lachrymose - Weeping or inclined to weep; causing or tending to cause tears
littoral - A coastal region; a shore
thurible - A censer used in certain ecclesiastical ceremonies or liturgies
adumbrate - To give a sketchy outline of; to disclose partially or guardedly
fugacious - Passing away quickly; evanescent
mendicant - Depending on alms for a living; practicing begging
Monday, January 26
Tuesday, January 20
Making History
What's next? Well...we'll just have to wait and see.
Matt Davies Journal News Jan 20, 2009 |
Matt Wuerker Politico.com Jan 20, 2009 |
Bob Gorrell Creators Syndicate Inc. Jan 20, 2009 |
Sunday, January 18
When Historical Fiction Isn't
Recently, I was made to confront the complications of writing historical fiction. This genre has long been disputed by many groups...If you think about it, the name itself embodies a self-contradiction. Something cannot be both history and fiction--can it? In this difficulty, writers tend to survey their subject and select a point somewhere between fact and fiction. Some, like G.A. Henty focus on pure history, bothering only enough with fiction to set up a simple, formulaic story framework to keep readers engaged. On the other end of the spectrum, books like Elizabeth Pope's "The Perilous Gard" or Twain's "Prince and the Pauper" delve so deep into fiction that they maintain only one or two historical figures to give the story a sense of place. Is any of this right or wrong? It depends. Why am I even talking about this? Let's back up a bit.
One of my greatest historical fascinations is with the twelve apostles of Jesus Christ: Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Nathanael (or Bartholemew), Matthew, Thomas, Thaddeus, Judas, Simon the Zealot, and James the Lesser. The fact that I typed that list from memory should serve as some proof of my fairly serious studying of these guys... In fact, over the past few years I have been laboring away at writing a book about them--not in the style of the Christian non-fiction "better living" book entitled "Twelve Ordinary Men"--but in a style that must by necessity be called historical fiction. In other words, it is a fictional account of the life of Jesus from the perspective of the twelve apostles. What do I mean by fictional? Do I mean the whole thing is pure fabrication? No. Here's where the self-contradiction comes in.
I have studied the gospel accounts to the extent that I am working on compiling a list of every recorded word spoken by any of the apostles. I have researched things like food and boats.
History.
I do not know why Thomas doubted Jesus. I do not know why Judas betrayed him. I don't know what foods Peter didn't like. I don't know anything about some of the lesser apostles. But I've put it in there.
Fiction.
All of this came to the forefront the other day in my PowerPoint class, of all places. A long time ago I had created a PowerPoint presentation based off of my story, including pictures and quotes representing each apostle. The creative-type people who watched this were all excited and moved. Others greeted it with neutrality. My PowerPoint teacher (being the highly scientific computer-science major that he was) responded uncertainly. How much of this had I made up? (Most of it) How much church lore had I studied? (None) How accurate was this? (I had no idea)
Historical fiction for kids (and most adult-oriented stuff as well), is focused on portraying a historical event or time through the eyes of fictional characters. A much smaller percentage takes a different approach: portraying a historical event or time through the eyes of a historical character. This defines my story, and this technique drives practical people up the wall. They read "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara and groan this isn't accurate! You can't know what General Robert E. Lee was thinking as he ordered Pickett's charge! True. But in this moment, historical fiction passes beyond "history" or "fiction" and into a sort of delicate psychology. If you have ever written this way, you will know what I mean. Unlike most historical fiction, books like "The Killer Angels", books like "The Once and Future King", books even like my apostle story, are formulated as a few fenceposts of solid, indisputable fact, strung together with strange, delicate, but educated guesswork. People who are deeply intuitive seem to do well with this.
It's something that you can't research. It's empathy. Sensitivity. Connection. Psychology. Common sense. It's a complete demolition of stereotypes. It involves giving a historical figure back his humanity. If you can figure it out, then it stops being work. The character speaks through you.
"The Killer Angels" and "The Once and Future King" are examples of this technique in its perfected form. The facts they portray are solid and true, their characters are unforgettable in their tragic, humorous depth. If I could achieve that in my own work, I would count myself blessed. It's not about offering facts about historical figures; it's about getting at the reader's heart and making him stop, and struggle with the solemn humanity of those in the past.
Later, if anyone is interested, I might post some examples, both from the above-mentioned works and my own writing.
Completely off-topic:
First vocabulary word of the New Year!
Abrogate ~ To abolish, do away with, or annul, especially by authority
One of my greatest historical fascinations is with the twelve apostles of Jesus Christ: Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Nathanael (or Bartholemew), Matthew, Thomas, Thaddeus, Judas, Simon the Zealot, and James the Lesser. The fact that I typed that list from memory should serve as some proof of my fairly serious studying of these guys... In fact, over the past few years I have been laboring away at writing a book about them--not in the style of the Christian non-fiction "better living" book entitled "Twelve Ordinary Men"--but in a style that must by necessity be called historical fiction. In other words, it is a fictional account of the life of Jesus from the perspective of the twelve apostles. What do I mean by fictional? Do I mean the whole thing is pure fabrication? No. Here's where the self-contradiction comes in.
I have studied the gospel accounts to the extent that I am working on compiling a list of every recorded word spoken by any of the apostles. I have researched things like food and boats.
History.
I do not know why Thomas doubted Jesus. I do not know why Judas betrayed him. I don't know what foods Peter didn't like. I don't know anything about some of the lesser apostles. But I've put it in there.
Fiction.
All of this came to the forefront the other day in my PowerPoint class, of all places. A long time ago I had created a PowerPoint presentation based off of my story, including pictures and quotes representing each apostle. The creative-type people who watched this were all excited and moved. Others greeted it with neutrality. My PowerPoint teacher (being the highly scientific computer-science major that he was) responded uncertainly. How much of this had I made up? (Most of it) How much church lore had I studied? (None) How accurate was this? (I had no idea)
Historical fiction for kids (and most adult-oriented stuff as well), is focused on portraying a historical event or time through the eyes of fictional characters. A much smaller percentage takes a different approach: portraying a historical event or time through the eyes of a historical character. This defines my story, and this technique drives practical people up the wall. They read "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara and groan this isn't accurate! You can't know what General Robert E. Lee was thinking as he ordered Pickett's charge! True. But in this moment, historical fiction passes beyond "history" or "fiction" and into a sort of delicate psychology. If you have ever written this way, you will know what I mean. Unlike most historical fiction, books like "The Killer Angels", books like "The Once and Future King", books even like my apostle story, are formulated as a few fenceposts of solid, indisputable fact, strung together with strange, delicate, but educated guesswork. People who are deeply intuitive seem to do well with this.
It's something that you can't research. It's empathy. Sensitivity. Connection. Psychology. Common sense. It's a complete demolition of stereotypes. It involves giving a historical figure back his humanity. If you can figure it out, then it stops being work. The character speaks through you.
"The Killer Angels" and "The Once and Future King" are examples of this technique in its perfected form. The facts they portray are solid and true, their characters are unforgettable in their tragic, humorous depth. If I could achieve that in my own work, I would count myself blessed. It's not about offering facts about historical figures; it's about getting at the reader's heart and making him stop, and struggle with the solemn humanity of those in the past.
Later, if anyone is interested, I might post some examples, both from the above-mentioned works and my own writing.
Completely off-topic:
First vocabulary word of the New Year!
Abrogate ~ To abolish, do away with, or annul, especially by authority
Wednesday, December 17
Visual Argument
Here it is at long last! Sorry for YouTube's poor quality--it looked a lot better on my computer. I tried this "old film" effect on parts that ended up looking pretty strange on here. And I also apologize for the long pause at the beginning...it will start eventually, I promise!
Monday, December 15
Vocabulary and Pending Visual Argument
Here's some more vocabulary words:
Picayune ~ Of little value or importance, paltry
Abstemious ~ Marked by temperance
Macerate ~ To make soft and cause to desintegrate, usually by steeping in liquid
Confabulate ~ To talk casually, to chat
And a note about my visual argument this week: it is coming, it will just take a while to do, and thus will probably appear nearer to the end of the week.
Looking forward to seeing everyone else's visual arguments. This is definitely one of my favorite assignments so far.
Picayune ~ Of little value or importance, paltry
Abstemious ~ Marked by temperance
Macerate ~ To make soft and cause to desintegrate, usually by steeping in liquid
Confabulate ~ To talk casually, to chat
And a note about my visual argument this week: it is coming, it will just take a while to do, and thus will probably appear nearer to the end of the week.
Looking forward to seeing everyone else's visual arguments. This is definitely one of my favorite assignments so far.
Sunday, December 7
Sestinas
M'kay...so the other day I learned about a really awesome form of poetry I had never heard of before: the sestina. Sestinas originated a very long time ago, with medieval troubadors and such, but they actually lend themselves very well to modern, unrhymed poetry as well. Here's how they work (this is so cool!): 6 stanzas of six lines each, plus a concluding three-line stanza. The neat part is that each of the six stanzas has the same line-ending words, just in a different order. I know that sounds totally confusing, but here it is: If the lines of the first stanza end with the words "boy", "dog", "house", "lawn", "cars", and "suburb", then each of the other stanzas will have those same ending words in a re-arranged order (615243, if you're curious). So our example would go:
Stanza 1:
...boy
...dog
...house
...lawn
...cars
...suburb
Stanza 2:
...suburb
...boy
...cars
...dog
...lawn
...house
And so on for six stanzas. If you do it right, no two stanzas will have the same ending pattern. In the ending triplet, the six words are used in any order, one in the middle and one at the end of each line. So our example could end with something like:
...boy...house
...car...dog
...lawn...suburb
Needless to say, these are really difficult to write. At first I thought maybe I could just pull six completely random words out of the dictionary and use them...but that makes the poem almost nonsensical.
Here is an example of a "professional" sestina, which I really like:
http://poetry.about.com/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?zi=1/XJ/Ya&sdn=poetry&cdn=education&tm=15&gps=89_532_855_362&f=00&tt=14&bt=1&bts=0&zu=http%3A//www.sccs.swarthmore.edu/users/03/ahead/sestina.html
When I was trying to come up with an idea for my own sestina, I came across an example in a book that had a very cool layout. Since there is no set line length in this form, someone did a sestina that started with long lines and with each stanza grew shorter and shorter until the sixth stanza consisted only of the end words. In that case, then, you begin with six end words that, in some order, make a coherent sentence, and then work backwards through the previous five stanzas, working them in. This was so cool that I decided to try one of my own in this style. Unfortunately, this blog is so narrow that you lose the effect of the long lines getting shorter. But hopefully it gives the idea:
As a child, you tread lightly, carelessly, through time and you simply know “forever”
Is as elastic, as elusive, as empty of meaning, as “next week”. And to you “never”
Has no meaning. You only breathe and eat and sleep because that’s how you live
And somehow, unlike those grown folks, you have no eyes for the crouching fear.
Dancing down streams, peering around bends in the road, and plucking at flowers,
You notice people disappear sometimes but you figure they’re waiting somewhere.
When does the horror come crashing in? From nowhere? Somewhere?
Finally you realize just how much unspeakable time forever
Can span. When you cut them from the earth, fading flowers
Drop leaves on the oak table. Really, before you had never
Bothered to read the headlines. Now the quivering stench of fear
Rises from the newspaper at breakfast. See, child, where you live.
Or settle and watch television as it broadcasts live
From Africa, Asia, Europe, America, somewhere
Where the newsman chats confidentially about fear
And spilled blood and the empty losses of forever.
No sound, no sound comes after you reach never.
It is always gone there, where nothing new flowers.
Festoon graves with flowers.
Feel grateful that you, at least, live.
Cry, swear, that you will never
Forget those living somewhere
Whose hopes have faded forever
Into a broad enveloping fear.
Child, here I fear
The bright flowers
Let go of forever.
How can you live,
When somewhere
Dies into the never?
Never
Fear.
Somewhere
Flowers
Live
Forever.
You can’t expect the fear to pass away forever.
It dares to live on and on. But you’ve never
Tried picking up dirt somewhere to plant a flower.
The end...anyway, the next kind of poem I want to try is one...I can't remember the name right now...in which the first and third lines of one stanza become the second and fourth lines of the next...or maybe it's the other way around...
Stanza 1:
...boy
...dog
...house
...lawn
...cars
...suburb
Stanza 2:
...suburb
...boy
...cars
...dog
...lawn
...house
And so on for six stanzas. If you do it right, no two stanzas will have the same ending pattern. In the ending triplet, the six words are used in any order, one in the middle and one at the end of each line. So our example could end with something like:
...boy...house
...car...dog
...lawn...suburb
Needless to say, these are really difficult to write. At first I thought maybe I could just pull six completely random words out of the dictionary and use them...but that makes the poem almost nonsensical.
Here is an example of a "professional" sestina, which I really like:
http://poetry.about.com/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?zi=1/XJ/Ya&sdn=poetry&cdn=education&tm=15&gps=89_532_855_362&f=00&tt=14&bt=1&bts=0&zu=http%3A//www.sccs.swarthmore.edu/users/03/ahead/sestina.html
When I was trying to come up with an idea for my own sestina, I came across an example in a book that had a very cool layout. Since there is no set line length in this form, someone did a sestina that started with long lines and with each stanza grew shorter and shorter until the sixth stanza consisted only of the end words. In that case, then, you begin with six end words that, in some order, make a coherent sentence, and then work backwards through the previous five stanzas, working them in. This was so cool that I decided to try one of my own in this style. Unfortunately, this blog is so narrow that you lose the effect of the long lines getting shorter. But hopefully it gives the idea:
As a child, you tread lightly, carelessly, through time and you simply know “forever”
Is as elastic, as elusive, as empty of meaning, as “next week”. And to you “never”
Has no meaning. You only breathe and eat and sleep because that’s how you live
And somehow, unlike those grown folks, you have no eyes for the crouching fear.
Dancing down streams, peering around bends in the road, and plucking at flowers,
You notice people disappear sometimes but you figure they’re waiting somewhere.
When does the horror come crashing in? From nowhere? Somewhere?
Finally you realize just how much unspeakable time forever
Can span. When you cut them from the earth, fading flowers
Drop leaves on the oak table. Really, before you had never
Bothered to read the headlines. Now the quivering stench of fear
Rises from the newspaper at breakfast. See, child, where you live.
Or settle and watch television as it broadcasts live
From Africa, Asia, Europe, America, somewhere
Where the newsman chats confidentially about fear
And spilled blood and the empty losses of forever.
No sound, no sound comes after you reach never.
It is always gone there, where nothing new flowers.
Festoon graves with flowers.
Feel grateful that you, at least, live.
Cry, swear, that you will never
Forget those living somewhere
Whose hopes have faded forever
Into a broad enveloping fear.
Child, here I fear
The bright flowers
Let go of forever.
How can you live,
When somewhere
Dies into the never?
Never
Fear.
Somewhere
Flowers
Live
Forever.
You can’t expect the fear to pass away forever.
It dares to live on and on. But you’ve never
Tried picking up dirt somewhere to plant a flower.
The end...anyway, the next kind of poem I want to try is one...I can't remember the name right now...in which the first and third lines of one stanza become the second and fourth lines of the next...or maybe it's the other way around...
Monday, November 24
Short Stories Realized
Well, I promised I'd share the short story if I finished it. So here it is. I kind of rushed at the end, so I think it could have been a lot better. Maybe sometime I'll share something more polished that I've written. But anyway, here is this for now:
Parables
A farmer went out to sow his seed.
~~
He closed his book and turned out the lights and sat quietly by the window. Watching the city lights flicker in the rain, chasing thoughts through his mind, he tried to discover why the Bible had opened at that particular story—the parable of the farmer and his seed. What was he to do with it?
Finally, he sat back, satisfied. For him, it was a story of sowing and reaping. No matter what happened to the farmer’s crop, he kept sowing, and in the end he had a beautiful field which grew up despite the circumstances. What did God want to show him from this farmer? Could he be like this, sowing more every time his crop failed? Suddenly, he leaped to his feet as an idea came to him. From the weeds and the thorns could spring new seeds, to bring forth a great crop where nothing had yet grown.
Shrugging on his grey overcoat, he lofted his umbrella and tramped down three flights of stairs into the roaring downpour. Shop lights seemed to shimmer and run wetly in the distance, and the rain made a physical weight, a battering assault, upon the umbrella. He drew himself together inside his coat and weaved his way down the sidewalk, avoiding the torrent that had once been a gutter. After two blocks, he stopped before a small shop with only a dim light in the window which indicated that although it was open it did not expect any customers on such a night. Intrepid, he marched forward and thrust his weight against the glass door, setting off a cheerful rattle of bells as he staggered inside. The shop was so quiet that he halted, looking about until he spotted the Girl behind the counter, watching him. Awkwardly, he shook his umbrella and wrestled it closed before noting with consternation that he had created a puddle on the spotless floor.
“I – I’m sorry,” he stammered.
The Girl smiled. “It’s quite alright. Can I help you?”
Seeming ill at ease, the Man hesitatingly explained what he wished to do. “But I’ve no idea how to go about it. Could you perhaps show me what I ought to buy?”
“Of course. You’ll need a box, one of these. And a bag of this. Then you can pick whichever of these you’d like.”
“Splendid.” The Man surveyed the objects, then fished about for his wallet. “I’ll take thirty of everything.”
Her hand arrested over the register, the Girl shot him a startled glance. “Thirty, sir?”
“That’s right,” he returned cheerfully, suddenly imbued with purpose. “Is there a problem?”
“Oh, no. I just...how are you going to...?”
“That’s right, I suppose I should call a cab or something to carry all this. Can I use your phone?”
Bewildered, the Girl began to ring up the purchases, watching the Man as he argued happily with the cab service.
~~
As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.
~~
The Bank Manager paused for a moment before he turned the corner, peering at the Man who presided over the front desk. A pity, he thought. This Man had certainly proved himself in the years of his employment here. The elderly, the disabled, had always been greeted on their bank visit by this bright employee vaulting over the counter to hold the door open for them. Often they returned time after time, which was the part the Bank Manager cared about. Not only that, but this Man was hardworking, laboring at unpaid overtime if he did not finish his task during the day.
But something had to be done about this other affair.
Taking a deep breath, the Manager entered the room.
“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you’re having a wonderful day.” This was the Man’s habitual greeting every time the Manager entered.
“We need to talk,” the Manager rejoined curtly, offering no information about the quality of his day.
The Man’s eyes were empty.
He had no idea what was coming. Like a lamb to slaughter.
“Certainly, sir.” He smiled.
“It’s the other desk clerks. The girls say you’ve been messing with them when no one’s around. And they all say you’re taking customers’ personal information, charging them for nonexistent expenses, and pocketing the difference. We can’t have that.”
Slowly, a cold, silent understanding grew in the Man’s eyes—a realization that something was going terribly wrong. “I didn’t. I haven’t.”
Of course the Manager knew this. He would believe the Man’s word over that of all his other employees put together. But that would be bad business. They didn’t like this Man, for his goodness and innocence and his cheerful smile every morning, and the Manager couldn’t risk losing all his employees over this one.
“You’re outnumbered. I am afraid I’m obliged to fire you. I probably even need to call the police on you, but if you leave nicely, I might forget about that part.”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t understand how this could happen. Please at least give me a chance to defend myself.”
“If you don’t make me involve the law, you might be able to get another job. Leave.”
“Sir, you can’t just throw me out. I have rights.”
The Manager leaned back on the counter and reached for the telephone. “You want to chat to the police about this, buddy? I’m telling you, anyone in this building would testify against you in a second.” He started to dial.
Staring in shock, the Man started to back up. “I swear I’m innocent,” he stammered, but the Manager simply started to hum absently. Finally reaching the door, the Man turned away and dashed down the sidewalk.
The Manager started to put the phone down, then paused. This whole exchange had put him in a bad mood. Though the Man was nowhere in sight, he called the police anyway.
Sitting in his apartment again, head buried in his hands, the Man fought with himself.
He forced himself to remember what he had promised himself and God. Anytime something goes wrong...but this was different. It was huge. He had just lost his livelihood and his good name.
He had promised, however—even if it was just a silent promise to an invisible God. What good was his word if he dropped it at the first sign of real pain? Finally, he rose and approached his closet, pulling open the door. He hauled out an armful of boxes, then returned for the bags, making a dirty streak across his carpet as he dragged them to his kitchen table. Pausing, he recalled the Shop Girl’s instructions, and then slowly and carefully set about his task.
Several hours later, he left his apartment and wandered down the hallway, knocking on the first door he came to.
~~
Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly,
because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched,
and they withered because they had no root.
~~
The Girl left the Man sitting limply on a park bench as she rushed away into the cold wind. Angry tears wet her face as she lifted her eyes to the boiling grey sky.
How could he demand so much of her?
When he came to her that afternoon with anxious eyes and earnest voice, she had noticed first of all the dirt ingrained under his fingernails. This had puzzled her, but it soon slipped her mind. She had never seen him this perturbed.
“I owe you an apology,” he began as they strolled around the park.
“Yes. You forgot my birthday again.” She poked him teasingly, but he did not smile.
“No. I’m sorry, but I’ve let this relationship get way too serious.”
She looked up at him. “What’s so bad about that?”
“You know that I’m a Christian and you’re not. And that means we can’t get married—at least not the way things are now. But I’ve been ignoring that because I liked you so much, and now I’ve got to say this and it’s not fair to you.” He looked at her with a sudden hope. “Would you like to come to church with me?”
She had hardened suddenly. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we be together without you forcing your beliefs on me?”
“I’m not forcing. I’m just asking.” He sat down on the bench and gestured for her to do likewise. She instead remained standing, facing him. “Please be willing to give it a try. I’m so sorry I haven’t brought it up before now. I really care about you, and I don’t want to have to end this relationship.”
“You would do that?” She felt attacked, bewildered. How could he demand this? Didn’t he love her at all? “You’re turning into some kind of religious crazy. If you’re going to be that way, I’m out of here. Tell me this is all a joke.”
He sat back and looked at her helplessly.
“Fine.” She was wearing the necklace he had given her for Christmas last year. Pulling it off, she threw it at him and left.
That night, he returned to his closet. It had started the week stuffed to overflowing. Now it was nearly empty.
Every time, he pulled out an armful of boxes.
Every time, he knocked on a few more doors and met a few more blank looks.
Every time, the wounds on his heart grew deeper.
~~
Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.
~~
Every afternoon, the three Women stood and gossiped as they retrieved their mail from the main lobby of the apartment building. Today was the first day they had something interesting to talk about.
“Did you see the police here last night?” The Woman fluttered her Macy’s Christmas catalogue in excitement. “They came in here and arrested the Man who lives in the apartment next to me.”
The second Woman tore an advertisement in half and threw it in the waste basket. “What did they arrest him for? And why on earth did they send you a Macy’s Christmas catalogue in October?”
“It comes earlier every year, my dear,” continued the first Woman. “Anyway, I heard them say he was charged with evading the law and was under suspicion for defrauding a bank and for harassment. He said he didn’t even know they were looking for him.”
“Sad. He seemed like a nice Man—went to church and all that. But you never can tell. I guess we won’t be seeing him again.”
The third Woman spoke up. “He showed up at my door about three nights ago, and let me tell you, he looked positively ill. Thin, pale, tired. Like he was the one who’d been defrauded and harassed. But he looked peaceful.”
“He didn’t make a fuss when he was arrested, either.”
“He showed up at my door last week.”
“And mine on Tuesday. It was the oddest thing...”
~~
Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred
times what was sown.
~~
The Businessman sighed as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and peered out the taxi window. His winter in Florida had been relaxing, but now that it was summer he had been forced to return to the city. Besides, he needed to check on the apartment buildings he owned. They were such drab places; he had been pondering the whole way back what he could do to fix them up.
As the taxi rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the first apartment building, the Businessman’s mouth fell open in astonishment. He hardly noticed the stained brick walls or the rusting metal of the balcony railings. Outside of every window on all three levels hung a green plastic window box. From each window box sprouted a riot of color—flowers of every description. Several of the tenants were hanging happily out of their windows, watering their flowers, and waved to him as he climbed out of the cab. Baffled, he hurried inside and caught a Woman by the elbow just as she was about to depart with her mail.
“What happened here?” he queried. “Where did all the flowers come from?”
“It’s a strange thing.” The Woman shook her head. “There was this Man who lived here, and one week he just started showing up at all the doors, one after the other. He gave each person a window box full of seeds. He didn’t exactly say why.”
“Where is he? I must thank him.”
“He was arrested last autumn...but he sure left something behind, didn’t he? Just something for each window. That’s all it took. And let me tell you—the difference he’s made to the building, inside and out, is beyond belief.”
The Business man returned to the street and looked up at the building again, scratching his head.
And the sun shone down, and the flowers grew, and the whole building stood as brightly as a peaceful smile on a tired face.
~~
He who has ears, let him hear.
A farmer went out to sow his seed.
~~
He closed his book and turned out the lights and sat quietly by the window. Watching the city lights flicker in the rain, chasing thoughts through his mind, he tried to discover why the Bible had opened at that particular story—the parable of the farmer and his seed. What was he to do with it?
Finally, he sat back, satisfied. For him, it was a story of sowing and reaping. No matter what happened to the farmer’s crop, he kept sowing, and in the end he had a beautiful field which grew up despite the circumstances. What did God want to show him from this farmer? Could he be like this, sowing more every time his crop failed? Suddenly, he leaped to his feet as an idea came to him. From the weeds and the thorns could spring new seeds, to bring forth a great crop where nothing had yet grown.
Shrugging on his grey overcoat, he lofted his umbrella and tramped down three flights of stairs into the roaring downpour. Shop lights seemed to shimmer and run wetly in the distance, and the rain made a physical weight, a battering assault, upon the umbrella. He drew himself together inside his coat and weaved his way down the sidewalk, avoiding the torrent that had once been a gutter. After two blocks, he stopped before a small shop with only a dim light in the window which indicated that although it was open it did not expect any customers on such a night. Intrepid, he marched forward and thrust his weight against the glass door, setting off a cheerful rattle of bells as he staggered inside. The shop was so quiet that he halted, looking about until he spotted the Girl behind the counter, watching him. Awkwardly, he shook his umbrella and wrestled it closed before noting with consternation that he had created a puddle on the spotless floor.
“I – I’m sorry,” he stammered.
The Girl smiled. “It’s quite alright. Can I help you?”
Seeming ill at ease, the Man hesitatingly explained what he wished to do. “But I’ve no idea how to go about it. Could you perhaps show me what I ought to buy?”
“Of course. You’ll need a box, one of these. And a bag of this. Then you can pick whichever of these you’d like.”
“Splendid.” The Man surveyed the objects, then fished about for his wallet. “I’ll take thirty of everything.”
Her hand arrested over the register, the Girl shot him a startled glance. “Thirty, sir?”
“That’s right,” he returned cheerfully, suddenly imbued with purpose. “Is there a problem?”
“Oh, no. I just...how are you going to...?”
“That’s right, I suppose I should call a cab or something to carry all this. Can I use your phone?”
Bewildered, the Girl began to ring up the purchases, watching the Man as he argued happily with the cab service.
~~
As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.
~~
The Bank Manager paused for a moment before he turned the corner, peering at the Man who presided over the front desk. A pity, he thought. This Man had certainly proved himself in the years of his employment here. The elderly, the disabled, had always been greeted on their bank visit by this bright employee vaulting over the counter to hold the door open for them. Often they returned time after time, which was the part the Bank Manager cared about. Not only that, but this Man was hardworking, laboring at unpaid overtime if he did not finish his task during the day.
But something had to be done about this other affair.
Taking a deep breath, the Manager entered the room.
“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you’re having a wonderful day.” This was the Man’s habitual greeting every time the Manager entered.
“We need to talk,” the Manager rejoined curtly, offering no information about the quality of his day.
The Man’s eyes were empty.
He had no idea what was coming. Like a lamb to slaughter.
“Certainly, sir.” He smiled.
“It’s the other desk clerks. The girls say you’ve been messing with them when no one’s around. And they all say you’re taking customers’ personal information, charging them for nonexistent expenses, and pocketing the difference. We can’t have that.”
Slowly, a cold, silent understanding grew in the Man’s eyes—a realization that something was going terribly wrong. “I didn’t. I haven’t.”
Of course the Manager knew this. He would believe the Man’s word over that of all his other employees put together. But that would be bad business. They didn’t like this Man, for his goodness and innocence and his cheerful smile every morning, and the Manager couldn’t risk losing all his employees over this one.
“You’re outnumbered. I am afraid I’m obliged to fire you. I probably even need to call the police on you, but if you leave nicely, I might forget about that part.”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t understand how this could happen. Please at least give me a chance to defend myself.”
“If you don’t make me involve the law, you might be able to get another job. Leave.”
“Sir, you can’t just throw me out. I have rights.”
The Manager leaned back on the counter and reached for the telephone. “You want to chat to the police about this, buddy? I’m telling you, anyone in this building would testify against you in a second.” He started to dial.
Staring in shock, the Man started to back up. “I swear I’m innocent,” he stammered, but the Manager simply started to hum absently. Finally reaching the door, the Man turned away and dashed down the sidewalk.
The Manager started to put the phone down, then paused. This whole exchange had put him in a bad mood. Though the Man was nowhere in sight, he called the police anyway.
Sitting in his apartment again, head buried in his hands, the Man fought with himself.
He forced himself to remember what he had promised himself and God. Anytime something goes wrong...but this was different. It was huge. He had just lost his livelihood and his good name.
He had promised, however—even if it was just a silent promise to an invisible God. What good was his word if he dropped it at the first sign of real pain? Finally, he rose and approached his closet, pulling open the door. He hauled out an armful of boxes, then returned for the bags, making a dirty streak across his carpet as he dragged them to his kitchen table. Pausing, he recalled the Shop Girl’s instructions, and then slowly and carefully set about his task.
Several hours later, he left his apartment and wandered down the hallway, knocking on the first door he came to.
~~
Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly,
because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched,
and they withered because they had no root.
~~
The Girl left the Man sitting limply on a park bench as she rushed away into the cold wind. Angry tears wet her face as she lifted her eyes to the boiling grey sky.
How could he demand so much of her?
When he came to her that afternoon with anxious eyes and earnest voice, she had noticed first of all the dirt ingrained under his fingernails. This had puzzled her, but it soon slipped her mind. She had never seen him this perturbed.
“I owe you an apology,” he began as they strolled around the park.
“Yes. You forgot my birthday again.” She poked him teasingly, but he did not smile.
“No. I’m sorry, but I’ve let this relationship get way too serious.”
She looked up at him. “What’s so bad about that?”
“You know that I’m a Christian and you’re not. And that means we can’t get married—at least not the way things are now. But I’ve been ignoring that because I liked you so much, and now I’ve got to say this and it’s not fair to you.” He looked at her with a sudden hope. “Would you like to come to church with me?”
She had hardened suddenly. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we be together without you forcing your beliefs on me?”
“I’m not forcing. I’m just asking.” He sat down on the bench and gestured for her to do likewise. She instead remained standing, facing him. “Please be willing to give it a try. I’m so sorry I haven’t brought it up before now. I really care about you, and I don’t want to have to end this relationship.”
“You would do that?” She felt attacked, bewildered. How could he demand this? Didn’t he love her at all? “You’re turning into some kind of religious crazy. If you’re going to be that way, I’m out of here. Tell me this is all a joke.”
He sat back and looked at her helplessly.
“Fine.” She was wearing the necklace he had given her for Christmas last year. Pulling it off, she threw it at him and left.
That night, he returned to his closet. It had started the week stuffed to overflowing. Now it was nearly empty.
Every time, he pulled out an armful of boxes.
Every time, he knocked on a few more doors and met a few more blank looks.
Every time, the wounds on his heart grew deeper.
~~
Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.
~~
Every afternoon, the three Women stood and gossiped as they retrieved their mail from the main lobby of the apartment building. Today was the first day they had something interesting to talk about.
“Did you see the police here last night?” The Woman fluttered her Macy’s Christmas catalogue in excitement. “They came in here and arrested the Man who lives in the apartment next to me.”
The second Woman tore an advertisement in half and threw it in the waste basket. “What did they arrest him for? And why on earth did they send you a Macy’s Christmas catalogue in October?”
“It comes earlier every year, my dear,” continued the first Woman. “Anyway, I heard them say he was charged with evading the law and was under suspicion for defrauding a bank and for harassment. He said he didn’t even know they were looking for him.”
“Sad. He seemed like a nice Man—went to church and all that. But you never can tell. I guess we won’t be seeing him again.”
The third Woman spoke up. “He showed up at my door about three nights ago, and let me tell you, he looked positively ill. Thin, pale, tired. Like he was the one who’d been defrauded and harassed. But he looked peaceful.”
“He didn’t make a fuss when he was arrested, either.”
“He showed up at my door last week.”
“And mine on Tuesday. It was the oddest thing...”
~~
Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred
times what was sown.
~~
The Businessman sighed as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and peered out the taxi window. His winter in Florida had been relaxing, but now that it was summer he had been forced to return to the city. Besides, he needed to check on the apartment buildings he owned. They were such drab places; he had been pondering the whole way back what he could do to fix them up.
As the taxi rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the first apartment building, the Businessman’s mouth fell open in astonishment. He hardly noticed the stained brick walls or the rusting metal of the balcony railings. Outside of every window on all three levels hung a green plastic window box. From each window box sprouted a riot of color—flowers of every description. Several of the tenants were hanging happily out of their windows, watering their flowers, and waved to him as he climbed out of the cab. Baffled, he hurried inside and caught a Woman by the elbow just as she was about to depart with her mail.
“What happened here?” he queried. “Where did all the flowers come from?”
“It’s a strange thing.” The Woman shook her head. “There was this Man who lived here, and one week he just started showing up at all the doors, one after the other. He gave each person a window box full of seeds. He didn’t exactly say why.”
“Where is he? I must thank him.”
“He was arrested last autumn...but he sure left something behind, didn’t he? Just something for each window. That’s all it took. And let me tell you—the difference he’s made to the building, inside and out, is beyond belief.”
The Business man returned to the street and looked up at the building again, scratching his head.
And the sun shone down, and the flowers grew, and the whole building stood as brightly as a peaceful smile on a tired face.
~~
He who has ears, let him hear.
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