Meditations. Words. That Which Cometh Out of a Man.

I am the same which spake,
and the world was made,
and all things came by me.
D&C 38:3

I stutter.
It can get worse when I am tired. Or if I audition for a play. Sometimes in church settings. Stress, too.
Or none of these things at all.

My family says they do not hear it.
In the car we discuss the movie we have seen, a king trying to take words from inside him and pour them out his mouth and into his people. As we discuss the story of the king and the therapist and stammering and stuttering and I talk about the ways in which I am similar to and different from the king, the painter says, "The trouble, the problem, with you is that you don't stutter enough."

Do you have those moments when your understanding of English, of communion between humans, of myriad meanings and any sort of guessing as to another person's possible intent, flees, deserts you and you stare, empty; the most inner space which should be warm and whispering and teeming with thoughts and feelings and what you are planning to say next desolate and whistling as outside air blows frozen and unimpeded across your perfectly blank mind?
I looked at the painter, when he said that, from such a place. I could not for the life of me figure out his words.

Insufficient stuttering is not the trouble, the problem, with me.

I stutter. I stutter a lot.

That's not what he meant, of course. His meaning didn't match the words he used. What he meant is that he has lost his ability to grasp it, the stuttering, to pull up from his memory stumbling specimens for examination, to tease my speech apart and figure it out. There's no longer enough of it for him to grab hold. It is not gone; it is gone from him.

I know I do it. I am strategic. I make choices, mindfully breathing, picking and choosing from among thousands of words those least likely to trip me up, to knock me down. Still, as my sister says, at some point you're gonna have to face using words that begin with W. Like, for example, word. Like that. You may be able to think of a few more W words difficult to avoid. And then Y is tricky. L is nasty. My daughter's name begins with L. S can be a problem-- obvious difficulties there. Watch me take a careful breath before I tell you my name. Watch me stumble anyway. You will lean forward, tiny frown, tiny smile. "What's that? What was--I didn't catch--"
Watch me. Another breath. Second try will be much better. Or much, much worse.
Watch me do this all my life.

I'm just shaping the sound,
I'm just turning the syllables round.
Dipping my toe in the water
and watching you drown.
-Keane, Again and Again

I know I stutter because people misunderstand. I misstep, hit the first syllable of a word twice and people react to what they heard, repeat it; amused and/or annoyed that I have made a stupid and mildly funny joke, a broken pun, an annoying embroidery on a bit of conversation. They throw it back at me, ha, this is funny-dumb, you said a dumb-funny thing, ha. I have to look at them, have to say into their eyes, "No, I didn't say that. I stutter." Clatter, smash. You can hear that word go to pieces on the stones at the bottom of polite conversation. I stutter. Like a special parking permit. Allows me to stop this friendly flow of unexamined words in their tracks. Baby, nobody adult wants you to say I stutter when they have just tossed a casual, a thoughtless-- no-- an unconsidered slur on something you've said. Makes them, suddenly, nakedly, afraid they might actually, after all, secretly, be not so nice people. As they feared all along.
You should try it.

And the Lord said unto him,
Who hath made man's mouth?
or who maketh the dumb,
or deaf,
or the seeing,
or the blind?
have not I the Lord?
Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth,
and teach thee what thou shalt say.
-Exodus 4:11&12

A woman comes to me at church after I have taught a lesson. "You stutter," she announces without preamble or introductions (lucky for me), "you stutter and stutter and look at you! Just look at you!" I look at me. I do not know what she is talking about. Has she come up to me after class, made all this social effort in order to hand me an atta-boy award? "Look how it doesn't stop you, how you think you can just talk anyway." She goes on, flows and gushes on, words pouring unbroken and pure from her so I have not time to perceive, let alone give form to the aghast thoughts rising and fluttering in masses inside my head. "My daughter stutters and she will not speak. Will not. I can't get her to speak even with us, even with people who don't care. She just has stopped talking and I just wish," she's holding on to my arm, crying a little and twisting it, "that she could have heard you give this lovely lesson and stutter!"

I sift through words in order to speak. I re-order. I substitute. It's a habit. I listen. I think. I will take your sentence apart and put it back together.
...will not speak...even with people who don't care.
She doesn't mean this thing she's said, exactly.
She means her daughter will no longer speak; of course, she must have once spoken. Will no longer speak even with people who do care. People who do care about this girl enough to want her words limping and crippled, who still care so much for her they want her insides to show on the outside. People willing to trade caring about the form and precision and beauty of spoken words (because they do care, they do, we all care, observe our love affair with the British accent) for a share in this girl's thoughts and opinions and bad jokes, however marred, however fragmented.

...you think you can just talk anyway.
It is a new world this nice, concerned and moved Mormon lady opens to me. One I had not before considered. I might, in my life, have chosen a different world. I might have chosen silence.

Then I said, Woe is Me!
for I am undone;
because I am a man of unclean lips,
and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips;
for mine eyes have seen the King,
the Lord of hosts.
Then flew one of the seraphims unto me,
having a live coal in his hand,
which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar:
And he laid it upon my mouth,
and said
Lo, this hath touched thy lips;
and thine iniquity is taken away and thy sin is purged.
Isaiah 6:5-7

I stutter. And I talk too much.
I talk all the time. Incessantly. About everything. Need something said? I work for free. And I never shy away from anything except asking people questions about their lives. That's yucky, but the rest of spoken everything is free game. Ask me a question. My response may or may not include a long and detailed story about my life, ruminations on word origins and connotative meanings, digressions into the causes of the Battle of Hastings and speculations as to its effect on fast food in America and some pointed observations on modern Mormon mores. If you can keep your wits about you and your focus sharp (if you can stay awake) you will see all those words will be my answer to your question. Sometimes a friend will ask a question innocently and unguardedly and I will take a breath and there's this suspended moment when we look at each other and then I say, "Do you really want this answer? Or shall I say, 'It was fine' ?" and they think about it. Some go one way, some go another.
I talk.
To people. All, all, all the time.
Hands, face, body, words, words, words.
I'm the one who says, "That's a cheap answer. That's easy to say."
The book club girl who says, "Huh. I don't think it means that at all. And by the way I didn't like this book."
The one who says, "Wait a minute-- what did you just say?"
The one who says, "What could that possibly mean? What on earth do you think they thought they were saying?"
I say, "Wait, I don't understand. You lost me. What are you talking about?"
"What do you mean," I say, "Why?" "How so?" "And is that true? Do you think that's true?"
My friend says, stopped in his tracks, caught short by some query, "Man, you are just the one to stick people with tough questions, aren't you?" I have stuck him by asking him to explain why he chose those words he has just used.
Look how it doesn't stop you, how you think you can just talk anyway.

But it might have been different. This had simply never occurred to me.

And behold, the glory of the Lord was upon Moses,
so that Moses stood in the presence of God,
and talked with him face to face.
And the Lord God said unto Moses,
For mine own purpose have I made these things.
Here is wisdom and it remaineth in me.
And by the word of my power have I created them...
-Moses 1:31&32

Lately I am plagued by people running from their own words. People who claim not to have meant what they said, who cast from themselves the words of their own making like so many bastard children. Sorry, Son, whatever it was in my head that I meant at the time I certainly never meant to make you. Distancing themselves as if these things out of their mouths were not things made, chosen, but things that came upon them in some sort of fit, outside their control, like storm squalls or tax law.
That was said in anger, it was because I was desperate, I don't know why you feel this way about what I said, I'm not sure I want to be held to those words, just because I said it he thinks I meant it, she is holding me to what I said but---
but
but
I want to not be held
to,
by,
these words
I have made.

they're only words they're only words they're only words

DAMN IT, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken, and I excuse not myself;
and though the heavens and the earth pass away,
my word shall not pass away, but shall all be fulfilled,
whether by mine own voice, or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.
-D&C 1:38

Begin picking words, selecting between them, at about the age of three. Take careful breaths. Listen. Otherwise, if I cannot get some control of this thing outside my control, I will have to spend more time with the school speech pathologist. We met, the pathologist and I, when I was in third grade. He was the first ever adult I realized was unable to keep up his end of a conversation. I tried to speak very carefully around my teachers after that so as to minimize therapy and contact. Breathe. Think about all the words that do not begin with W, L, S, Y...

I would say that I'm sorry if it would do any good
But to never regret means you have to forget
and I don't think that I could.

Don't say words you don't mean,
When I'm gone please speak well of me.
-The Weepies, Please Speak Well of Me

It's a story we tell, a world we make and we make it all out of words. What do I know of you? Your dress, your countenance, your movements, your deeds, your words. Nuances of dress may elude you, your face is what you wore into the world, all we can do to be known is move our limbs and shape the air that passes from our lungs. Marks on paper, movements through time and space, vibrations of air across vocal cords. Of such tiny stuff are our whole selves made, as far as concerns others and their knowing of us. How to connect, ever, worlds without end, except through our saying? And then, that anyone would desire, embrace, pursue, seek to disown their words? To be separated, divided, from their own making of meaning?
How terrifying.
Not that we wouldn't take back. Not that we wouldn't regret. Not that there's no place in the world for an editor (heaven knows). Not that anyone can get it right.
It's a question of ownership.

Not much for conversation
I still find need to pray
Sometimes I get tired of walking
Through these ordinary days
If nothing else I get to see you
Even if we never speak
The harm of words is sometimes
We don't quite know
What they really mean
-Jars of Clay, Ordinary Days

In the beginning was the Word.
And,
the Word was God.

My niece is small, three years old. Pretty, blond, a good girl. Earnest. Smart. She began stuttering one day. Out of the blue. Fully developed inability to get sounds out.
Why?
And how you gonna get along without W words, baby?
She tries. Deliberately. Carefully. Breathes. Tries. Heartbreaking to watch.
One day, playing with her cousins, she breaks. Cries, stops speaking. Withdraws.
...even with people who don't care.
Her mother is good, a good mama. We have spoken, counseled, she is sensible, not making too great a fuss, exerting any sort of pressure or weight, we know this is common, will probably not last, is not the end of the world.
Only, of course, it might be. It might be the end of that world in which this little girl speaks freely.
Look at you...how you think you can just talk anyway.
Her momma tries to comfort a despair too huge for only three years of living. "Maybe, maybe tonight we can pray to Jesus and He can start to take this away, to help you." Words said in hope, to push away pain. The little girl grasps them, the words, takes them, makes them real. She goes immediately, prays. By herself. Makes words and gives them to God and no one hears those words but God. We will not know if she had to chose between tricky words and the faithful friends. She has not stuttered since that conversation with the God she loves and trusts, to whom she has spoken.

But remember that all my judgments are not given unto men;
and as the words have gone forth out of my mouth even so shall they be fulfilled,
that the first shall be last,
and that the last shall be first in all things
whatsoever I have created by the word of my power,
which is the power of my spirit.
D&C 29:30

Never occurred to me, that there might have been a different world.

In the movie the king makes his speech. "Breathe," says his therapist, just before the terrible moment, the crisis. And after, after the words have come out and not come out, after the great and terrible, limping success, the therapist tells the king he did stumble on some of the W's. He had to leave those in, the king says, had to put them there so the people would know it was him.

I stutter. You know it's me.

For it is my voice which speaketh them unto you;
for they are given by my spirit unto you,
and by my power you can read them one to another;
and save it were by my power you could not have them;
Wherefore you can testify that you have heard my voice,
and know my words.
D&C 18:35&36


Noah's photos

Stories. Dreaming. The First Part.

Brian Kershisnik, Practice

The reason angels can fly is because they take themselves lightly.
~G.K. Chesterton, "Orthodoxy"

He says, leaning over remains of soup and noodles and Beef Waterfall, that he has only one recurring dream, a dream that came to him as an adult. The other man leans back, listening, and though he speaks not of dreams recurring or of dreams singular, I know he dreams seldom but that his dreams, when they come, linger long, unsettle the order, can deeply upset him. They are quiet about their dreaming, these two men, but I ask them questions and questions; I cannot stop myself (I do not), I always must know the details, the twists and turns of other people's thoughts directed and thoughts aimless in waking consciousness or of thoughts spinning and twirling in sleep.

We talk of dreams.
I'm one of those recurring-dream people.

The earliest dream of any dream I can remember is of standing on a bridge at night, a bridge lit by city lights, and looking over its edge into distant water so far below me that I can hardly make it out. I gaze and peer and stare, enticed, griped by a formless dread or desire. A river, a river flowing far below the streets of the night city. I get over or through or around the railings and there, built into the edge of the bridge, just below where my feet had been when I still stood safe behind the handrails, is a little platform that pulls out, like a bread board in a kitchen counter, like a writing board in a rolltop desk. In the dream I must pull this out to stand on so I can see further down, over the edge into the water, which is so very far below me. Still I don't see far enough and I pull out the little platform more, and a bit more, but cannot yet see whatever it is I need to see through all the dark distance and I inch the platform out more and then it's too far and it all comes uncoupled and I'm falling and the platform falls with me and I wake up, heart exploding in my chest, just before I die. I will dream of this bridge and its strange viewing platform dozens of times before I turn eight and we move to Utah. I have no idea why I need to look down and down, what I am striving to make out, nor why I must pull out the little platform and pull it out and pull it out til it tips me, slides me into the dropping darkness like a body slides off a plank over a ship's side and into the ocean. That's the shape, the destiny, of the dream, it's how it goes, and it's always the same. I dream this and I am, what? three years old? four? Being the child I am I will hold the horror close and close and never speak of it all the years of my life til now.

Please help me, I'm falling...
Close the door to temptation, don't let me walk through
Robertson & Blair, Please Help Me

One night will be the last time I fall off the bridge. I will catch myself in the dreaming, somewhere between the first look over the side and my climb through the rails. I will recognize the bridge, think, oh, yeah. Here. This place. Why do I do this? Why pull out the platform and strain over the side? Why die for this view? And though I will not quite change that destiny, though I will slide into the river, I will fall slowly enough to think it through, to decide this is pointless and to be done with it.
I will never dream of the bread-board-viewing-platform again. And I will be about eight years old.

Many's the time I've been mistaken
And many times confused
Yes, and I've often felt forsaken
And certainly misused
Oh, but I'm all right, I'm all right
I'm just weary to my bones
Still, you don't expect to be
Bright and bon vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home
-Paul Simon, American Tune

Then the jumping dream comes.
In this dream I can jump so very high and then even higher, rising above trees, then above buildings, into sky that is measurably colder and I do, I jump and jump because seriously, who wouldn't? And I keep jumping into air thinner and air stranger til suddenly (always on the way up and up) things take a dream twist and I (every time) realize that I have been here before, I always, always jump higher and higher until I am irrevocably outside my own control. Though I am on to this, canny, realizing the dream, I still follow its shape to the inevitable end. Horribly, now I am a little older I no longer wake up before I hit the ground. In jumping dreams I hit squarely, solidly, flatly, abruptly, and it kills me. I slam awake, dead. There is this literally breathless moment before my heart hits me inside my chest so hard it makes me alive again and I lie in the darkness, gasping, alive, waiting for my chest to stop hurting so I can sleep again.


Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers.
~Titus Maccius Plautus

Even though in these dreams I know each time when I feel the dreamscape skid away from me that this is a dream, it is not real, this time round I never get to that why-perform-this-pointless-dream-action-anyway epiphany and I'll tell you why. Unlike teetering on the edge of a bridge-extension bread-board in order to gaze upon distant water drowned in darkness, jumping higher than even mountains can grow is not stupid, folks. It's great. And there's no way, no way, I'm ever going to talk myself into wanting to give it up.

There is an art, or rather a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.
~Douglas Adams, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

About the time I left home for college these dreams became a terrible burden. I was dying too many times a week and my heart was aching in my chest during the day, during classes. From the strain, I guess. I was losing too much sleep waiting for my pulse to calm down after falling such a long, long way, for my heart to calm back into normal living. Then came a night when, after I hit the ground, the dream didn't end as it usually did. I lay flattened face down into the dream dirt waiting helplessly to be awake and alive again and I was given to know in a firm and kindly way that this could not go on. I was going to have to change things. I was going to have to learn to fly.

And I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
or driven to its knees
but it's all right, it's all right
for we lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the
road we're traveling on
I wonder what's gone wrong
I can't help it, I wonder what's gone wrong
-Paul Simon

Learn to fly.
Learn.
To fly.

"What can you conceive more silly and extravagant than to suppose a man racking his brains, and studying night and day how to fly?"
— William Law, 'A Serious Call to a Devout and Holly Life XI,' 1728.

Have you ever wrangled your brain around beginning to learn how to learn to fly? Not wonky sweating with pencil and paper or light wood and cloth or sheet metal and plexiglass to invent or to construct (supposing one were so inclined) a machine on whose cold, unbreathing back one might rest between rigid and strutted wings while an engine performed the work, released the power from fuels stored underground in secret black lakes of oil, freed the force and spark left from myriad ancient lives that can now, with a little geometry, a little physics and good weather, give you, the rocket man, lift, thrust and speed. No, baby, I mean unassisted flight. Just your human soft and squishiness, all by your onesie. No wings of wax and feathers, no rocket pack, no wires. Over a long and painfilled series of nights I stump around the problem, regard it critically from multiple angles, take running starts and stabs, mull on it as I mull over my chemistry chapters. How to begin to try to figure out how I can begin to learn to fly. Do you run and jump? Arm stuck out and stiff, fist clenched, head down, muscling your way into the ether? Appears to work for Superman. And I run, I jump. Jump, I can, (it's a problem, remember?) far, high, as is my wont. And I fall, far and hard, as is my wont. And I jump again. Farther. Higher. Concentrate. Fall. Farther. Hit. Harder. Arm stuck out stiff, fist clenched, diving straight into the dirt. Heart hurting in class during the day.

Brian Kershisnik, Victim Man

I try ballerina leaps. Fly like the gazelle flies. This is good. Seven league leaps. Not flying exactly, but certainly running with style. Panache, even. Citius, altius, fortius. And a slip in the structure, a twist in the mindscape and a skid and a fatal crash. Heart break.
And again.
And again.
One night I am surprised in my practice by one I know in dreams, one who wishes me ill. I never saw him coming but come he did, wondering, suddenly, over my shoulder, soft into my ear, just what it was I was doing? And if there was something, some other thing, he and I could do? Together?
I run.
He runs.
I jump obstacles. No one can jump like I can jump. Fly like the gazelle flies. I am forever and forever away from him and I risk a look back.
He can jump, too.
A stagger. A kink. I stumble.
He flies like the gazelle. He does not stumble. He is coming he is here he is smiling and he is not smiling. This is not going to be death like falling. This is not falling.
And I can fly. Not far. Not long. But fly, which he cannot. I know the trick. The trick of kicking free from earth and lying softly upon the air that loves me, will hold me, will swim with me and around me and through me just as water swims me along.
I fly away.
I can sleep in the air.

He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.
~Friedrich Nietzsche

Control is troublesome, I am unwieldy, too many thoughts for the sky. I get flushed with victories, over confident at tiny successes and go too high, fall to far, wake with my heart slamming me back into life like it's trying to pound its way out of my chest.
This goes on for about a year.
Then I forget I ever could not fly.

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying
And high up above my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty
Sailing away to sea
And I dreamed I was crying
-Paul Simon

So I fly. Because, really, folks, who would not? Around, where people can't see me, at first, because people aren't supposed to know that other people can fly. After a long time I realize people aren't ever going to see me, that people simply don't see one of their own flying past, and I'm not so careful anymore. Still, I try to stay out of sight, try not to draw attention, swimming delicious in my delirious secret. Showing off to myself, visiting exotic and imaginary places for free, flying in the stars after dark, napping in the air. Turning somersaults, walking across ceilings (specialized flight), zipping at crazy speeds between evergreens in dense forests (especially in the crisply blue dusk), prowling through abandoned, ruined buildings, taking the stairs (get it?). And once or twice, in a panic, in a horrible dream, trying to save my own life, I can't fly when I need to, can't get off the ground even though I can, damn it, I can. The bad guys, the monsters, they get me. But here's my terrible truth. Sheer delight wears off after a time. It just does and flying becomes tame, routine, and mundane once you can count on it forever and always. I stop dreaming it every night. It becomes, well, a recurring dreamscape feature, like running very fast and far, or being able to swim and swim like a fish (which I can't at all in this world, or not well) or not being able to open my eyes, keep them open (dream that all the time). First, I come to fly simply out of habit and at this last, seldom ever fly at all.

When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.
~Leonardo Da Vinci

It has come to this. I am now occasionally expected to fly dream people around with me, to fly large objects from dream place to dream place, or sometimes to fly large objects filled with people. I know, in my dreams, that this work is important, being able to move groups and their stuff, should the need arise, should they be in distress. Fly them and never drop or tip them so that they slide away from me, cascading in helpless streams toward the dream dirt. Fly them carefully around and away from kinks and twists in the dreamscape, never letting things get out of hand, never pushing it too far, too fast, too high (never be cross or cruel, never give them castor oil or gruel). It is important work, but it is work and I confess I find it annoying, working in my sleep. Gently but deeply annoying that these people do not learn for themselves. Learn how to learn how to fly, to swim and to sleep in the air. Learn either how to let go of having to see to the dark at the bottom of things, or, for crying out loud, fly on down there yourself and get a close look.

Oh, and it's alright, it's all right, it's all right
You can't be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day
And I'm trying to get some rest
That's all I'm trying to get some rest
-Paul Simon


Brian Kershisnik, Flight Practice with Instruction

Life. Program

I feel like I've been gone, lost from word smithing a long time, and I was wondering to myself what kept me.
Turns out, the reasons call themselves Legion(s).
But here is one of them, and its very own personal short name is Program. Christmas Sacrament Meeting Program, to be formal and complete.
An assignment, a gift of opportunity, from my bishop. Given, as I recall, in August, but flowering only in the snows of December. And though in the end I wrote nothing, to write was my actual assignment, if we are calling all things by their true names here. I wrote nothing because I could feel nothing. My words were wooden; they refused to sing. Instead, I read. I gathered for weeks, read and read, searched, cried, hoarded, copied, passed things to friends. "Listen," I demanded at the painter, "put that down and listen." Poems. Stories. Scripture. Letters. Carols. Press releases. Email from Iraq. Orders from two hundred years of warfare. Jars of Clay, rocker boys who sing their whole hearts out in Drummer Boy. Dickens and his ghosts. I felt quite at home there, in the smokes and smudge of a midwinter London fog. "It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal...the city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already: it had not been light all day..." Dark, already for me, in the dead mid September. Oh, it matters not the month, beware the ides. The account of the Mormon martyrs in Carthage jail, sending out for wine, for spirits to lift their spirits which were "unusually dull and languid...a remarkable depression of spirits...all depressed, dull and gloomy and surcharged with indefinite ominous forebodings," as John Taylor recorded in his Witness to the Martyrdom. John singing to Joseph and Hyrum, though he protested he had no spirit for a song. Why do I go back and back to that story, that moment?

The warning signs and weight of tired conversations
In the absence of a shoulder, in the abscess of a thief,
On the brink of this destruction, on the eve of bittersweet.
Now all the demons look like prophets and I'm living out
Every word they speak, every word they speak.

Do you know what I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"?
What I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"
What I mean when I say, "I don't want to be alone"
-Jars of Clay, Work


Our copy of Witness falls open to that page. John sings, not for joy, but "in consonance with those feelings" I have quoted above. He sings for expression in suffering rather than for solace, knowing "[T]he song is pathetic and the tune plaintive..." When, and after a moment, Hyrum asks for the song again, John has no more in him, protests he has no feeling for singing. And Hyrum says, "Oh! never mind, commence singing and you will get the spirit of it."

Commence singing.
You will get the spirit of it.

After I stored away nearly all my harvest the few things printed below remained; fifteen minutes of words to be read aloud at a nice pace by Leah, not any longer a child but still a very young girl, Harrison, a young man, Krista, a very young mother, Stephen, a father of young children, and Lisa, a young grandmother. Good voices, all, rich and varied. So I am sharing it with you, too. Because these are some of the treasures I have had in my pockets these last few weeks, watching December float past me in all its state and silliness, reverence and revelry, glory and gilded, glistening succulence. Good old December, food for the spirit, comfort and joy for the body, beauty for the soul.
My bishop offered me a chance to gather. It was hard to find the rhythm, the sway and pace of the dance.
I did not feel like singing.
As John Taylor says, "At his request, I did so."
If ever you were to feel, this December, or any other, that your feet did not move lightly in the season's dance, I would advise you to sit a spell, rest from the dance, but sing the tunes.

Commence singing.
You will get the spirit of it.

There is work to do, and though sometimes this comfort sounds cheap and easy to speak, I feel to the marrow and core of my bones (especially those bones grown stronger for the breaking) that we are gifted in our strength for the tasks, gifted in our skills, gifted in the holiness of mundane giving. The breakfast, the folded laundry, the washed and bandaged cut, the trimmed hair, the baked bread, the swept floor, the story read aloud, the words in time of crying, the helpless, ragged breath in time of laughing, the pages turned in time of gathering.
To every thing there is a season.
"Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness." Ah, Scrooge, my soulmate.
"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it."

And our eyes at last shall see him,
Through his own redeeming love,
For that child so dear and gentle
Is our Lord in heaven above:
And he leads his children on
To the place where he is gone.
-Once in Royal David's City

How, my dears, can I keep from singing?


*******************
Opening hymn, I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.

Sacrament hymn, God Loved Us, So He Sent His Son

(STEPHEN)- For behold, did not Moses prophesy unto them concerning the coming of the Messiah, and that God should redeem his people? Yea, and even all the prophets who have prophesied ever since the world began--have they not spoken more or less concerning these things? Have they not said that God himself should come down among the children of men, and take upon him the form of man, and go forth in mighty power upon the face of the earth? Yea, and have they not said that he should bring to pass the resurrection of the dead, and that he, himself, should be oppressed and afflicted?
Mosiah 13:33-35

(LISA)- Then he said unto them, Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our Lord: neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the Lord is your strength.
Nehemiah 8:10

(KRISTA)- And in this mountain shall the Lord of Hosts make unto all people a feast of fat things, a feast of wine on the lees, of fat things full of marrow, of wine on the lees well refined. He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off of all faces; and the rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth: for the Lord hath spoken it. And it shall be said in that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, and he will save us; this is the Lord; we have waited for him; we will be glad and rejoice in his salvation.
Is. 25:6-9

(STEPHEN)- The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined. For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.
Is. 9:2&6

O Come, O Come (men's quartet)

(HARRISON)- And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. But the angel said unto them, Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
-Luke 2:8-14

Stars Were Gleaming (primary)

(LEAH)- Christmas Morning

by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

If Bethlehem were here today,
Or this were very long ago,
There wouldn't be a winter time
Nor any cold or snow.

I'd run out through the garden gate,
And down along the pasture walk;
And off beside the cattle barns
I'd hear a kind of gentle talk.

I'd move the heavy iron chain
And pull away the wooden pin;
I'd push the door a little bit
And tiptoe very softly in.

The pigeons and the yellow hens
And all the cows would stand away;
Their eyes would open wide to see
A lady in the manger hay,

If this were very long ago
And Bethlehem were here today.

And Mother held my hand and smiled—
I mean the lady would—and she
Would take the woolly blankets off
Her little boy so I could see.

His shut-up eyes would be asleep,
And he would look like our John,
And he would be all crumpled too,
And have a pinkish color on.

I'd watch his breath go in and out.
His little clothes would all be white.
I'd slip my finger in his hand
To feel how he could hold it tight.

And she would smile and say, "Take care,"
The mother, Mary, would, "Take care";
And I would kiss his little hand
And touch his hair.

While Mary put the blankets back
The gentle talk would soon begin.
And when I'd tiptoe softly out
I'd meet the wise men going in.

The First Noel (congregation)

(KRISTA)- And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us go now even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us.

(STEPHEN)- Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is the child that is born, the Messiah of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and are come to worship him.

(LISA)- And behold, there was a man in Jerusalem, whose name was Simeon...and he came by the Spirit into the temple...when the parents brought in the child Jesus...Then he took him up in his arms and blessed God and said, Lord, now lettest thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel...And Simeon...said unto Mary his mother, Behold this child is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and for a sign which shall be spoken against; (Yea, a spear shall pierce through him to the wounding of thy own soul also)...

(STEPHEN)- And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom; and the grace of God was upon him.
And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man.

(KRISTA)- God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Ghost and with power: who went about doing good, and healing all that were oppressed of the devil; for God was with him.

(LISA)- But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.
The Gospels of Matthew and Luke; the Acts of the Apostles; Joseph Smith translation.

(LISA)- And when they had sung an hymn they went out into the mount of Olives. And they came to a place which was named Gethsemane, which was a garden; and the disciples began to be sore amazed, and to be very heavy, and to complain in their hearts, wondering if this be the Messiah. And Jesus knowing their hearts, said unto his disciples, Sit ye here, while I shall pray. And he taketh with him Peter, and James, and John, and rebuked them, and said unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death; tarry ye here and watch.
Mark 14:26, 36-38, Joseph Smith Translation

(STEPHEN)- Then Simon Peter having a sword drew it, and smote the high priest's servant, and cut off his ear. Then Jesus said to Peter, Put up thy sword into the sheath: the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?
John 18:10&11

(KRISTA)- And he shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.
Is. 2:4


Candlelight Carol (choir)

HOW FESTIVE SPIRIT HALTED GREAT WAY
by Neil Griffiths, press officer of the Royal British Legion Scotland.

(STEPHEN)- NINETY years ago tonight, a group of bedraggled Scottish soldiers, Cameronians mostly from Lanark, spotted Germans clambering into the open with no sign of hostile intent.They were on the Western Front, near Lille. Baffled, they held their fire but the Germans came right up to the trench and offered cigars. It was 1914 and the near-mythical Christmas truce had begun, when men laid down their weapons, shook hands and embraced the season's message of peace on earth. If it seems incredible to us, to the men themselves it seemed beyond comprehension.
Extraordinary circumstances often lead to extraordinary events.

(KRISTA)- It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold.
"Peace on the earth, good will to men, from Heaven's all gracious King!"
The world in solemn stillness lay, to hear the angels sing.

The first Battle of Ypres in October and November had brought horrific casualty figures. The British lost more than 50,000 men and the Germans perhaps twice as many, but a lull followed as both sides awaited replacements for the savage losses. The huge armies dug in and watched each other as close neighbours, able to hear one another's chatter and smell their cooking. On Christmas Eve, frost hardened the mud and froze the pools.

Still through the cloven skies they come, with peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats o'er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lowly plains they bend on hovering wing;
And ever o'er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing.

When night fell, almost simultaneously, the Germans mounted trees on their parapets and lit candles and lanterns. Thousands of British watched in fascination as the wondrous sight was joined by the distant haunting sound of men singing Stille Nacht. Every survivor spoke of the abiding impact of that one carol.

In many cases the British responded with a carol of their own. When the British sang O Come All Ye Faithful the Germans accompanied with the Latin version, Adeste Fideles. The Belgians and French, holding more than 400 miles of the front, shared the same experiences but very much at arms' length - the invader was on their soil and more than 300,000 French had fallen in August alone.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife the world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel strain have rolled two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not the love song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing!

Both sides wrote home using phrases like "fairytale", "day of fiction" and "extraordinary". At its simplest it was a triumph of the human spirit, when the ordinary soldier called off the conflict for Christmas, when the will for peace prevailed over the might of war. By 1918 the Armistice had been signed and the memory of the Christmas truce of 1914 slipped into legend, a moment from the forgotten golden age even the participants came to suspect never happened. But it did happen - when man's fundamental decency surfaced briefly in the midst of hell - and should never be forgotten.

Edinburgh News

For lo! the days are hastening on, by prophets seen of old,
When with the ever circling years shall come the time foretold,
When peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world give back the sound which now the angels sing.


Still, Still (instrumental)

(LISA)- A poignant description of the famous Christmas Day Truce in 1914, was bought by the singer Chris de Burgh at an auction in London yesterday.

The author is untraceable and it is not known what his fate was after the day of improbable gaiety, with carols, letters and presents from home, and a feast in the trenches of chocolate, oranges and hot Christmas pudding.

Historic documents experts at Bonham's auction house said the letter was a rare surviving example of a genuine original. It was clearly treasured and bears the marks of being read and reread and careful repairs to tears.

After a fiercely contested sale, De Burgh said he had a strong personal interest in the history of the first world war, in which his great uncle Thomas de Burgh was the first officer killed, and his grandfather, General Sir Eric de Burgh, served in the trenches.

The letter is headed "British Expeditionary Force, Friday December 25th 1914". It reads:

(HARRISON)-"My Dear Mater,

This will be the most memorable Christmas I've ever spent or likely to spend: since about tea time yesterday I don't think there's been a shot fired on either side up to now. Last night turned a very clear frosty moonlight night, so soon after dusk we had some decent fires going and had a few carols and songs. The Germans commenced by placing lights all along the edge of their trenches and coming over to us - wishing us a Happy Christmas etc ... Some of our chaps went over to their lines. I think they've all come back bar one from 'E' Co. They no doubt kept him as a souvenir.

"There must be something in the spirit of Christmas as to day we are all on top of our trenches running about ... After breakfast we had a game of football at the back of our trenches! We've had a few Germans over to see us this morning. They also sent a party over to bury a sniper we shot in the week ... About 10.30 we had a short church parade the morning service held in the trench ...

"Just before dinner I had the pleasure of shaking hands with several Germans ... I exchanged one of my balaclavas for a hat. I've also got a button off one of their tunics. We... had a decent chat. They say they won't fire tomorrow if we don't so I suppose we shall get a bit of a holiday - perhaps ... We can hardly believe that we've been firing at them ... it all seems so strange. With much love from Boy.

(LEAH)- And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children...This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord...
Is. 54:13&17

(LISA)- Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
John 14:27

Oh, Come All Ye Faithful (congregation)

(LEAH)-Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear on their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open--are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world--stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death--and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.

And if you keep it for a day, why not always?

Henry Van Dyke, Keeping Christmas



Sleep Little One, Sleep (choir)

(STEPHEN)- So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, feed my lambs. He saith unto him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep. He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep.
John 21:15-17

(HARRISON)- And he said unto them, These are the words which I spake unto you, while I was yet with you, that all things must be fulfilled, which were written...concerning me...And said unto them, Thus it is written, and thus it behoved Christ to suffer, and to rise from the dead the third day; And that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in his name among all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. And ye are witnesses of these things.
Luke 24:44-48

(LISA)- And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.
Mark 16:15

(KRISTA)- Then he said unto them, Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our Lord: neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the Lord is your strength.
Nehemiah 8:10

(LEAH)- And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.
2 Nephi 25:26

From All that Dwell Below the Skies (congregation)

********************

God rest you merry.

Noah's photos

Meditations. Words Fail.

Lines written Extempore, on receiving, in the month of December, a Gift, a Token of memorial and of sweet and tender care, shocking in its lovely Unexpectedness; here presented after minimal Fussing.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
2Timothy 1:7

Small and stupid words fighting out which among them shall be first to abase and embarrass itself here.

"Thank" and "you" won the first heat. As they so often do. Though predictable to the point of mundanity, their unfailing leadership not all bad, especially as "you" does so much heavy lifting and can stand in so very many places at the same time. The others murmur and protest, jostle for a standing in the line. "Love" and "this" vied to run next, but "you" is fighting fiercely to displace "this," and it's not looking good for the impersonal pronoun. As was said, "you" wants to be everywhere. Is everywhere, these days. "Broken" has simply enjoyed too much face time of late, as has "smiling", hence they are no longer taken seriously; "laughing" and "crying" have lost credibility in precisely the same way. In a canny bid for power, "humbled", a relative newcomer, has joined a coalition formed by "to", "the", and "dust" and is making great strides, intending to hold its ground. "Wow" has raised its great, silly head, wagging senselessly and shamelessly as the others turn away; even small and stupid words are mortified by "wow" 's antics. "Wow", the blissful mutt of the word world, notices nothing, happy in the frolic, spreading affection, hair, confidence, saliva and a deep, doggy contentment in equal measure. Vapid hasty "repay" jumps up and down, stamping tiny insignificant feet, insisting on its spotlit moment. Long-time heavy weight "never" has come silently and somberly to stand in front of "repay", lending the upstart both credibility and stability. While no one could ever speak out against "never", still, most of them cannot fathom how "repay" fancies itself a player in such a weighted conversation. "Debt," perhaps, "undying", certainly, arguably even "slave". But "repay"? The very notion. "Repay" looks to "you" for backing, relying on the unprecedented surge in importance and popularity the second person pronoun has recently enjoyed; "you", however, is looking firmly off in another direction, entranced by the graceful stance and wistful vulnerability of "need". What a power-pairing that would be, hmm? "Moved" is, well, all over the place, chasing after "deeply", and even considering such unlikely couplings as "irrevocably" (not strictly a member of the small word club) and "heartstoppingly"(worse and worse). These are such oddball efforts ("heartstoppingly" not even being a fully formed word, only some sort of bastard offspring) that "moved" is fading out of the running, despairing of support. "Shy" stands alone, at once miserable and pleased, never courting favor but always strongly supported by the crowd, not that "shy" would notice the crowd. Ah, "now" has offered to back up "shy". Fat lot of good that will do, though it is a noble effort. But then, "now" is always impatient. And here, at the end of it all, comes a dark horse, taking the lead in great, ground-eating strides! "Unworthy" crosses the line, the winner by a whisper, barely outpacing "joy". "Joy" will take it next time, wait and see if it doesn't (though how "joy" fell among this crowd is one of the mysteries). Yes, the smart money is on "joy" for the future.

Which leaves "I", lonely and unhappy, for what can "I" do without "you"? Bring "need" here to lie soft between, so "you" will settle, and "I" can slip into place, into the place that feels like home.

Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord, nor of me his prisoner: but be thou partaker of the afflictions of the gospel according to the power of God;
Who hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began,
But is now made manifest.
2Timothy 1:8-10

Meditations. Do Unto.

Of the Remembrance of Benefits

Gesta Romanorum

There was a knight who devoted much of his time to hunting. It happened one day, as he was pursuing this diversion, that he was met by a lame lion, who showed him his foot. The knight dismounted, and drew from it a sharp thorn; and then applied an unguent to the wound, which speedily healed it.

A while after this, the king of the country hunted in the same wood, and caught that lion, and held him captive for many years.

Now, the knight, having offended the king, fled from his anger to the very forest in which he had been accustomed to hunt. There he betook himself to plunder, and spoiled and slew a multitude of travelers. But the king's sufferance was exhausted; he sent out an army, captured, and condemned him to be delivered to a fasting lion. The knight was accordingly thrown into a pit, and remained in terrified expectation of the hour when he should be devoured. But the lion, considering him attentively, and remembering his former friend, fawned upon him; and remained seven days with him destitute of food.

When this reached the ears of the king, he was struck with wonder, and directed the knight to be taken from the pit. "Friend," said he, "by what means have you been able to render the lion harmless?"

"As I once rode along the forest, my lord, that lion met me lame. I extracted from his foot a large thorn, and afterward healed the wound, and therefore he has spared me."

"Well," returned the king, "since the lion has spared you, I will for this time ratify your pardon. Study to amend your life."

The knight gave thanks to the king, and ever afterward conducted himself with all propriety. He lived to a good old age, and ended his days in peace.

My beloved, the knight is the world; the lame lion is the human race; the thorn, original sin, drawn out by baptism. The pit represents penitence, whence safety is derived.

---

Source: Gesta Romanorum, translated by Charles Swan, revised and corrected by Wynnard Hooper (London: George Bell and Sons, 1906)

*****

Some of us went to the coast, or to the beach, really only to the beach, for a few days with friends. From the beach house you could step out the backdoor, take four magical strides, fall over the sea wall, roll just a little way down the sand and be in the water. You'd never want to do that, it'd be dumb, but you could. Nearly all the days were sand and salt water, golden rainstorms and soft, soft sea air. Good things for a dried out Millard County girl.

We talked and ate and took walks and one day the painter oversaw the making of a monstrous sand worm, but mostly we did all the body boarding we could do and then some. After the first day spent almost solidly in the water I felt like I'd been in a serious car accident. Wonderful. I took a sleeping pill, which, I guess, did its best. After the second day I felt like I'd been in a serious car accident the day before. The first day had the best waves, totally worth a car accident; also worth, but only just, the wild abrasion I acquired and am sporting above my left knee. I'd have put in a picture of it here, I deeply considered it, but it would gross you out and I'm not about that. Maybe I'll post it on Facebook. To be honest, I was a little bit worried you'd think it was fake. It looks fake, or like something you'd see and say, "AaaaaH! What the-!-!-!-oh, wait, that's fake. It's fake, right? I mean, look at it. That's got to be fake," because you just so totally hope that if someone has that on their body it's fake, maybe yucky body art or some sort of dare.

I'll tell you how it happened. It was sort of a dare.
Toward evening there came a truly huge wave and my sweet youngest child, boarding for the first time, watching it mounting, growing toward us, blocking out the view of the distant islands, blocking more of the western sky than we were used to, said, "Oh. We're going to die."
And then, "I'm not going to try this one."
A tiny interior voice said to me, ooh, she's smart, not dying is smart.
I jumped on the wave.

*****

LAVINIA. I can't help you, friend. I can't tell you not to save your own life. Something willful in me wants to see you fight your way into heaven.

George Bernard Shaw, Androcles and the Lion

*****

Through the wave, into the wave, I don't know, but not in front of it in an organized and manageable fashion. Too big for me, too pushy, too powerful. Broke me up completely, ate me alive. Bubbles go up, I reminded myself, blowing a little air to figure which way that was. A minute or so after I had got so I could breathe and see at the same time, we saw another big wave coming, like the one that had just messed me up. I held up my board and ran out to it. Oh. Good. I'm doing it this time. And I did.

*****
A lion roaming through the forest, got a thorn in his foot, and, meeting a shepherd, asked him to remove it. The shepherd did so, and the lion, having just surfeited himself on another shepherd, went away without harming him.

Some time afterward the shepherd was condemned on a false accusation to be cast to the lions in the amphitheater.

When they were about to devour him, one of them said, "This is the man who removed the thorn from my foot."

Hearing this, the others honorably abstained, and the claimant ate the shepherd all himself.

---

Source: Ambrose Bierce, Fantastic Fables (New York and London: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1899)

*****

Not dying is smart and body boarding is fun and big waves are very cool. It took so much of me, staying on top of that wave, I just completely neglected my legs, lost touch, forgot to keep them lifted, ground my knee hard and serious across sixteen miles of sand. Maybe more. Salt water. Stings, you know. Examining the damage after, I found myself missing my boy Noah. He's got such a weak stomach, so easily tipped over by skin and bones and sutures and splints but he's fascinated by blood running across wet skin. And he loves to play in the waves. Eden plays hard too and if she hadn't had to stay behind in Utah, a slave to her senior year, she'd have photographed the knee with her cell phone, adding record of my arrogant carelessness to the gallery of softball, volleyball and dance injury pics she carries around with her (ooh, look, you can see the stitching on the ball in the bruise; man, look at the swelling!; oh, gross, this one's still got sand in it).

Ever since I washed, smashed up, out of the ocean and into the hot tub and from there climbed carefully into a wet suit that covered the destroyed knee, ever since I had to begin dealing with the hole I have torn in my fabric, ever since then a little, long lost memory has come tumbling over and over into my mind, like a bright bit of beach glass in the surf. The memory, over and over, and then gratitude. And also relief, huge gratitude and relief.

*****

LAVINIA. Blessing, Caesar, and forgiveness!

CAESAR (turning in some surprise at the salutation) There is no forgiveness for Christianity.

LAVINIA. I did not mean that, Caesar. I mean that WE forgive YOU.

METELLUS. An inconceivable liberty! Do you not know, woman, the Emperor can do no wrong and therefore cannot be forgiven?

LAVINIA. I expect the Emperor knows better. Anyhow, we forgive him.

THE CHRISTIANS. Amen!

CAESAR. Metellus: you see now the disadvantage of too much severity. These people have no hope; therefore they have nothing to restrain them from saying what they like to me. They are almost as impertinent as the gladiators.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

This is the memory. One summer, when I was home from school, from college, a friend from high school days showed up in Kanosh, living in a house his parents had moved away from but not sold. People do that in Kanosh, leave town, never come back, hang on to their real estate. They think they want to retire there, come back if they ever get a decent job, hide out when society goes to hell in a handbasket, sell when the market is better or after all their relatives die. Whatever. My friend was living in his parents' spare Kanosh house, working a summer job. I saw him around a couple of times, no big deal, we liked each other well enough and had always been friends of a single degree of separation; he had, for a longish while, been my best friend's boyfriend, that sort of thing. One evening that summer he took a hard, fast slide along a goodly stretch of road, still mostly wearing his motorcycle.
And went home, alone, to a spare house to recover.

*****

LAVINIA. (laughing) You know,Ferrovius, I am not always a Christian. I don't think anybody is. There are moments when I forget all about it, and something comes out quite naturally, as it did then.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

No one in Kanosh did anything for him, of course, they are not inclined to extend themselves on behalf of (comparably) healthy young adult males who really should be on missions but aren't, whose relatives are too tenuously connected to the core handful of long-time town families, boys who are not exactly troublemakers but might be, someday, maybe, maybe not. Since as the twig is bent, the tree will grow, I am firmly Kanoshian in many/most of my views on human relations, devoutly believing not only that most people mostly ought to take care of themselves, but that most of them truly, deeply would prefer to if allowed, but thank you very much. This doesn't mean I don't help lost children or stop to give directions or make cell phone calls to report crimes or hold open doors for folks who have their hands full. It does mean I would never dream of opening your door myself, just to check, just to see if you maybe could use some help for no reason other than that I suspect you may have your hands full.

*****

Androcles. No: it's very kind of you: but I feel I can't save myself that way.

The Editor. But I don't ask you to do it to save yourself: I ask you to do it to oblige me personally.

Androcles. (scrambling up in the greatest agitation) Oh, please, don't say that. That is dreadful. You mean so kindly by me that it seems quite horrible to disoblige you...But I must go into the arena with the rest. My honor, you know.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

But. I was moved with compassion for my friend. No idea why. Nothing at all romantic in our history, not even near misses, though some possible romantic something had certainly been examined, contemplated. All the kids in a small town are closely considered, willy nilly, by every adult as possible matches for every other kid in town, without regard for the personal inclinations and preferences of the actual, living kids and these imaginary pairings result in greater and lesser degrees of foreboding and/or delight among the adults (and may have been a tiny part of the reason we moved. shhh). As a victim of this conversational, parental shuffling, I had, only a few years before he spread his DNA across an intersection, actually phoned Road Rash Boy (after three days of frozen, horrified, concentrated inability to do so) and asked him to be my choice at a girls' choice dance, the only girl's choice dance I ever attended. My mother prodded me, knew best, bucked me up, drove me into it (I think she had already talked to his mother. I mean, I know she had). That calling, that asking, was without doubt the worst thing I had undergone in all my life to that point. After he said yes, after I got the phone back onto the cradle (historical reference, some of you may have to ask an old adult about that one) but before I stilled the shaking and caught all my breath, I closed my eyes and promised God that I would say yes to every boy who asked me on a date as a tribute to their incredible bravery and in memorial to the things I had just myself suffered. That promise would itself wreck a considerable amount of damage, of course, but I meant well. And the date was fine, just fine, first because nothing could possibly be as awful as the asking but also because he was really a great guy, very cute and smart and funny and unfailingly polite to adults. Which is why my mom wanted me to go out with him, I'm sure. I think I remember we were a bit bored on our date, this being in the ages before people dated in pods and myself not being much of a planner. He asked me if he could kiss me to fill some time and I found I couldn't just step into that in cold blood. Perhaps if he hadn't asked first...well. At any rate. The point of that story is, I went to the spare house offering my assistance with no prior commitment, no history save that which is common to mankind nor any blood at all between us, bad or good.

*****

THE CAPTAIN. You are right: it was silly thing to say. (In a lower tone, humane and urgent) Lavinia: do Christians know how to love?

LAVINIA. (composedly) Yes, Captain: they love even their enemies.

The Captain. Is that easy?

Lavinia. Very easy, when their enemies are as handsome as you.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

Nope. I only felt a sudden wave of terrible sorrow for him, like contemplation of dental procedures, like homesickness, like the memory or foreboding of a breakup, and was sure, positive, he had no medical supplies in that spare house. I gathered an armload of my mom's stuff and made my dad drive me over (as I had no license yet; another story). He didn't like this, my dad, me alone with a young male person in a spare house but I scoffed him into silence. Pish. What could possible happen? I'm not attracted to road rash, scabs are not sexy to me. I promised to call my dad for a ride back (as he was suddenly, singularly concerned. Under other circumstances, many, many other circumstances, I had walked lots further than that, but, you know, boys and stuff). I knocked at the door while he waited (hovered, really, but that would sound funny) in the car and thought my friend shouted something from inside; a noise, it could have been anything. I nodded and smiled to my dad in the car and confidently pushed my way in, shouldered the door right open, just as if I had been invited, just as if I had heard a come in. Dusky in his den, the light all blue from the TV. I sat down with my armload of medicines by the patient on the sofa who, having had no call upon his voice, no reason to speak since the day before, could only make a harsh strangle when he tried to yell an answer to my knock. The first thing I did for my friend, who was so thankful, undone, pitiably grateful, to see any human enter his spare house, was to help him get up so he could creep down the hall to the bathroom. It was a slow getting up, some of him was stuck to the sofa.

I applied Neosporin and strategic Bandaids and set out food and water around him and changed the channel on the TV and talked, called my dad, waited a bit awkwardly till he came, and left.

I climbed into the car with my dad, smiled to show how unharmed I still was, smiled silently out the window because my eyes and mind were filled with stills and with short movies of arms and shoulders and torn skin.
Huh, I thought in the car.

And later,
Maybe.
Maybe not.

Arms and shoulders and a boy who made no sound when I pulled off bandaids, hard and fast.

Maybe.

I went back some more times, maybe every night for as long as a week; maybe it was a short week. Till he didn't need me anymore for doctoring, only for company, and then I missed a night and now I have grown old I realize I don't know what happened to him; he left the spare house and I never saw him again.
Or thought of him. Til now.

*****

LAVINIA. Remember me for a fortnight, handsome Captain. I shall be watching you, perhaps.

THE CAPTAIN. From the skies? Do not deceive yourself, Lavinia. There is no future for you beyond the grave.

LAVINIA. What does that matter? Do you think I am only running away from the terrors of life into the comfort of heaven? If there were no future, or if the future were one of torment, I should have to go just the same. The hand of God is upon me.

Shaw, Androcles

*****

My leg is surprisingly, stupidly, painful, red and hot. It has a fever, I think. When I pack it with the herbs I have come to use on open wounds I am appalled that it...well, it kills. Really. Embarrassing, inconvenient. The pain subsides, I remind myself, and it does after longer than I want to write about. I lie back in bed, a taut, bright rivulet of pain shooting out one edge of the scrape, minuscule screaming demons riding booted and spurred up the side of my thigh. Effleurage. Deep breaths. Wait it out.

Hurt nearly always makes a memory, for me, that's why I so often write about it. It sticks, I remember those moments. I remember and remember my friend, scraped and ground to a fare-thee-well, as my mom says. He must have hurt so big, so bad, those days alone in the spare house, the blue TV evenings with no one to talk to, listening, maybe, for a girl from down the street who had not promised to come back, had not asked what else he might need, a girl who ran her hands gently over his scabs and did not speak all her thoughts. The pain will subside, I say to him in my mind, and I know that it did, after more time passed than he wanted to talk about, time that was only a couple of very long days. This is the whole point of the story, Beloved, that it was not a big deal, going to him, putting on some bandages, taking off old ones, quickly. Buying a Mountain Dew against my better judgment ( bring Dr. Pepper for the sick and afflicted, dude). I take off my bandage, quickly, and am buoyed, floated, by this memory in this moment, a fortunate and prosperous time to recall that one time when I did something, opened a door when I knew somebody had their hands full just to see if there was help I could give. I receive it back to myself, my need so much less than his but still great enough, thank you very much, for me. For now. Not dying is smart. A friend to get you off the sofa is a friend indeed. A spare house is no place like home. An armload of home medicines is saving me. And one time, long ago before I became too old, I didn't let somebody down, though I owed nothing, had made no promise. Sweet, sweet, to me, sweet.

*****

FERROVIUS. In my youth I worshipped Mars, the God of War. I turned from him to serve the Christian god; but today the Christian god forsook me; and Mars overcame me and took back his own. The Christian god is not yet. He will come when Mars and I are dust; but meanwhile I must serve the gods that are, not the God that will be. Until then I accept service in the Guard, Caesar.

THE EMPEROR. Very wisely said. All really sensible men agree that the prudent course is to be neither bigoted in our attachment to the old nor rash and unpractical in keeping an open mind for the new, but to make the best of both dispensations.

THE CAPTAIN. What do you say, Lavinia? Will you too be prudent?

LAVINIA (on the stair) No: I'll strive for the coming of the God who is not yet.

THE CAPTAIN. May I come and argue with you occasionally?

Shaw, Androcles

*****
When I tore open my knee in the salt water no magical blond boy arose, like a Greek god from the seafoam, to carry me to the hot tub and run after bandages and ointments (have I yet mentioned that Road Rash Boy looked like a Greek god? Because, he did, dang it, though the Greek gods were unquestionably taller. Not that I fault him in this, without doubt they were showing off) because once I had helped him, had lingered on him in my thoughts and he had lingered on me, in his turn, and awaited the day I would scrape myself badly and foolishly enough that he might come to me for the end, the summation, of our story and this, Beloved, is the whole point of the story.

In the real of my life no one arose to carry me anywhere and they'd have been summarily dismissed if they had. Because I was going to get there on my own steam (more like fumes, at that point). Because I had to say it was nothing, a small hole, an easily repaired tear. And I had to go back for a few more hours in the water. I'm a tough chick; it's what we do. And it was pretty nice that a man loaned me a wet suit to cover my hole. He was nice, too, and pretty. He did this thing at the prompting of his wife, who could recognize a thorn when she saw one. And I was grateful to her, and relieved.

It's the temptation to make, to have made, my friend into a story; to wish for the why of it, the what happened because of and also the after. It's the too great longing for those tellings where he, the magical, injured god, saves me, the broken girl, since only he can see I need repair. And happens to have the tools on hand; he carries them with him for just such a chance as this. The heart's yearning toward discernible motives, explication, denouement, reward.
As,

She nursed him and he loved her; she saw deep into his heart in his suffering and her heart softened to his. When at last he could stand unaided they were married.

No.

She nursed him and he never forgot her and when he died he left her his fortune.

She nursed him when all others abandoned him and, later, she needed a kidney and he gave her one.

They threw him to the lions and one lion recognized him, from services rendered of old, and did not eat him but honored him and did him great service.

No, wait.

He took a thorn out of the lion's foot, so later the lion took a thorn out of his foot.

Once a person helped a lion in peril, which was a brave and stupid act. The lion, sensing this person was both stupid and brave and fearing what might follow, ran away as soon as it could, frightened and not so hungry. Later the person made up stories in which people figured prominently and lions could not get along without them. And sold the stories to other people, though the lions were not buying them.

*****

The locus classicus of the story is found in the fifth book of Aulus Gellius... of which Apion himself claimed to have personally witnessed in Rome...The emperor pardons the slave on the spot, in recognition of this testimony to the power of friendship, and he is left in possession of the lion.
"Afterwards we used to see Androcles with the lion attached to a slender leash, making the rounds of the tabernae throughout the city; Androcles was given money, the lion was sprinkled with flowers, and everyone who met them anywhere exclaimed: "This is the lion, a man's friend; this is the man, a lion's doctor".

Wikipedia, Androcles and the Lion

*****
Tony Hillerman, in an essay, told of a beautiful and miraculous natural story he and a friend watched unfold. The friend said, after, "This will be a wonderful moment in a book." But Mr. Hillerman already knew, sadly, that he could never use that miracle in fiction. "No one," he lamented, "would believe it."

Real life miracles are not what stories are all about. Story miracles do not make for real life.

It's the terrible, seductive desire to belong to a story, not just to events, to come away with something of your own, something to keep. A devoted lion. A beautiful boy. Someone to gather you into their arms and soothe away ugly scrapes. Something to keep. A hearty, well done thou good and faithful, at the very least. Even if it's not what actually happened. Even if you have to make it up. A life-friend. Someone owed you because once you were better than you had to be.

*****

THE CAPTAIN. Are you then going to die for nothing?

LAVINIA. Yes: that is the wonderful thing. It is since all the stories and dreams have gone that I have now no doubt at all that I must die for something greater than dreams or stories.

THE CAPTAIN. But for what?

LAVINIA. I don't know. If it were for anything small enough to know, it would be too small to die for. I think I'm going to die for God. Nothing else is real enough to die for.

THE CAPTAIN. What is God?

LAVINIA. When we know that, Captain, we shall be gods ourselves.

Shaw, Androcles

*****
Once a man came upon a lion, wounded and dying in the mouth of a dank cave, a man who disregarded his own life, whether bravely or foolishly, sufficiently to render the lion service, to go on his knees before it and to climb between its very paws, one paw badly torn by a terrible thorn which the man removed, though the lion could not. The man told no one this story for though he was brave enough for the telling he was not such a fool as to expect anyone would believe. He kept the thorn, for a time, but remembered it less and less often til finally he lost both the thorn and the story.
But the lion, who recovered, never forgot.
When, later, in his extremis, the man met the lion again, he did not recognize it, but nor did the lion recognize him, for men and lions do not so much love each other that either tribe has learned to know one among hundreds of strangers. The man, knowing not how he might face bravely or foolishly a fate so appalling, simply stood before the lion and cried silently. The lion, however, whose mind was not clouded by any fear of death and rending, observed still its habit acquired in the intervening years; it approached its prey softly, gently, raising one paw and holding it out to the man for a moment, waiting. To his astonishment, the man saw upon the pad of the great paw a ragged scar, made by a terrible thorn. As he had once before, the man fell upon his knees before the lion and wept tears, hot and gushing, onto the scar, in recognition of his lost friend and in relief, for his heart told him he had, all unlooked for, regained his own life. The lion, having long ceased to wonder at the ways of men, waited kindly, breathing on the back of the man's neck, small and weak before him, and onto the man's hair where his head was bowed before the lion. The lion did the man no harm then or ever, because they were friends.

It was never a story about a boy, but about a thorn and torn fabric and what came of the mending.
Though all our pain subsides, we shall know each other by the scars.

*****

You sit there in your heartache
Waitin' on some beautiful boy to
Save you from your old ways.
You play forgiveness, watch it now,
Here he comes.
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young.

The Killers, When You Were Young