when not distracted by looking around, and he tried to pass the time by deciphering each sound.  He could hear the TV and people passing in the hallway. 

Then he could hear smaller things.  He could hear the hum of the combination heater/air conditioner and the wind blowing past the windowpanes.  He could hear his Swiss-made watch ticking on his wrist.  He could even hear the fly buzzing around in the bathroom.

The one thing that he suddenly realized he couldn’t hear was his heart.  Surely, if he could hear watches ticking and flies buzzing, he ought to be able to hear his own heart. 

A wave of renewed concern swept over him, and he wanted so much for that sweet little maid to walk in on him now.  She was such a cute, innocent little girl, if only she would realize that she had forgotten his room.  He began to wish it with great intensity and longing.  He wished it so hard that he hoped he could make it happen.  He wanted to see her beautiful face more than anyone else’s in the world.

Buzzing. 

The buzzing of the fly was getting louder, and louder, and louder.  It was out.  It wasn’t trapped in the bathroom anymore.  It had gotten out somehow.  But, how?  He knew that he had latched the door.  Maybe, it crawled under, or maybe there were two.  Buzz, buzzzzzzzzz.  It was irritating him, penetrating his mind, and driving sharp needles into his brain.  Just when he thought he would lose his mind completely, it went quiet.

It was on his nose.  He couldn’t see it.  He couldn’t even do that cross-eyed thing and look at it.  He could only feel it.  It was a little tickle on the tip.  Oh, he wanted to brush it off so bad!  Then he could feel it moving around, exploring the oil-filled pours of his skin.  It was probing him for tiny morsels to devour; and when it found one, it would puke on it and suck it back up.  He had to get it off!  He couldn’t take it.  Inside he was screaming, but outside he was as calm as a cool, spring morning.

The fly moved down over the end of his nose, and fluttered around on his upper lip.  It flew off briefly and then landed on his eyeball.  Dan watched the dark form scamper here and there; unable to even blink to drive it off.  Drawn by its instincts, and since there didn’t seem to be any apparent danger, the insect moved into Dan’s right nostril.  His whole body was on fire!  He could feel it moving around inside his nose.  It was probably laying eggs.  He began to mentally plead with God: Oh, God!  Please help me!  Please!  I’ll do anything, just please help me!  Finally, he blacked out for a third time.

The young man behind the hotel counter finished the third chapter of the hot, new novel he’d just picked up.  There wasn’t much to do but wait for morning.  Then again, he wasn’t in any hurry, he didn’t mind waiting.

Jan was dreaming that she was on a pleasure cruise to some Caribbean island, alone.  No, she wasn’t alone.  She had a man with her.  It was a different man, a new husband.

Kristen was dreamless.  She was simply resting, cuddling an old, tattered teddybear.

Dan awoke to buzzing again.  This time so loud, it was blowing his eardrums.  It was too loud to be the fly.  It was the alarm, and he couldn’t turn it off.  It just buzzed, and buzzed, and kept buzzing. 

At least he couldn’t feel the fly anymore.  It must have finished its business and moved on.  When he got out of this, he would have to have his doctor take a long look inside that nostril.  He didn’t want any maggots crawling out of his nose.

Oh, the buzzing!  Please stop the buzzing!

The bladder that he wanted to empty earlier was now at total capacity.  Worse yet, he now had to take a bowel movement.  He couldn’t move anything else, but his bowels could move themselves.  He soiled his bed, and his bladder released.  A weird combination of humiliation and relief swept over him.

The buzzing finally ended.

He lay there for another hour, and watched the light gradually increase in the room as the sun came up outside.  It was morning; his rescue was close at hand. 

He vowed to change.  He would be a different man.  He would love his wife and his daughter.  He would be kind, patient, and even friendly.  He would leave tips and open doors for people.  Oh, his life would be different.  He would change.

Suddenly, he sensed the presence of someone else in the room.  He hadn’t heard the door.  How did he get in without his being aware of it?  He couldn’t hear him.  He couldn’t see him.  He couldn’t even smell him, but he knew he was there.  He didn’t know how, but he knew.  Then, just as suddenly, he could move.

He felt the power flow back into his body, and he lifted his arms and looked at them.  He sat up on the side of the bed and rubbed his face.  Finally, he looked over and witnessed the spectacle of the presence standing in front of his window.

He couldn’t see the face.  It was hooded under a black cape.  There were bright red eyes peering at him from the darkness, and an odd, thin tongue flickered in and out of the light.  The cape hung down and covered all but his hands and his feet.  The hands were bone white with long, slender fingers and blood red nails.  The feet were hooves like those of horses or cattle.

“Hello, Dan Curley.  I am so sorry to keep you waiting,” said the being with a hint of sarcasm.

“Who, uh, who are you?”  Dan’s fear was evident in his voice.

“Me?  Oh, I am your humble escort.”

“Eh, eh, escort?” He stuttered.  “To where?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

“I don’t think I want to go anywhere with you.”

“Well, I get that often.  But, you do not actually have a choice in the matter.  You see, you have a meeting with your Maker, and He does not like to be kept waiting.  No, no, no.  He does not like to wait at all.”

Dan stood to run.  Maybe if he made it to the door, he could make this thing go away!  As he turned, he looked down and saw feet still in his bed!  He spun and saw his own face staring up from the pillow!

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Oh, you are a dense one, are you not?” was the escort’s reply.

“Am I dead?”

“Now, your eyes are opening.  Come now let us go.  It is time for your appointment.”

A white, slender hand extended out, caught Dan by the neck, and pulled him in.  The cloak enveloped him, and a feeling of overwhelming dread came over him.

“By the way, if you liked last night’s accommodations, just wait until you see your next room!  Ah, but you don’t like to wait, do you Mr. Curley?  Well, that is fine.  There will be no more waiting for you.  No, your time has arrived.”  They left together, as the escort bellowed in laughter.

At home, Jan and Kristen woke rested and with an unexpected renewal, eager to face the future.

No one ever missed Dan Curley.

 

The Hardest Command

Most of us probably know about the most important commandment in scripture.  Jesus was asked which one was the most important and he answered like this:

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.  This is the first and greatest commandment.”  Matthew 22:38

I’ve contemplated that message many times over the years.  It has been a driving influence on me since my childhood.

But, have you ever considered what might be the most DIFFICULT command in scripture?

I’ve been thinking about that this week since writing my post about “Poisoned Church.”  Sometimes, I think it might be the command to maintain a pure mind…especially in today’s world of rampant sexual messages.  Or, maybe it’s the idea of serving others…since most people seem intent on tooting their own horns most of the time.  Could it be something along the lines of being faithful?  After all, it is awfully easy to be distracted into any number of other interests these days.  Hmmmm.

I think…after much consideration…that it just might be….

Forgiving others.

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.   Ephesians 4:32

One thing that is overwhelmingly true about people is that they are going to hurt us.  Some of the hurts are little.  Some of the hurts are huge.  Some slip away quickly, but others hang around, and around, and around.

Another thing that is true about forgiveness is that we all expect others to forgive us, but we often don’t feel quite compelled to be forgiving ourselves.

I’ve had a couple of occasions in my lifetime where the pain of the hurt lingered.  I wrote extensively about one in a previous blog post and I have mentioned the other in the Poisoned Church entry. 

The first one happened to me in 8^th grade where a boy named Jimmy bullied me continually for about three months.  As a Christian, I tried over and over to let that go.  To not hold a grudge.  To forgive.  But, the pain and the shame would always return.  The second happened when  I was serving as a young volunteer leader in a church.  As part of a leadership meeting, I was severely berated by the ministry leader and subjected to intense “discipling” for nearly an hour where all of the other members of the group were expected to pick me apart.  Again, the pain of that event lingered for years afterward despite my attempts to “let it go.”

It is hard, so very hard to forgive.

In each of the examples I’ve mentioned, I was able to finally forgive.  I ended up running into the former bully in a restaurant as a middle-aged man.  He shared with me how he had lived a rough life but that he was changing because of his relationship with God.  I told him that he had been pretty tough on me when we were kids, to which he replied: “I’m really sorry about that.”  That was all I needed.  A sense of forgiveness swept over me.   It was over...finally.

As for the church leader, eventually I found myself in a setting where I told him how much he had hurt me.  Again, he looked at me and said: “I’m very sorry, Mike.”  Boom!  Pain was relieved.  The sense of forgiveness swept over me.

It is nice that those instances of forgiveness happened to me.  It relieved a great deal of internal tension.  What bothers me though is that it took apologies to get my heart to really forgive.

Jesus expects us to forgive:

“If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them.  Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.”  Luke 17:3b-4

I can get that.  That matches my model above.  They sinned against me.  They said they were sorry.  I forgave.

And it’s not really optional….we MUST forgive:

“For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.  But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.”      Matthew 6:14-15

Yikes!

Here’s where it gets hard for me….where I am truly challenged….Oh, God, please lend me more grace as I try to embody this….

Jesus on the cross!!!!  Blood draining from wounds on his head, his hands, his feet.  The flesh of his back torn to shreds and sticking to the rough wood as he pushes himself up to breathe.   “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”  Luke 23:34

There is no record of someone looking up to say they were sorry.  They were busy casting lots for his clothes.  No one was yet feeling any sense of remorse.  The mocking comments were still echoing in the wind.  His blood was still pooling at the foot of the cross.

“Father, forgive them.”

Based on Jesus’ example, I MUST learn to forgive BEFORE anyone ever apologizes.

Now, that truly is a hard command modeled for me in an even more difficult example.  Jesus forgave not just before they apologized, but WHILE they were hurting him.

I must raise my personal level of expectation.  I must learn to follow the leadership and example of my savior.  I must learn to forgive…before they even realize what they have done (or are doing) to me.

May the Lord give me the strength.  May I be willing to accept the challenge.  Will you join me?

May we all reflect HIS spirit and rely on THE SPIRIT as we deal with one another in this world of conflict.

Finally, may His peace that passes understanding rest on you.  Amen.

Poisoned Church

Poisoned Church

My friend, Rick Anderson died suddenly of a heart attack a few years ago.  I think of him often and wish that we could have another dinner together.  You see, Rick and I became friends at church way back in the early 1980’s, but in later years he lived in Boston and then Evansville and I lived in South Carolina and then Indianapolis.  We fell out of touch a couple of times and it wasn’t until my career took a turn that brought me to Evansville for work from time to time in 1998 that we began to “hang out” again.  I would show up.  He would pick me up at my hotel.  We’d have dinner…and we’d talk.  Often, the conversation turned to church and he wanted to talk about that, but it was difficult.  It was difficult because to my friend, church was poisoned.

Despite the fact that some of Rick’s closest adult friends were cultivated at church, that was also the place where he experienced some of the worst relationships and emotional pain.  God didn’t poison church for him.  People did.  Judgments.  Accusations.  Assumptions.  Unrealistic expectations.  Manipulations.  Controlling leadership.  Pressure!

A complete deficiency of Grace.

I have felt it myself.  I remember as a young man thinking something like:  “I just can’t imagine doing this for the rest of my life.”  The “this” was the pressure I felt to meet the standards that were expected of me in the church I was a member of at the time.  Another occasion, around the time that Rick’s faith was being poisoned in Boston, I was verbally and emotionally abused by a church leader in Indianapolis in a group setting where he demanded the others participate in “discipling” me.  That spiritual assault haunted me for several years, and events like that threatened to poison the church for me as well.

Thankfully, I finally realized that I did not need to feel that way, and the church was not designed to be that way.  Church can be a beautiful thing…incredibly encouraging…a long-term support…and personally transformative.  Rather than being a source of spiritual poison, church can be our lifeline to ever-flowing spiritual nutrients, a source of calories for a successful spiritual life.  It was designed to be the Light of the World…a city set on a hill.  The voice of the Savior in the world.

Rather than a snare to trap a person in a world of spiritual enslavement, it is a trampoline to propel us into a world of spiritual growth and an ever-expanding relationship with God…the Creator of it all.

Let’s examine some scriptures...

Hebrews 10:24-25  And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another – and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

This passage is often used as a hammer to enforce regular attendance at officially sanctioned church events.  To do that, you miss the point.  It wasn’t meant to be an endorsement of a checklist of church meetings that we all must attend.  Rather, it is a reminder to value the mutual encouragement and motivation that can come from being together…encouragement and motivation to love others and to do good to those around you, and a call to fulfill that responsibility we share.  If that is your priority, then you don’t need a checklist.  You’ll be there at every opportunity that you can.  It’s not about checking off the box.  It’s about the relationships!

Then again, even though the point of this scripture isn’t to structuralize a list of formal meeting times, it does indicate that we NEED to be together.  It is part of the DNA of the church that we meet together to worship…to encourage…to train…to work together.  Time alone is important too, just as Jesus went off alone at times to pray, but the church is built as a community.

Acts 2:47b  And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.

People don’t add you to the church.  You don’t join the church.  When you choose HIM, He adds you.  As long as you follow HIM, you are a member of HIS church.  No man can exclude you.  No group can kick you out.  HE adds…and HE is the only one who can remove you.  Now, you can walk away from HIM, but no man can take that status from you.  It is HIS church.  It has many names.  It has many members.  In the end, HE decides who is a member.

Hebrews 12:18-24  You have not come to a mountain that can be touched and that is burning with fire; to darkness, gloom, and storm; to a trumpet blast or to such a voice speaking words that those who heard it begged that no further word be spoken to them, because they could not bear what was commanded: “If even an animal touches the mountain, it must be stoned to death.”  The sight was so terrifying that Moses said, “I am trembling with fear.”

But you have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem.  You have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly, to the CHURCH of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven.  You have come to God, the Judge of all, to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.

I love this passage.  How amazing is the company we keep as members of “the church of the firstborn?”  How incredible that our names are written in heaven.  Can you see it?  Can you see the angel penning your name into the book of life at the moment that Christ added you to His church?  How special is that body?  How special is that community?

My friend Rick never regained that special sense of community.  Man poisoned his understanding of church and despite our many talks, I could never quite get him over the hump so that he could feel SAFE reinvesting himself with a body of other believers.  He wanted to.  He wanted to make that jump…to him it was a great leap…back into a spiritual community, but he just couldn’t quite do it.  It is a great sadness to me.  Not that I think he is lost, but only that he was not able to fully heal.  Remember, God added Rick to the church, and Rick never walked away from God.  Rather, he escaped from spiritual abuse and struggled mightily with the pain for the ensuing years prior to his passing.  And, if there is anything I know about God, it is that He loves those who are hurting.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”  Jesus.  Matthew 5:3-4

I believe Rick is being comforted.  I believe his spiritual healing has finally come.

As for those of us who are still kicking around here on Earth, we’ve all had different experiences with church.  Some good.  Some bad.  Some simply mediocre.  Some of us have been deeply hurt, perhaps poisoned.  Some of us have had nothing but positive memories.  Whichever describes you, I want to encourage you to simply reach out and embrace the community that God has given you, and embrace the grace that comes to us all through Jesus Christ.  Sometimes, mankind messes things up.  Remember though, that we will make mistakes, but God’s church is bigger than any man, and we can still be that city on the hill.  We can still be His voice to the world.

I hope that church is not poisoned for you, but if it is…just know that God still loves you…and His book of life is written with special ink that only you or He can erase.  As long as you hang on to Him, He will hang on to you…and you are still in His church.

A Muncie Boyhood-A Stingray, a Collarbone, and a Mystery

It was May 1968.  I remember that the day was sunny.  I was almost finished with my very first year of school as a kindergartener in Miss Austin’s class at Roosevelt Elementary.  (I wonder whatever happened to her.)  I was standing on the south side of our house and peeking through the basement window.  I think my friend Rex from next door had tipped me off.

“I think there’s a bike in your basement,” he said.

So, I peeked in….and spoiled my dad’s surprise. 

I couldn’t see it well because the window as dirty and the lights were off in the little oil room off our main basement, but it was there.  I could tell.  It was a bike and it had to be for me!

Sure enough, the last day of school came and my dad gave me my first bike.  It was a bright red Schwinn Stingray with a banana seat!  I was the envy of the neighborhood!  And, I loved that bike!

I wish I still had it.  Besides the fact that it would be worth a chunk of money, it would be special to have it for sentimental reasons.  Think about it…if you’re over forty years old…wouldn’t you love to have that first bike that your mom or your dad gave you?

I rode that thing all over the neighborhood.  I jumped ramps in the alley.  I even broke a bone in my very first serious bike crash.

It was August of 1970 and about a week before 3^rd grade.  My buddy Jerry was over to the house on his bike.  Sometimes I rode to his place, and sometimes he rode to mine.  Have wheels, will travel.  Anyway, as boys will do, we decided it was time for a little competition.  I can’t recall if I challenged him or he challenged me, but we decided to race down the alley.  This alley had two gravel ruts with a grass median.  I had the left one; he had the right.  We were flying!  We were a blur!  Well, maybe not, but it seemed like it.  I was slightly ahead…not by much…but just enough that when I glanced over at Jerry I had to turn my head a bit toward the rear.  When I looked forward again, I was headed off track to the left and directly toward a large bush.

One of the cool things about the Schwinn Stingray was the brake system that was built into the pedals.  Push the pedal forward and you rode.  Push it backward and you braked.  Get going fast and then reverse to the brake and you could pull a neat sideways skidding slide.  It was fun when you did it on purpose, but pretty scary when you were really trying to stop in a hurry.

I was headed toward that bush so I slammed on the brake and began a slide as the rear wheel overcame the front.  What I had not seen and had pretty much not considered was the short, concrete-filled steel post that marked the property line just in front of that bush.  I slid right into it sideways and it threw me into the air.  I can remember doing a mid-air somersault before landing on my right shoulder.

SNAP!

I screamed in pain and stayed on the ground crying after breaking my right collarbone.  My neighbor, Emma heard me cry out and came running.  She got me home, and then I was taken to the ER at Ball Memorial so they could fix me up.

I started 3^rd grade with my right arm in a sling, and had to learn to write left-handed.  That was a real struggle, but I got through it.

I had that bike until my dad repeated the process when I finished 7^th grade in 1975.  He got me a bright orange AMF 10-speed when I succeeded in passing through to 8^th grade at Wilson Middle School.

My 10-speed got me through high school.  Of course, it fell to second fiddle once I got my driver’s license, but still I rode it quite a bit…no helmet…no special shoes…no spandex.  Sore butt and all.  I can remember riding through the neighborhoods…to a friend’s house or to my youth minister, Neil’s house…listening to 990 WERK on the red AM radio that I bought at Radio Shack and mounted on the handlebars.  I rode it so much that the frame eventually cracked around the pedal bracket, so I had to take it to the welding shop at 20^th and Monroe to see if they could fix it.  They welded it right up for me…no charge.

That bike disappeared sometime in the early 1980s.  I kept it in my dad’s basement and would carry it out to ride it, then take it back in at night.  In the winter, it would simply be stored down there until the weather broke.  On a warm spring day, I’d drag it out, clean it up, pump up the tires, and lube the chain.  Then, off down the road I’d go.  That was the system year after year until one spring when I went down to drag out the bike and it was just gone.

It’s a mystery.

I don’t know if I left it out on the back sidewalk overnight in the previous fall and someone stole it, or if someone came all the way down into my dad’s basement to swipe it.  Both seem unlikely to me…but one of them has to be true…’cause it was gone.

It would be another 15 years before I would take up cycling again.  My wife and I got some Free Spirits from Sears when we first got married, but they were terrible bikes, so we got rid of them.  Now, I ride a full-fledged road bike with all the gear…helmet, shoes, and yes….spandex.  I love the sport, but don’t do it enough.  I kind of long for those days when it was just easy and fun to jump on that Stingray and buzz down 21^st Street…jumping ramps…racing friends….and pulling a cool side skid….keeping all bones intact.

Oh, those warm summer days with the wind in your hair….     

A Muncie Boyhood-The Pinhead

As a boy in Muncie, I was surrounded by bowlers.  Not my immediate family so much as my extended family, especially my Aunt Joan and her two twin boys.  My first experiences rolling that heavy ball down that slick little hardwood floor was with them.  I think I might have bowled a 52 that day….and I felt good about it too.  In fact, the first time the gutter didn’t come into play I was riding cloud nine!  I wasn’t a league bowler like Randy and Sandy (Sandy’s name now is Gator), but I did enjoy the game from time to time as a youth.  I have a few stories that involve those heavy little pins.  I’ll share a few here…

Starting from the most recent…

As a young man, I was dating the woman who was destined to become my wife, but to my chagrin she had moved to Indianapolis and we were dating “long-distance.”  Now, keep in mind that this was before the days of cell phones and Skype.  Calling Indianapolis and talking for more than 30 seconds was expensive….plus, she wasn’t too coherent after 11pm when you could actually afford to talk.  As a result, we mostly got to spend time with one another on the weekends, and that was kind of tough.

One time, we were out on a date with some other college-age couples and we were bowling.  It could have been the annual New Year’s event, but I’m not sure now.  Anyway, I was rolling my usual set which generally meant one or two strikes and one or two spares and a lot of pins left standing across several games.   It was fun, but I was in no way competitively skilled as a bowler.  However, I could once in a while rise to the occasion, and just an opportunity was given me.  Just as I stood to roll my next ball…after a particularly poor series of balls…she said to me:

“Mike, I’ll move back to Muncie if you roll a strike.”

I smiled.  Turned to the lane.  Laid down a smooth roll.  STRIKE!

Continuing to smile, I turned back to see her reaction.

She looked a bit perplexed, then said:  “I never said when.”

Ahhhhhh.  There’s always an out for the girls!

Another event that always brought bowling into my life on an annual basis was the annual New Year’s Eve Sing at my church.  The Fairlawn Church of Christ, being averse to the usual community celebrations that involved much consumption of alcohol on the holiday, always planned a church-wide singing devotional from 9pm to midnight on New Year’s Eve.  We would sing in the New Year.  Then, when everyone was just about sung out, we’d head to the Village Bowl…just about the entire congregation…to bowl from 1am to 3am.  While everyone else in Muncie was getting plastered, we were laughing, joking, rolling gutter balls, and knocking down a few pins.  I remember those nights with great fondness…and unlike so many of my friends….I can actually remember those nights.

Now, my folks weren’t part of the church celebrations.  They weren’t part of the church.  Neither were my sister and her often not so nice husband (that’s another story).  One year, my nephew (my sister’s boy) and I did the New Year’s Eve Sing and Bowling party while my sister introduced my mom to Kahlua. 

Apparently, my mom liked it.  She liked it a lot.

David and I bowled until 3am, then we made our way through the icy streets from the Village Bowl on North Wheeling back to the south side of Muncie.  We may have stopped at the Big Wheel for some breakfast, but I can’t recall that detail for sure.  I dropped him at his house and then drove the additional four blocks to my house.  I knew something was up when at about 4:30am every light in our house was lit up.

David told me that when he walked into his house, his stepfather was passed out on the sofa and his mom had passed out on the bathroom floor.  The scary part was that they had actually driven home from my house!  How they managed that, I’ll never know.

At my place, I parked the car as I contemplated the possible scenarios of why all those lights would be on.  Did someone die in the family?  Was there an accident somewhere?  What could it be?  That was all settled when I stepped inside and found my mom asleep on the couch with her head propped at a ninety degree angle on the armrest…no pillow…just cocked up sideways.  I had never seen her drunk before, and even then I didn’t really experience it…just saw the aftermath.  Dad was sound asleep in the bed, but still…every light in the house was blazing….and I mean every one…lights we never used were on.  It probably took me fifteen minutes to turn them all off.

The last bowling-related memory I’ll share did not even involve my visiting a bowling alley.  Nope.  I was just strolling through an open field behind my cousins’ house.

My Aunt Joan and Uncle Ralph had connections in bowling circles.  They were in leagues and I think my aunt even worked at a few different alleys.  Anyway, they ended up with a bunch of used bowling pins that were piled up out in a field behind their house out on highway 28.  I think the plan was to burn them in their fireplace.  When I got wind of that, I decided I wanted one for my bedroom.  Don’t ask me why….I don’t have an answer.  Why does any kid want any weird thing to display in his bedroom?  I just wanted one, and my Aunt Joan said I could have one.

Off we marched….Randy, Sandy (Gator), Jeff, Chuck, and myself.  I picked out my pin.  Boy, was I excited about it!  I couldn’t wait to show my mom!  I couldn’t wait to show my friends!  No one else in my neighborhood had a bowling pin in their bedroom!  I was sure of it!  I was thinking that maybe I could make a lamp out of it.  I was so proud of it that I was tromping through the field with that pin propped right up on the top of my head like a tall, hard, weirdly balanced crown.  I was holding it lightly in between my hands and walking ahead of the twins. 

For some reason, Randy had carried a basketball with him on this mission, and as he bounced that ball back and forth in his hands he was struck with a brilliant idea.

It would be funny to knock that pin off of Mike’s head!

So, he threw the basketball and hit the pin toward the top end.  It flips out of my grip, but it doesn’t simply fly off and fall to the ground.  No….that probably would have been funny.  Nope, that crazily balanced piece of iron-hard wood flipped.  The balance of the weight was in the bottom and that flipped completely over and slammed into my forehead….and I went down.

The next thing I can really remember is reclining on my Aunt’s sofa with a packet of ice on my head.  I had a knot that was about as big around as a half dollar that stood out from my forehead about a half an inch.  I moaned.  I ached.  I was mad at Randy.  (I think I’m over that now….I think.)  And I no longer cared about making a bowling pin lamp.

I never saw that bowling pin again, but now, as I write this, I can see my reflection in the mirror and I can still see the place where that evil piece of wood nailed me.  There is still a little knot right where it impacted. 

I guess that means  I’m still a bit of a pinhead.     

"This is Your Time!" A sermon

http://southeastern.org/files/SE%20Messages/Sermon%2012-4-11.mp3

The link above goes to an MP3 of a sermon that I had the opportunity to deliver on December 4, 2011.  I thought I'd place here on the blog for easy access in the future.  If you choose to listen, I'd love you hear your feedback.  I had originally delivered this message to about thirty men during a Men's Breakfast, but several of the guys requested and suggested that I share it with the whole church.  As a result, I was given the pulpit for a sunday.

A God's Eye View

A view from the Marriott in Waikiki.

As I write this, I'm in another hotel room....kind of up high.  I'm not as high as the picture from the balcony in Waikiki that I've posted above, but high enough to get a nice view of a golf course and a nearby lake.  It' beautiful!  I love great views!  The view from the balcony in Waikiki is a favorite of mine, but it's also a reminder of when I discovered my fear of heights.  You can see from the picture how the balconies sort of wrap around...well...I couldn't stand to be out there more than just a couple of minutes at a time before an unreasonable and unwelcome fear of falling would come over me.  I even tried sitting down so my shoulders were below the railing, but to no avail.  I had to go skulking back inside.  This was new to me.  I'd never experienced it before.

Being up high, if you can stand to do it, can give you a whole new perspective on things.  Things that seem so huge and so important when you are at ground level become small and insignificant when you're looking down from above.  Take another look at the picture.  See those tiny little cars?  How about those people walking on the sidewalk?  The aerial view can also let you see how things interact.  You can see how the traffic flows from street to street in relation to each other street.  You can see the ebb and flow of foot traffic.  There is so much detail visible to you from above that you just cannot see when you are standing in the middle of it.

Do you ever wonder what God sees from his perch in the heavens?

There is a street in Owensboro, Kentucky that I travel down from time to time.  It is a street that isn't all that different from many other streets all over the country...or the world.  There are businesses.  There are cars.  There are people.  And, there are churches.  In one short stretch of maybe a quarter of a mile, there is a Catholic Church, a Church of Christ, and a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.  They are all just next door to one another.

I imagine that week after week those folks drive in and out of their church driveways, passing right past one another...over and over again....and likely they don't give one another the time of day.  There is too much DIFFERENCE between them despite how close they are to one another.  (Of course, I have no first hand knowledge that this is the case.  I'm imagining the scenario based on personal observations of other places and other people.)

I wonder if they ever even take the time to even wave at each other? 

Now, consider this from God's perspective.

He's looking down from above.  He sees them go in and out, week after week...never speaking...never interacting.  Does He wonder why his children can't get along?  Does He turn to Jesus and say something like: "I wish they'd at least talk to each other!"

I suppose I have a fear of the heights of God's perspective too.  I'm afraid of what that view might reveal in myself.  How often do I let my differences drive me to disregard or disrespect my brother or sister in the worldwide family of humanity that God created?  Do I disregard and disrespect them because I disagree with them?

Take a few minutes and think about what our petty squabbles must look like from God's balcony.

You might say, "These differences are NOT petty!  They are real and important and huge!"

I'm sure that's true from the perspective here on the ground.  But....try....for just a short little while....to consider that the perspective from heaven might make things look a little more insignificant than you and I may think.

And, then wonder what could happen if those three churches in Owensboro held a huge, joint pitch-in dinner some Sunday afternoon....and at least talked to one another.