Sorry about the silence. You know what Sigourney's adverts says, "in space..."
I've been working on rewriting an old fairy tale from another perspective and going to skool.
band names: hi8us
TVBhindURI
Dvotion
too much time thinking about words ;-)
Over dinner that evening, George told again about the blue Toyota.
“I got the first two letters of the license this time,” said George.
“Have you called them in to Officer Chang?” asked Stephen.
“Yeah, as soon as I got home,” said George. “I called and left the message,” George said with disappointment in his voice.
“I hear you,” said Stephen.
Barbara made another call to the pre-arranged number.
“Hello, Jimmy,” she said.
“Hi, again hun,” a man replied, whose voice revealed no particular age nor race.
“What do you think about the ongoing situation, Jimmy?” Barbara asked.
“I don’t know, hun. What do you want me to do about it anyway?” he answered.
“I know you can’t do anything yourself, but if you knew someone who could work something out for me, I’d appreciate a little assistance,” said Barbara, her voice remained lifeless, with no inflection.
“I know what you mean, but that is going to be even more difficult for me to initiate now that the first part’s still not completed.”
“Cut it out, Jimmy,” Barbara’s voice lost, if possible, any remaining sense of human interaction and became purely cut and dried.
“I hear your frustration, hun,” the last word was slightly more emphasized, a reminder that Jimmy was more to Barbara than a contact upon whose resources she was relying, even if she was paying for the service. “But you understand my situation as well. I have already committed myself to another schedule.”
Barbara paused. She knew she was treading on thin ice, even making another call to the number her nephew gave her. It was to the man who “kept the books” for a nationwide trading group. The trade was mostly in illicit supplies- meaning drugs and prostitution Barbara expected, from the rules that were set out by her nephew for contacting this number. She had looked up the area code and prefix. They led to some Minneapolis suburb called North Hudson.
“Jimmy, let me say it this way: I need a favor,” said Barbara. She had crossed the line. No turning back now. These people would be expecting payback from her. Hopefully they wouldn’t reach beyond her workplace.
“Well now, since you put it that way, we can talk some more about the details of your problem and see if I can spare someone to help you.”
Barbara thought she could almost hear a smile on the lips of the man’s face at the other end of the phone as she hung up. Her problem would be addressed. Someone would call her in the next couple of days to find out some details of the next step – the payment.
George went to see his spiritual director for his monthly appointment.
Sr. Estella greeted George with a warm cup of tea and an invitation to come and sit down in the ‘direction’ room. George didn’t know what to call it, because it was really too small for anything but a large closet or a tiny sitting room or office. The sisters had outfitted it for meeting privately in this sort of situation. There were two old leather chairs, not too comfortable, sitting at roughly ninety degrees from one another. Their arms were separated by an off-white marble-top wrought iron table that held a lamp and a small houseplant.
“How are your prayers, George?” asked Estella.
“Pretty good considering the situation,” answered George.
Sticking with the issue George had come to see her about Estella asked, “And where have you found the Divine in your prayers lately?”
George smiled slightly and stepped up to the challenge of sticking with the agenda of the meeting. “I have actually been really surprised with what I’ve been seeing in my prayers.”
“Hmmm. What have you been seeing in your prayers?” Estella caught George’s revelation, he was again seeing in his prayers. Much of George’s prayer life had been about words and emotions and memories, but in the last several months he had been describing visual experiences. Sometimes these were accompanied by sensations or even words, but the images were powerful enough to keep them occupied for an hour and a half discussion each month.
“Well, I’ve been trying to keep the pattern we have talked about in the past, but I’ve actually been having some trouble as I get caught up in the images,” said George.
As he looked at Estella, he saw the note of concern flicker across her eyes, and so he offered, “I know, I read at least one Merton book in which he says the lights and sounds are some of the easier distractions to transformation and more significant learning through meditation or prayer. I don’t think that this is what I’m experiencing. I also find that, as in other things in prayer, they come to a end every single time.”
“Okay. That’s a helpful observation, but let’s stick with talking about the images for now,” redirected Estella.
“After I do my regular settling in, I usually find myself sitting quietly and then there is the sense of someone beside me. Sometimes she is even holding me,” said George.
“You are sitting and someone is beside you, even holding you?” repeated Estella.
“Right,” replied George.
“What is her presence like?” she asked. “What is it like to be held by her?”
“I feel held.”
“What else can you say about what that’s like?”
“It’s as though my skin is held up; my head is held. My heart is held – I mean the organ inside of me – so that it is light weight,” said George.
“What is that lightness, or holding like?” Estella asked.
“It’s… I don’t know. I feel touched into my understanding, or the place where my emotions start from,” said George. “I think what is happening is that I feel carried up, almost out of myself.”
“But that’s more about thinking than noticing on a more open or contemplative level. Let’s try to stay there. How do you notice that you are in this place? Or, what do you notice first about being there?” said Estella.
“Oh, that’s the name of the Merton book, Contemplative Prayer,” George knew he’d be distracted trying to remember the name to Estella unless he blurted it out right away. Then he went on, “When I am sitting and meditating, I begin to notice I am not alone. That is what I realize first.”
“So, what is that presence like? What’s it like to be in that Other’s presence?”
George was silent for a while as the presence surrounded him again in his recollection.
“Hello, Officer Chang?” asked George.
“Hello, Reverend,” the officer responded, “What can I do for you?”
“I am calling to make sure we have talked about everything that seems to be happening about the case of Henry Isaacson’s murder.”
“Oh? Is there more that you can tell me about?” said Chang.
“I wanted to make sure you got the message about the tires up in the foothills this weekend-“
“You mean the tires being flat? Yeah, I got that message the other day,” Officer Chang cut in.
“Yes, and this week on Tuesday, I was driving and realized I had to back home for something and saw a car behind me, which, after I had turned around, was behind me again in a couple minutes. It followed me to within three blocks of our house,” said George.
“Really. Did you get a license number?”
“No, I didn’t think of that, and they were pretty far back after I had turned around. I did get a pretty good look at the person in the car as he made the last turn we made together.”
“Okay, we’ll get to that. Did you see the make and model of the car?” said Chang.
“I only saw that it was a blue Toyota and it looked like it was a pretty recent model, maybe two or three years old,” said George.
“Okay, now tell me about the person driving.”
“I am pretty sure I recall seeing somewhere,” said George.
“Maybe from church? Is he a… what do you call it, a ‘lazy’ member? Or did you meet him at another church function?”
“I… hmmm. You know that sounds like it might be right, but I cannot place it. Maybe he was part of a baptismal party, or the child of an older member… I just can’t remember.”
“Can you give a description to an artist? We can try to get a picture of him for other people to look at as well.”
“I can describe him pretty well. I recall his face from that last turn,” said George. “Does the fact that you are going to ask an artist to help mean that you think I may have seen Henry’s murderer?”
“Father, all I can tell you is that we are working very hard to find out how and why Mr. Isaacson was killed. And one line of investigation we are pursuing is that you, or maybe your community, might have been the intended target for the perpetrator. We don’t know why, yet.”
Iliana Morrison’s niece, Barbara got up from her desk, and took out her purse from the filing cabinet. She locked her desk drawers with a key from her purse, and went out to her car. Vincent’s car was still parked at the end of the lot. She hadn’t seen him inside though.
“Probably out with Tony down at the ‘Tenner Pub’ watching rugby again,” she thought. “He’d better be careful or his mother is likely to shorten the leash she kept him on.” And a moment later, “Did I? …Oh damn, I forgot to pick up the security deposit check to bring back to Pr. George.”
Barbara got out of the car and went back up to the office and retrieved the check, got in the car and drove home, shaking her head one last time as she drove past the blue Corolla near the street.
Tim had much to tell about the meeting with the religious community event planners, but had to wait until the following Tuesday unless he could get George for a few minutes on Saturday afternoon. Saturday morning he knew George would be back at his haunt, the Green Café, doing some sermon writing for the next day. Tim caught George after the morning meeting just as George was putting together the ingredients for their soup dinner.
Leaning against the door frame in the passage by the Dali Last Supper, Tim poked his head in and asked, “Hey George, do you have some time later today? I’d like to touch base with you about what went on at the meeting on Tuesday with the ‘event planning group.’”
“Sure,” George said, looking up from the knife with which he was slicing vegetables. “I think I will be around this afternoon, probably between two and four. I’ll need to be back in here to work on the bread for tonight after four.”
“Great,” said Tim.
“What’s new, George?” asked Rosie. Rosie gave George a very nice smile and wink.
“Not much, Rosie. How are you?” George asked this to remind himself that he was a representative, in a certain role. He had chosen a lifestyle that precluded ‘special’ relationships for himself.
Rosie nodded, “It’s going pretty well. This place is booming and I’m happy about that. I am still working out how to live without you though.”
George almost choked, but Rosie laughed, “Got you! But good!”
George laughed hard, once he got past the idea that seemed good to him as well, “Oh man! Rosie, you’re killing me!”
“What would you like to drink, George? The usual, and two in a row?”
“Yes, please,” George tried to give Rosie his biggest smile and it wasn’t difficult.
Several hours later, with a ‘good idea on paper’, but less than finished in his mind, George packed his things away and made his way out past an early afternoon rush and down to his car.
The way home was marred by the blue Toyota again….
“Yes, well, it was a very interesting place, very attentive care-taker,” explained George, “but unfortunately he had to help us a lot. A pump off the basement bathroom acted up and a plumber had to come out and deal with it. Then today, as we were packing up, we found the two right tires deflated.”
“That’s… interesting, isn’t it,” offered Travis with no real understanding of how this could happen.
“Yes, it is…”
“How do you imagine it happened?” asked Travis.
“I have no idea,” said George. “The community is divided about what it means. Two of us think it’s nothing to be concerned about – just a coincidence that two tires went flat on our rental vehicle. Two of us think it’s actually something that is part of something related to the murder. We have a case number to give to the Seattle PD.”
Travis agreed that was a good idea and he and George hung up, to go take care of things in their respective areas of responsibility. George first phoned Officer Chang and left a message, then called someone he hadn’t been in touch with for four years.
Tuesday, the day of the morning meeting about scheduling cars and visitations, George had gone to walk George and Kenya at the Simpson house and talked with Sheila briefly.
“George, Travis told me something that is very disturbing,” said Sheila.
“Yes. You mean about me being perhaps the real target of the attack in your… I’m sorry, in your garage.” George choked out the last words, realizing that he was afraid, but also that all this was happening at Sheila’s home. Taking another look at Sheila, George saw the statuesque older woman’s eyes a little more red around the edges, and more tension in her hands which were just beginning to fight arthritis.
“I’m sorry Sheila. I apologize. I think I have been treating this a bit too pastorally – like just another concern and I haven’t connected up what this all means for me, much less for you and your house and your home.”
Sheila and George had been standing outside on concrete path between the empty autumn garden and dog run and the house. The path to the garage broke away fro the one they were on just a couple paces away.
Sheila asked George, “Did you know I’ve had someone over or I have gone out every evening since the murder?”
“No, I hadn’t realized that,” answered George quietly.
“I find I have used my coupons at many places over the intervening month and I have a vacancy this Wednesday. Would there be any chance I could come by for a meal that evening? I know it is typically your community night, but I wonder if I might impose on you this week.”
“I will have to ask the other men, but I think that this week we could do something. You are not everyone by any means! I’ll ask this morning and get back to you later today. Is that alright?” said George.
At the meeting, all four men were requesting a car on the Thursday. When they realized this they each both argued for their priority and began trying to figure out alternative methods. George was one of the first to say he really needed to use a car, since he had an appointment on Mercer Island in the morning. Eventually, the biggest fight was between Jack and Stephen over who needed to come pick the other up from one thing to go to the next, which in Seattle, is partly about parking and partly about cross town travel. Both grown men agreed to make it happen smoothly. Tim agreed to take the bus over to the university district if George could pick him up at 1:30 to make his downtown meeting at 2pm.
Later that day, George was on his way over to the bank to withdraw some money for the community purse. When he drove by the Green Café for a cup of coffee he realized he had forgotten his wallet at the house. Turning the truck around at the first opportunity, George saw a blue Toyota slow down and pull over to let him complete his u-turn at a four-way stop near Stone Way. Passing again by the Green Café, he realized that the blue Toyota was behind him again, going back the exact opposite direction they had each been traveling moments before.
The cool air blowing from the air vent in the truck felt suddenly cold as it blew over George’s neck and lip. Not really noticing, he turned the fan to low, and drove slowly back towards the house. There are really three ways to get back to the community house from this point. One passes Sheila Simpson’s house, the other goes around near the church, and another goes on the main road around the lake, then cuts back a little.
George second guessed himself several times, then he chose the third option. If someone was following him they would reveal it clearly by going the third way. It was not the way he normally went for all kinds of reasons. He drove on, reaching over to the radio, to turn off the Kate Bush song that had been in heavy rotation lately.
Slowing down at the corner, to get a better look at the blue car in the rear view mirror, George thought he saw someone inside that he vaguely recognized, but couldn’t place. The blue car made the same turn and then at the first street made a left turn again.
Was the car following him? Or was it a coincidence, maybe him turning around jogged someone else’s memory. Perhaps they had forgotten something as well. It could have happened that way.
band names: dip llama
“Do you think we can get one more session in, before we go?” asked George. “Without trying to be too much of a nag, or mother hen, can I suggest if we pack up our things and load everything but the food for lunch, we could still have a good two more hours on top of a brief worship. What do you think?”
Looking around, George saw nods around, and both Stephen and Tim got up from their empty breakfast bowls saying “Yes. Sure.” George who had packed before his long walk, was washing his dishes and talking with Jack when Tim came up from the carport.
“You’re never going to believe this. The tires on one side of the van are completely flat.”
“What?!” said both George and Jack, sounding surprised or dismayed. “How? When?”
“Oh my gosh, when we got home it was fine. How could that have happened?” said George.
“George, I am afraid I have another idea: someone did it on purpose,” said Jack.
“No way,” Tim answered.
“Yup,” chimed in Stephen.
“You’re kidding,” said George.
“No. How else could it have happened so evenly?” said Jack.
“Tires don’t deflate all by themselves so quickly without a bit of help,” added Stephen.
“That’s crazy,” said Tim.
“Whatever, but I have to say that we need to call the sheriff to get a police report on the incident,” said Jack
“Well, there goes the lovely productive morning. I am sorry Jack,” said Stephen.
“It’s really okay. Apparently this is a bigger deal than we thought,” said Jack.
“So we’re sure this is related to the murder of our friend?” asked Tim.
“It appears that way doesn’t it? Otherwise we are victims of a random event, in a far away place. Which I suppose is possible, but not likely,” said Jack.
“Oh, come on. Listen to yourself. Just a moment ago, you were very willing to allow that our life in Seattle was totally separate from this space, and now you’re saying the event of this morning is tied directly to the killing of a friend - at a distance of about two hours driving, and a month ago in time. Talk about far fetched…” said Tim.
“Well, I suppose I’m the one to call James right away,” said George, with only a tiny trace of petulance. “Do you really think calling the Sherriff is necessary? In Seattle, they probably would chalk it up to strange coincidence. I bet we’ll only get a visit if there is a chance that it was done by a local tire deflating gang,” George said this last smiling a little. The comment broke the peanut brittle tension – not too bad for you, just a little sticky to work through.
James came out and pumped the tires, after a deputy came by and looked at the scene, because, he said, “tourism is a major income for the area.” He gave the area what looked like a cursory glance, but said there were no surfaces from which he could get any prints, not with the equipment that their department had anyway. From the deputy, they actually got a police report number, for any claims that the rental company might later want to file.
The four were much subdued, though more rested, as they piled into the newly evened out van.
George thought, “At least we were away from all the things we have yet to do around our place.”
The ride home passed uneventfully down the hill and then down I-5 to their Green Lake home.
They were greeted by a light flashing inside the house. The answering machine was trying to alert the four to several messages which they found later were about; how Sunday morning went, a couple questions about music that needed being answered, plus two hang-up messages.
Re-entry from retreats was always hard, remembered George, even when it is a weird retreat, perhaps more so. There was a strange dream that seemed to come back to George. It was something about meeting a truly nasty person. No, there was another word… peculiar, disastrous… Sometimes a dream was like that, hard to fully find release from unless there was something else to fulfill its place…
The rest of Sunday was a flurry of everything about to need getting done that coming week. Stephen was working with Jack on a presentation. Tim had a meeting to remind students of, so he spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening on the phone calling and “checking in” with them. George called Travis. Everything was fine in the congregation, a couple people went into the hospital, one for the second time in a month. Travis mentioned that he did not need to be the one who followed up with that family, since George had recently performed the second marriage of one of the daughters. (This was one point of negotiation in taking on pastoral responsibility which would likely end in a funeral in the not too distant future.)
George said he understood and thanked Travis for all his work, covering the whole congregation in George’s absence.
“You really helped us out, Travis,” said George.
“Was it a good retreat?”
Before responding, George found himself back in the place he was in as the four left to get some space from being the target of a murder. That was where he noticed his “junior” colleague was ministering to him and he had accepted it, allowed it to support his decisions and actions.
“Ahh. It was okay, I guess.”
“That sounds awfully vague, or uncommitted,” said Travis, trying a lighthearted approach to talk with his colleague.
“How could you let this happen?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s a problem with the construction of the whole house – the plumbing is just a little off. I told you the downstairs bathroom was going to cause problems when the water table gets too high.”
Iliana Morrisons’s niece was not at all pleased about the real estate management role into which she had been pushed. Only the promise of a significant return on her investment kept her attentive to the details of her plan – that and her husbands near Anguish about he had been overlooked. He had been sideswiped after all.
Plumbing did not, in the end, dominate the evening. The basement toilet’s sewage extraction pump was fixed. Apparently it wasn’t actually broken, only needing an adjustment of a particular hose or cable, or that’s what the plumber related as he finally left.
After Stephen’s spotted the bakery just 10 minutes after wandering around a couple historic markers and the museum at Avenue A, the four were on their way back to the ranch.
Just before leaving Stephen said, “Hey, Tim, tell Jack to come over here.”
When Jack and George arrived to see the marker describing the origin of the name of the town, Stephen said, “That’s funny! Jack you could be from here, you’re always pointing a finger at someone.”
Jack answered, “What is amazing is how today, branding has made us think that the only names we can use are ones are memorable because they are new. Stephen, I would be slightly offended except that I read the gospels to say that Jesus was especially gifted at showing how many ways people’s actions reveal that they are the ones who ought to point “index” fingers at themselves.”
“Uh, you got me. Point taken. Touché, I give already,” said Stephen.
“Yes, I would think so, since I have Jesus in my corner.”
“Ouch!” said George.
“Yeah, wow! That was a ‘shut out’ on a triple play,” said Tim.
After that, the conversations got much lighter, rambling on to old stories of getting shut down; ranging from seminary to high school, with a similar variety of topics from dating to keen but aging parents. This all continued as the four returned to their vehicle and drove up the dark road.
Small white lights, in distant, seemingly random locations lit the shiny black pavement, the few businesses, and the receding houses. It seemed the houses had been built further and further from the street as they left town, entering a deeper cold night toward the ranch house.
Parking again under the carport, Stephen grabbed his find and carried it up the stairs to the royal blue tiled kitchen. On the way up the stairs, the four saw a note taped to the door of the downstairs bath. It read: “Fixed, adjusted a cable, ought to work fine now- and for the rest of the weekend! –James.”
Supper, like their other meals, was around a large redwood table, sanded smooth and finished only with what smelled like lemon oil wax. Soup was good and went very well with the local rough bread. After eating it would be slightly more difficult to focus on Jack’s presentation, but Jack was prepared to make it work, using a slide show.
Jack continued, “You see in this slide, a diagram of the ‘Ascent’ drawn in St. John’s own hand…” It was a good presentation, but after forty five minutes, Jack could tell it was becoming difficult to hold his brothers’ attention.
During a moment’s pause in the presentation, George recognized the process Jack was going through: assessing his audience’ ability, and gauging how long he could go on, or if he ought to quit.
“Jack, can I be the one to say I want to hear more, but I am losing you, because I am ready to crash right now,” said George.
“You know, I was just starting to feel my mind losing focus. Maybe stopping here, is a good idea,” answered Jack.
There weren’t quite palpable sighs, but the clearish eyes of the two other men soon seemed to fog over, so that they even bumped the railing as they made their way to their rooms. It wasn’t long before four men were asleep inside the Horse Ranch.
This made the job of the man waiting outside, much easier, diminished as it was from the plan in effect before the plumbing difficulty. Still, no one heard as he shut the door to the house and left an hour later.
After an excellent morning, beginning with a beautiful cold and quiet prayer walk, George was amazed how full it seemed he could fill his lungs. Every breath was filled with air slathered in smooth and spicy forever-green trees and full and heavy grass until recently marinating in fields all around him. Hundred foot tall evergreens, snowy mountains just over ‘there,’ frosty farms, and the silence of trees, broken only by the Skykomish River less than a mile away. He had a lovely walk, just out the driveway and down the country road, over some small rises until he reached the end at a big gravel road with a thick dark chain. It looked like it could stop all but the trucks it was intended to remind to take it down, those allowed to carry logs from the mountain.
George turned around and walked back, timing his return just right for avoiding a visit from James to, ‘see how they were doing,’ and to remind them of the time of check out.
“He seems anxious to get us out of here,” said Tim.
“Yeah, I can see how this place could be a really nice one, if you’re not really worried about not being interrupted. For our purposes though…” Stephen’s voice trailed off, concluding with a dismissive shrug.
“I guess I may be the one most disappointed, since I have wanted to share the information about St. John of the Cross with you for a couple weeks now.”
“I am sorry, Jack,” said George. “Maybe we should have just gone ahead with the scheduled presentation the other week, but I didn’t think it was a good idea at the time.”
“Thanks for saying that, George. It means a lot. I understand why we all agreed that it was a good choice. I am afraid it probably was. It’s just disappointing to me on this topic.”
The four had gone down into the basement sitting, or ‘games’ room just for a change of scenery and so as not to have to heat the entire large, high ceilinged ‘great’ room. Jack was getting into the second presentation on St John of the Cross.
“As I began this morning, the two poems, the Spiritual Canticle and Dark Night of the Soul, provide a place to just begin a whole realm of prayerful study, not to mention study of Spanish poetry. The Ascent of Mount Carmel, though, is even more useful for us as we continue to figure out individually, and for the life of our community, what it means to pray. It could even be helpful to use the Ascent of Mount Carmel as a way to talk to people who are thinking about becoming part of this community, not the visitors, but serious inquirers and postulants.”
“A discussion of what St. John vehemently points out as being against the God-ward life, is like the premarital counseling conversation we ask a couple to have based on the questionnaire of things-you-might-talk-about-now-so-as-to-get-it-out-in-the-open. In our situation, how a person views their body, their bad choices, and God’s involvement in the world…”
A half an hour into the discussion, Stephen left for a minute and came back. A moment later there was a loud and annoying buzzing sound which began and did not stop. Stephen got up again, this time Jack paused and the others all looked down the hall to where Stephen was standing. He opened the door and the sound got louder, a red light spilled into and across the hall.
Jack, whose experience of working in a shelter meant that he had many different skills in making stuff work a little longer, or get fixed without making investment decisions, came over to look.
“I have no idea what it’s for, but it looks like there is a pump that is not working.”
“Is that what that noise is?”
“Apparently it’s an alarm, to tell someone that the pump isn’t working.”
“Can we-“ Tim asked, as George leaned over and pressed first one and then the other buttons. The second button stopped the noise, but the red light kept shining.
“There,” George said redundantly.
“We need to call Sally?” asked Jack.
“Actually there is a local number for problems. Let me go call now. Why don’t you finish up what you were saying, Jack, and then we can take a coffee break a little early,” said George.
“That’s sounds good. I’ll make an amendment, though, that we’ll go do an exercise when we ‘finish’ the coffee break, so we don’t have to come back together until 3:45.”
“Hello, is this James? Hello, my name is George Anderson and I’m over at the Horse Ranch this weekend.”
“Hello. Yes. I heard from Sally Ames that you’d be there. What can I do for you?”
“Well, it seems there is a pump just off the basement bathroom that isn’t working.”
“Oh damn that thing. I knew it would act up again, as soon as I got it fixed,” said James.
George was amused to hear the man swear. He probably didn’t know what group was in the house. Most people who didn’t know a professional religious person believed that they never swore, or that it even hurt their ears to hear it. Why else were there apologies nearly every time that useful four letter words were breathed?
“You know what? I’m going to call the plumber and have him come over and fix it and stop messing around myself. The Morrisons will just have to deal with it. I’m going to call John over at Foothill Plumbing. He ought to be able to come over in the next little while.”
“Is there any way you can supervise him? We really need this time that we came to do some work here.”
“Yes. Yes. I will tell him to call me when he’s coming over and I will look over what happening. Can you meet upstairs. Sally said something about you were a smaller group, right?” said James.
“Yes. We can do that. There isn’t going to be too much noise is there?” George asked.
"No, no, shouldn’t be much, if any. I don’t think you will even be able to hear it upstairs.”
The frustration continued in that the noise was loud enough to hear, and James did not do a good job supervising the man, he kept going in and out of the big house. Needing tools is not an unexpected thing, but each time he went out, a wind ran around the house like a bunch of ghostly four year olds spilling chill all over the rooms. Finally, the exercise completed early, the brothers tried to gather in the great room… and then the drilling began.
It was decided to suspend the rest of the afternoon’s work. Maybe the community would take it up again that night.
For now they would go up to town for a visit to the local grocery store and prepare their supper of appetizers and soup. There was enough of everything except bread. Perhaps they were spoiled, but it was a way to connect with people, to go into town and find out what kind of breads were available.
Of course the name of the next nearest town was more interesting, so they had to go to Index, Washington. Now, if the plummer would be done by the time they got back, past the logging trucks at the end of their day…
“Sargeant Keith Chang beginning the interview in room three, Greenlake precinct, on
“My name is George Anderson. I am one of the pastors at
“Pastor Anderson, what did you see the morning of the fifth of October?”
“When I arrived at the Simpson home—“
“Excuse me, you mean the home of Sheila Simpson, correct?”
“Yes. When I arrived at Sheila Simpson’s home, I walked up the sidewalk and turned into the driveway, like I always do. Immediately, an officer called out to me and asked me what I was doing.”
“For the record, I, Keith Chang was the officer. Go on, please”
“Then you asked me some more questions and I told you that I usually walk this way to Sheila, er, Mrs. Simpson’s home, especially when I come to walk her dogs.
“I then told you and the other officer that it is my job to come over and speak with Mrs. Simpson and other parishioners, when they ask for me. Especially in stressful or painful situations.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I walked through the garden and around the front to the door, went in and spoke with Mrs. Simpson.”
“Were you at the house earlier in the day?”
“I was not. I had been called to visit someone in the hospital and switched dog walking duties with Henry.”
“Henry Isaacson is the name of the man who was killed.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know why anyone would want to hurt Henry?”
“No. I can’t imagine. He was a great member of the congregation. He was involved in community activities, including reading at the library with kids. I can’t think of any area of Henry’s life that was not a wonderful witness.”
“Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill you?”
“What?! No!... Are you saying that you think that Henry’s death was meant for me?”
“We have been examining all the information and this is one avenue we need to follow up on. So, if you would: Can you think of any reason someone would want to hurt or kill you?”
Some few moments passed.
“I can imagine that it is possible someone from one of my past congregations has a grudge against me, but they are far away and it’s an old thing. Not enough to want to track me down and try to hurt me.”
“What was the source of this grudge?”
“I chose to go one way with a decision and they didn’t like it.”
“What does that mean?”
“There was a vote in the congregation about using the endowment funds in the struggle to stay relevant and meaningful and I campaigned and enlisted the help of long time members to overthrow the ‘old guard’ control. I then led the charge to use the funds to spend on ministry that the congregation had been saying it had wanted to do for twenty years.”
“You think that there are some people who would actually want to hurt you for doing this?”
“You must not have be as active a church-goer as I initially took you for.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Of course they were upset enough to hurt me. It might be slightly astonishing to think that anyone would still be that angry now, but I can come up with a scenario, based on what I know of that congregation’s history that might support a few people I can name for you who would choose to, even plan to be violent to me.”
“Damn. Maybe I am glad I’m Catholic.”
“Yeah. That would explain it.”
“Okay, You’re free to go.”
George finished up the interview and stood. As he did he realized that this was a revealing interview. Not only did the Sergeant learn a lot about church politics and the emotions connected with those, George himself learned how seriously he was involved in the investigation of Henry’s murder. And that little thing about himself being the intended target…
Stephen, Jack and Tim all listened as George recounted the interview around the dinner table. Wednesday night was “open” night. This meant sometimes they agreed to be silent, sometimes the brothers listened to an audio book and tonight, as on a couple dozen Wednesdays a year, they talked.
“How did the police get the idea that you were the real target of the attack again?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t exactly feel it was the time for me to ask questions,” said George.
“What was it that the sergeant said, after you described how you couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Henry? Something about hurting you?”
“Yes… Actually, he asked if I could think of anyone who would want to kill me… I was surprised, obviously, then he clarified that they were looking into all the reasons why this thing happened.”
“But the officer asked again, why anyone would want to kill you. Right?”
Reluctantly, George answered, “Yes…”
“I think the police department is concerned, because they can’t figure out why Henry would have been killed. And you were the one who might have been the intended victim, since you were the one who initially was scheduled to be there that morning.” Jack paused, then asked the three others, “Does that make sense?”
Tim spoke next, “Yes, I’m afraid it does. But what does that mean? Did the police say anything about their investigation going on from there?”
“And who could be so mad and crazy to want to kill you, George? You haven’t done anything like in
“I can’t imagine. I haven’t done anything except…
“No way, then any of us might be a target.”
“You’re kidding! You guys aren’t thinking that George is a target because of this community!”
“When do we get to go away for a few days, again?” asked Tim.
“In two days,” said Stephen, “two days, until we retreat.”
“You are a despicable person! You have no right to come up to me and shake my hand. You have behaved abominably and with malicious intent. I do not recognize your presence.”
“I was standing in an aisle in a big beverage store near the Seattle Center.” The previous speaker was talking to someone else, while she was pushing his shopping cart with a small child in the seat facing her. George realized it was a parishioner of his who was doing the talking. Then he recognized the child, it was a girl George and Travis had baptized a few years back. The person that George knew was not in the habit of speaking that way. Kay always seemed very measured in her interactions. The situation slightly alarmed him, what would cause such an outburst of ill description to pour from her?
Then all of a sudden George was the person standing at the shopping cart. And it was his child sitting staring at him in wonderment at the words and language he had used.
The last thing he remembered before waking was that he had avoided making eye contact and was relieved to see the antagonist leave the building. Then he pushed the cart ahead, talked with his daughter and slowed in front of a display of holiday foods. Then George woke up.
He looked at the clock, the red lights showed 4:23. George couldn’t throw off the feelings of the dream encounter. He had seen the actual store before, had walked by it, but had never gone in. What was that about: a sticky, broken nutshell texture in the heart of the emotions against that man in the store? George felt his stomach tightening, and sweat on his neck turning cold, even as he woke, revulsion and something else.
Returning even more to his room, George’s body creaked and did actually crackle as his feet reached for the floor, He was thankful that the community had agreed good beds would make them better monks - and human beings – at least as far as being able to live together.
George dressed and went down to the chapel, knowing he would not be able to get back to sleep. Since he had a whole hour before his regular schedule, he brought his prayer beads. An old friend, who had joined a monastery in England long after they had met, had rolled the clay into large pea-sized salmon colored balls, pierced and strung them for him, unfired. George spent the next hour inhaling to the words, “Have mercy on me,” and exhaling “Jesus Christ, Son of God,” dropping one bead after another through his increasingly dusty fingers.
“Tim, that is… I’m sorry you feel that way,” Stephen said.
Jack jumped into the fray, “I understood we were here to talk about the death of a friend the other day.”
“I am here to talk about everything that led up to that!” said Stephen, his face turning red and an artery almost looking like you could see it pulse, standing out on his neck.
“What?” Tim and George both asked, while Jack sat up in his chair at the end of the table and opened his mouth and left it hanging there.
“I mean… I want to talk about,” taking a breath to calm himself, said Stephen, “how Henry was always trying to help, and how he was part of our whole community – not this one, but Green Lake Lutheran. Henry was always involved, not like Ted, who’s only gotten involved recently. And Ted is only around to grouse and complain. Henry was one of the people the whole ministry is going to miss.
“There are whole lists of things that no one else knows how to do at the church, groups that met and Henry unlocked the door, meetings that enjoyed coffee that Henry made, things that the janitors didn’t have to worry about because Henry took care of it!”
George imagined the waves the murder was wreaking on the church community. They were spreading out further than he’d first thought.
“Stephen, you are right. There are going to be long term adjustments that will have to be made, just for the church to be able to function… Is there anything else you want to mention?” George asked when Stephen did not seem to be going further.
“No, really. I just wanted to make sure this community, this house, at least was prepared for what this murder really means for us and the people of the congregation. I am a little worried about how the synod is going to view us after this.”
“Mmmm,” said Tim. “Yeah, I didn’t think of that.”
“Yeah, well my status as a rostered person is up before yours unless our community is recognized somehow,” said Stephen.
George, finally began to see where Stephen had been coming from – his concern about ‘falling off the roster-‘ not being recognized any more as a pastor. They hadn’t heard from the bishop in all of this. George wondered if the bishop’s office had heard from anyone.
There was some more discussion about how to handle the situation, the “this” that hung over like a cloud heavy with lightning and rain. Finally, it was Jack who suggested one way to help the brothers be better able to handle things better.
“What if we were to move up our quarterly retreat to two weeks from now?”
“Whoah!”
“What? How can we do that?”
“Before you immediately discount that option, look at your schedules. We’re going up to the Horse Ranch on Highway 2, so it’s a matter of finding out if the big house is being used during the week in the pre-ski season. It might be open and Sally Ames, the manager has been really helpful in making things welcoming for us. She might be able to get back with the information about if it’s even possible within a day. We could ask and find out if the site is open, while we check our schedules.”
“This must be something that comes in handy with the shelter, Jack” said Tim.
“Flexibility?” Jack asked.
“That, and coming up with out of the box options,” Tim was the first one to smile out of the whole discussion.
“I am not sure if it’s going to be possible for all, never mind. I’ll check.”
“What were you going to say, George?” asked Stephen.
“I was thinking in terms of the congregation. I forgot for a moment that I was free to take time off where and when wanted to,” he said.
“Okay, then, I’ll find out and we’ll check our schedules,” said Jack.
“Thank you, Jack. Would you be prepared to lead a program on the first day, with some of the material you were going to present tonight?”
“Sure, I’ll look forward to it.”
“Then we will have something to look forward to working on, not just separate meditations, or our own perniciousness to occupy ourselves,” said George.
“Good. Yes,” agreed Tim and Stephen.
“George, how are you doing?”
“Good, Estella.”
“Have you been using the things we talked about since last time?”
“Yes, but it’s been hard.”
“What about the exercises have been difficult?”
“No, it’s in the rest of my life.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you’ve perhaps heard about the woman in whose garage a man was killed the other week?”
“Yes.”
“He was a parishioner of mine, and she is a close friend – the benefactor of my community, actually.”
“Oh. I can see how that would disturb your prayers. So what did you do about it?”
“About the disturbance you mean? “
“Yes.”
“Well… I guess I chose to focus on the activities I felt I needed to get through in order to make it to today.”
“And how did that work for you?”
“It was less than what I hope for regularly.But I was able to include some of my dreams in the meditations.”
“So you did pray, and you did some of what we talked about?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s focus on that today.”
“Okay. I especially enjoyed the time I spent on the Jesus Prayer with the meditations on the images of the Divine…”
After the spiritually renewing and relaxing meeting with Sr. Estella about his life in prayer, when George got home, he was utterly unprepared for the phone call.
“Hello, Community House, how can I direct your call?”
“Hello, is this the pastor who walks the dogs?” Not even waiting for complete confirmation of the right person, she plowed onward, “I was at the store this morning, and I heard a man talking about how he was terribly upset with how you were handling the situation in the parish – about the murder. You know I was the one who called about the red truck that other week…” There was a slight pause.
“Anyway, the man was saying how he was going to make it his business to get you and your community out of the parish. He said he was angry about your whole involvement in the life of the congregation and he-“
George interrupted, “Excuse me. Excuse me! I need to ask you if there is something you want to tell me. I cannot keep listening to your side of the story. I lay myself open to all kinds of things, including accusations of gossiping! I will not be party to that, or any other destructive group behavior.”
“I… I just want to say watch out at the retreat.” Then she hung up.
“How could she even know that the dates of the retreat had been changed? Wait, she didn’t say that. She said watch out at the retreat. She didn’t necessarily know anything about any change in dates, or the location of the event, just that such a thing was happening,” George mused to himself. “Still, it was weird. People who got the parish newsletter already knew about he retreat. They just didn’t know it would be happening earlier than announced – even more reason not to worry about it, since it was now an unexpected event.
next week: more dreams and a meeting
Saturday George woke early, went to the chapel to pray, and by the time the morning meeting was done, his mind was already focused on the details of the sermon he had yet to finish.
Back at the Green Café, George sat down to ‘complete’ the sermon. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his time of prayer earlier, centering himself. He imagined the familiar sensations of kneeling before the altar table in his room. A plain burning candle in a glass votive revealed a woodpecker feather, a large black Mexican beach stone, and a small modern icon detail of the Transfiguration. George recalled the fondness he had for the scene. A central figure stood, clad in white, with extra large hands and body, feet just peeking from behind folds in the heavily draped robe. Jesus was surrounded by a purple oval with white piercing light shooting out from his figure. Beyond that mandorla, to his right and left, floating above the ground stood Moses and Elijah, both haloed only around their heads in gold leaf.
As George recalled these things, his breathing slowed, he felt less anxious about any one thing, and when he reflected on it later, he noticed he felt better about himself and the world. For now it was enough to focus on the texts and stories for this week.
About an hour later George felt about as good as he ever did about a sermon. It was “done.” There were always last minute changes directed to the specific audience and that morning’s news. But considering the events of the past week, this was quite a feat. For George, this too was evidence that there had to be something, someone, bigger than the human world, some view knowing which was broader than humanity’s. The sermon included some of his first feelings about the murder. George knew he had a lot of meditating to do on that before all the can of worms it spilled was caught. Fear of something similar, images of the scene, imaginations of things unseen. The sermon just touched the squiggling worms lightly, recognizing their presence among the people affected, nothing more.
The rest of the day was filled with mundane preparations and cleaning. George set the dinner table. Tim practiced guitar after putting the community’s evening meal in the oven. Jack returned from the shelter in time to join Stephen and the other two back in the chapel for a brief Service of Light, remembering that the new day begins with the sunset of the night before.
“George, we talked about me having a chance to speak about the shelter again this fall. Can we do that soon?” Jack asked.
“Sure, Jack,” answered George. “Do you want to have anyone else from the Shelter Board, or do you want to preach, or?”
“You know, I love to preach, but I get to do that on all my parish visits. I was thinking about just a coffee hour and education time event. Maybe in the Spring I could ask to preach again.”
“Sure, let’s set up the dates,” said George.
Travis moved over to his chair again. His drink spilled a little as he allowed his fatigue to overtake his dexterity. Travis looked at the glass, and through it, out the window, holding it up. He and Barbara had a nice view from this window. In the winter, they could see both mountain ranges, though the leaves interrupted the view the rest of the year.
Barbara was out at the office still. She had twenty-some years experience, and twenty-some years to go before she could retire. Barbara and he had discussed how she could advance in her specialty, which was small business accounting and management. Yet, in a city like Seattle, there were many younger and better trained women who were keen to advance quickly. Travis assured his spouse that there were none prettier, however.
Travis, on the other hand, saw few opportunities for advancement. He had served long in the churches he had been called to and had not advanced to the position of “Senior Pastor.” He always played second fiddle to men who were not always older than him. He was fed up. He kept that under wraps, but the feeling had gone beyond rubbing him like a constantly changing piece of sandpaper in his grip. Now it was pretty intolerable. Something was going to happen.
Focusing on his glass again, Travis tried to relax. He realized his grip on the crystalline tumbler was cramping his 43 year old hand. He wanted to be Senior Pastor at Green Lake Lutheran Church or somewhere, by his forty-fifth birthday, to finish his service in a comfortable position as either Senior Pastor at a bigger church, or as a “preaching pastor” at some even larger congregation. Travis imagined himself in that position. His friend John from seminary was already in such a position, down south. John occasionally even taught at the seminary from which they graduated. Travis heard about this from newsletters and communications from the school. Sure there was a little more than a bit of green in his eyes when he looked at his friend’s status and roles.
George was at home later that day and answered the phone.
“Hello, Community House, George speaking.”
“I want to talk with someone about what I saw the other morning at the Simpson House.”
George was caught off guard, a little confused. “Have you spoken to the police?”
“I want to speak to the pastor who usually walks the dog on Tuesdays, the day of the murder.”
George felt a chill on his neck.
“Why do you want to speak with him?” The little community was pretty good, not only at keeping pastoral confidences, but also with insulating one another from all kinds of marketing and other time occupying interruptions. Speaking in the third person was almost a habit.
“I… I saw the same car parked in the neighborhood each Tuesday for three weeks. It looked like they were watching the pastor come and go with the dog – then the other man came and that is the day that man was killed,” said the woman.
“Can I ask who you are?”
“I can’t tell you that. I can’t –“ Abruptly the line cut off.
George didn’t see a phone number listed in the caller ID. He couldn’t call back.
George hung his feet over the side of the bed until they pressed firmly to the carpeted floor. He squeezed his eyes and then his toes. What had woken him from such a heavy sleep? The alarm would go off in ten minutes anyway, so George dressed in his chapel clothes and made his way down to the basement area the brothers had set aside for prayers and worship.
This ‘morning’ chapel was one of the ways of living which the little community found gave them the greatest sense of having a monastic life. It wasn’t the fact that the time together in prayer was at 5:30 am. It was the actual waking up alone, to immediately join with several other people who also were dedicated to this joint opening their eyes to the Divine.
George took his seat in the cool dark room ringed with chairs. He felt rather than saw that Jack was already sitting quietly in his favorite place. Minutes passed, in silence and slow breathing of the Divine Name, until there came the rustle of clothing of the other two members of the household. One took up his favorite position.
It was Timothy’s turn to turn on the lights and prepare the space. Before entering the room, he pressed the dimmer, raised the level of light, and moved to the tall table in the center of the room, where he lit the big white candle standing at its center.
An amazing amount of light is thrown off by a little candle flame, especially if you’re used to the dark.
Then Tim went back to the doorway in the dancing shadows, and reached outside to flick the switch on the ring of halogen lights reflecting off the walls to warmly illumine the room.
George saw his fellows gather themselves and their prayer books up, resting the small 3 ring binders on their laps. Their eyes adjusting, Jack picked up the singing bowl and struck it three times, stretching out the last tone for a long moment. Then George began the day’s words with: “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God…”
They finished morning chapel, grabbed some coffee and were sitting down to the daily meeting. George needed to report on the meeting with the bishop and what happened with Sheila Simpson and the police. Jack was due to talk about some financial things and Stephen the possibility of allowing guests to come stay overnight at the house. Tim was the notetaker for the week’s meetings.
It was probably only a romantic notion which they had, that the community living a monastic life would actually still be around for someone to want in their archives.
George thought, “At least that’s how I’m feeling today.” ‘It could happen,’ a group of men living together in a monastic house could spark a new thing in a tradition which was in part made popular by releasing people from monastic vows which they had made when they were too young, too naïve, or just felt there was no other option. ‘It could happen,’ but George was doubtful today.
It was decided that; the community’s finances were fine, they would keep exploring what it would mean to allow guests to spend the night in the second floor rooms, and the bishop was being tentative and politically correct about recognizing the community. While the last item was disappointing and might result in the loss of official status for Timothy and Stephen, the brothers did not imagine that finally they would have to choose whether or not to be recognized as clergy.
George and Timothy shared a cup of tea, looking out over Green Lake, from Simpson House. The deck out back had been put in by the congregation a few years ago, but it stood the test of seasons very well. Timothy looked over to the side of the deck, where Stephen’s herbs looked a little droopy and got up to water them with a can still partly filled. George dipped a spoon and wrapped the tea bag around it, squeezing out the last tasty drops of peppermint.
As Tim sat down again, he said, “How is Travis doing?”
“What? I think he’s doing pretty well. What makes you ask?” said George.
“I dunno. I thought he looked a little down, or tired on Sunday,” offered Tim.
“Hmm. I guess I didn’t see that,” said George. “He has been working a lot on the Mexico Mission trip and trying to get fundraising for it. Pulling the strings all together for that bunch of balloons to go all in one direction is a pretty big deal.”
“Yes,” then after a brief pause, Tim asked, “How about you? How are you doing?”
“I’m alright. I feel a little in a haze after Henry’s death. A murder that close is a scary thing. How are you doing about it?
“You know, I have been pretty focused too, with the things going at the Udub, trying to pull the balloons together, as you said, for the annual ecumenical commission meetings in a month. The student groups have been working really hard, but they’re students, so I’ve been trying to tie down loose ends, speakers, accommodations, rooms, you know… I guess I haven’t really had time to process the thing with Henry,” said Tim.
“Maybe that’s something we ought to do as a community. It would be really helpful for me in my role as Senior Pastor at GLL. I don’t want it to be something that is looping around with energy we could be focusing elsewhere, more usefully,” said George.
“Right. How about this Tuesday, at the big chapter meeting?” suggested Tim.
“That’s a good idea. We’ll ask Jack if he would reschedule his presentation on John of the Cross. Would you ask him about that? Maybe even suggest that he might still lead the opening and closing meditations? I won’t be home until late tonight, after he will have gone to bed. There’s an education committee meeting and then a worship and music team session.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
A gust of wind blew into the kitchen where Tim was making dinner. He realized that the front door must be open and then heard it close. It would be Jack getting home. Tim ducked through the hall to the entry and found Jack taking off his trench coat, which was dribbling rain. The spattering of rain had picked up a little in the last few minutes, slashing the clear glass on either side of the door with droplets. Weather does change in a snap in Western Washington.
Jack said, “Sure, that’s not a problem, it will work out for me too. I have to get some things done by Friday for the Shelter Board and it will give me a little more leeway.”
“Thanks, Jack” said Tim. “How are you doing with the murder at Sheila’s place? I know you have been friends with her even longer than George, since you have been here longer.”
“Honestly, Tim, I am having a hard time. I knew Henry pretty well too. He was a good guy when, I mean he was always a good guy, but he helped me out when I was looking for support for the shelter. He had never been involved in that kind of ministry before, and for about five years he really beat the drum for me, getting money and just ‘awareness’ of homelessness out there. That was a long time ago, but we’ve always had a special friendship. I am really angry and sad. The meeting on Tuesday will be good for me.”
The two men hugged one another’s shoulders, standing next each other in the entry of the house.
The coroners report read something like, gruesome death by asphyxiation after the trachea was punctured, cut in half, by a fairly sharp object. By the aluminium shavings and dirt recovered from the neck wound, the object might have been a garden instrument. A big sharp object. The report described the blow as being quite powerful, and coming from an angle that suggested someone of stature, who was right handed. The police would wonder for some time what could be the instrument of this murder.
Weeks later they would find an old aluminum shovel, used to scrape up leaves and dirt on pavement. The leading edge had been sharpened by years of use on smooth sidewalks around the church’s physical plant. They found it in a storage shed in the back corner of the church lot. It was a shed that was locked almost all the time, but could not be proven to be locked most of the time. Anyone could have taken the shovel, used it horribly, and put it back. It was clean when the police found it. “Clean” of blood residue anyway.
next week: finish the message?
As George drove up Ted Swenson appeared to be finishing his morning cleanup. He was carrying a shovel in his right hand and a few gardening tools in his left. The glance George caught from him was usually quite mean.
George saw Ted’s face change from the expression of an unusually open and contented old man, to dark and narrowed eyes and tight lips when he noticed George’s truck come into the parking lot. George knew Ted had some feelings about the religious community idea he and the other men were working on building, but never before had he seen Ted’s face change so clearly, or completely. Then he remembered the morning’s events.
Stepping out of the truck, holding briefcase and empty coffee mug, George waved good naturedly to Ted. Ted raised a lackluster hand back.
As George turned into the church office he wondered if it really did look like the wind up to the back of Ted’s hand, or if he was putting too much on it.
“Hello, Georgia.”
“Hello, Pastor George.”
It was once a punny exchange between these adults, now, today, it was especially only a ritual with little warmth.
“How is she?” Georgia asked.
“Mrs. Simpson? As good as can be expected, I suppose.” George was glancing over the mail that had come in already – a bit early today, he thought. “I mean,” looking straight at Georgia now, “She had a shock, but she’s had lots of those in her lifetime. Still… that someone was be killed on your property, while you were there. That’s creepy, to say the least.”
“I was wondering if, since it’s only Tuesday, if I might go over there this afternoon.”
“Georgia, that is a good idea. I know you have been working ahead and there’s nothing pressing today, now anyway. Yes, please go see how Sheila is doing.”
Not only was Sheila Simpson a gracious person with her pastors, she was also a wonderful friend, and had been to Georgia and her family over the twenty-some years of being part of this community. It was Sheila who had called the pastors to tell them about Georgia’s husband, when he had been diagnosed with Alzheimers.
George went down to the Green Café to work on his sermon. It was an internet café with really good espresso where George was just far enough away from the church that not many people would be coming by who might ask for his time. A sermon George felt good about preaching usually took at least six to eight hours to write. He still used a manuscript and kept the time to 10 to 12 minutes.
George was trying to settle on his brain treat, barraca or a pretty healthy looking oatmeal cookie. George looked up and saw Rosie come out from behind the espresso machine.
“George,” a wide smile lit up Rosie’s face, “What can I get for you today? Oh, it’s Thursday, so you probably want a couple of them this morning, right?”
George smiled back, Rosie was his favorite barista. She could make the best drink better than almost anyone and anywhere else. George once admitted to himself that he found her attractive too.
The people in front of him, paid and got their drinks and George paid and waited for his first espresso drink.
Rosie passed George’s very large cup over to him and he noticed how beautiful her dark hands were again. “Just let me know when you need the next one,” Rosie said smiling.
George left the Green Café after his second drink. The sermon wasn’t “done,” meaning he had something written, but didn’t yet flow very well. George had heard (and written) his share of sermons, so he judged them by his own criteria. If he were to enumerate those “standards,” they would begin with flow.
Water was a very powerful image for all aspects of community and congregational life. Ripples and disturbances could be a good thing, but flow, the direction or trajectory of the flow, that was more important than the fact some water was in motion.
Of course, the “motion” from the Simpson garage was more than that. Henry’s murder was a sad and horrible end to a wonderful life.
As George drove back to the Community House he thought about ripples and disturbances, and looked at the smiling Madonna as he walked up to, and entered the front door.
At worship on Sunday, the connections that the pastors had made in the intervening days had quelled the murmuring congregation before the service, during the offering, afterwards in during the coffee hour, and in the parking lot as people dispersed. Travis rolled his eyes to George about the group still gathered at the back end of Jill Ackerson’s SUV.
“You’d think they had no where to go,” said Travis.
“Yes, and yet they are still trying to process what happened,” responded George.
“Yeah, didn’t you have some tragedy like this happen when you were in Nebraska of something?”
“Yes, unfortunately. There was a couple who were known to fight often and finally the husband shot the wife and then himself,” said George. “Just makes me not like guns, but this… The way Henry was killed just gives me shudders.”
George shook his robe off in the hall near the pastors’ offices, before hanging it up in the closet there. The church used to use Travis’ office as the robing room, when one pastor had served this congregation and the Scandinavians had thought one man could best lead 300 Lutherans. Now the hall closet held their stoles and robes. That was easier for the altar guild to keep them clean anyway. They could take and dry clean them without going into a pastor’s office.
next week: community and clues
With shaking hands he put the shovel back in the back of the truck at the foot of the driveway. It was finished. He needed to drive the truck back to the church parking lot and leave it there.
It had to be done. Even though two wrongs don’t make a right. It was not fair what had been done to him. He had sacrificed too. For too long he had given up his interests for the needs of the parish. Too long he had spent in hospitals with the dying, sick, or recovering old and young people. Now he could look himself in the mirror and see someone who was doing something for his desires.
It had taken weeks to figure out what to do. And then it had been several days before it “hit” him who and how it had to be done.
Now as he drove the few blocks to the parking lot next to the church, he said to himself, “Please let the lot be empty, like I timed it before.” He realized he was praying and directed his prayer to God.
An hour or so later, Travis came back from a visit to Swedish Medical Center. He had been to see John Anderson, who was going in for his first chemotherapy. Travis knew it was a scary thing – even though the cancer wing and its staff were some of the best and had the reputation of being really helpful to the beginner cancer patients.
Travis marveled at their patience sometimes. He knew some of them by name, having completed the prostate cancer treatment with his own father a year before. The staff was really great.
George saw Travis come in to the church office.
“How’s John doing?”
“Fine. You know how well they treat new cancer patients at Swedish.”
“Yeah…. Hey, do you want to get a cup of coffee in a few minutes, before we plan the education opportunities for the Wednesdays before Christmas? Maybe we could even be inspired with some ideas for Sundays in the new year.”
“Sure, give me 15 minutes to get a couple of things settled and grab some papers.”
“Great. I thought we could go to the Green Café?”
“Sure – do you want to just meet me there in 20 minutes? If we go longer than an hour and a half, I’ll need to leave to drive home, so I have little time off before the class tonight.”
Travis lived in Lake City. You wouldn’t think that made for a long commute, but in a city where all the roads are designed to move traffic North-South, getting “across town” was quite a feat. George felt for him. He had done the commuting pastor gig for 12 years. In his last two calls, George couldn’t afford to live in the communities of which he was a pastor – or at least - where the church was located; in San Jose, then in this synod, over in Bellevue. Thankfully he had enough experience to be paid well enough, well for a single man with no dependents. He had been able to buy a condominium on the outskirts of Bellevue after three years serving that congregation.
George got to enjoy that short commute for only a couple years before the long idea of community life, almost suddenly, became a reality right in his back yard – just two lakes over.
George returned home himself, after the education planning meeting with Travis. He needed a little space to work on his sermon for Sunday and organize his notes from the meeting. He parked his truck, out front of Simpson house. It was the “community” truck now, a little burned red Toyota that had served him well for eight years. He had bought it used to drive up from San Jose, California to his new parish in Bellevue, Washington. He had been able to fill it with all but a few boxes, well, a couple filing cabinets of stuff from work. Those waited for someone from the congregation to bring up a month later on their vacation, swinging by Mount Carmel Lutheran in their RV on their way up to the Seattle area.
It was cloudy today. One of the days that fits strangely into the northern hemisphere, when the clouds darken the southern sky, so the light filters mostly through from the North. Never having been to the Southern hemisphere, George always felt a little wrong on days like this.
Maybe that is why when he walked up to the house, he paused to look at the gift from the Episcopal church and the community that served them. The smiling Madonna and child somehow seemed to glow with light from within, on this day of strange light. Maybe it was the reflection off the white door, or something in the brick. She was pretty big, nearly three feet tall; always reminding George of Orthodox icons depicting holy people with extra large bodies and hands, and smallish heads. The Madonna looked at everyone who came to this door as if to say, “Who are you really?” It wasn’t a threatening question, except on a day when you felt uncertain about the answer. Which is not to say the statue appeared scary or anything like it. With a wide lap big enough for the baby and everyone else, a face unmarred by creases of worry, and wide looking eyes, the Madonna was “grace-full.” The child too, whose hands encircled the mother’s neck while the face turned to follow her gaze, imparted a sense of awareness.
Present: Ted Anderson, Pamela Needham, Andrew Parker, Sonja Bogle, Theresa Simms, Andrea Hogle, Kay Petersen, Petra Voycek, Tony Lewis, Pr. Travis, Pr. George
“Security got a new meaning this past week,” said Petra.
“Yes, and we have much to give thanks for in the care our pastors have given us through this time,” offered Sonja.
“It’s a shame that Mrs. Simpson will not be present to witness the completion of the building she helped fund.”
“Oh, who’s the say she won’t?”
“I heard from Theresa that she was going to go on a long trip to regain some of the peace that this event has stripped from her. I mean she has been long planning on a trip to the east. Now would be just the time to take some time.”
“May I ask where you would- how did you come by the news of these plans?” asked George mildly.
“Well, we thought in retrospect, thinking about the things she has said at coffee hour and before, around the Rally Day celebration.” Theresa was looking at Petra for agreement.
Petra offered, “It seemed like a natural decision.”
“But you haven’t actually heard her say it this week, since the horrible event on Tuesday morning?” asked George.
To their credit, the two did not look at each other, but paused before trying to cover up the blatant lie.
“Well, no, but it seems like a better story for her sake, to offer that she will be taking care of herself, maybe going away to heal and forget, settle or something,” said Theresa.
“My God! What were these women thinking?! “ raged George in his head. “How could they make something up around this terrible tragedy?!”
next week: unfriendly and friendly
George, Stephen and Timothy were all at Simpson House, when Jack arrived. Jack worked the furthest from home. He had a 45 minute commute to a shelter in South Seattle, Harbor Island actually, near the old Lockheed shipbuilding plant. Today, Jack had the monthly administrative meeting, so he had an evening off, having finished the reporting for the board and staff and had given them out. Tomorrow was another day, but tonight he could rest.
Stephen had made meatloaf for dinner. You might think that wasn’t something to look forward to, but Stephen’s meatloaf could be served in a lot of family restaurants to improve their menus. He always used fresh herbs and mixed the meatloaf in an upper and lower section. Each part had some vegetable mixed in, zucchini, carrot, celery, summer squash or garden tomato. Tonight was not a good night to miss dinner.
That was the reason George hurried over to Sheila Simpson’s house. Not that she wasn’t a good friend who asked him to come over quickly, but also he hoped it would be a brief meeting, so he could have some of the meatloaf. When he arrived, he saw why it wasn’t going to be a quick meeting.
There were three police cars parked outside the original Simpson house. Two cars had the normal SPD logo, and one said, “Scene Investigator/Medical Examiner.” George’s blood ran cold for a moment as he registered what that meant.
Without thinking he crossed the street and walked up the narrow walled driveway that led both to the steps to the garden entrance of the house and the partly underground garage. George had walked that way a thousand times, including earlier today, to walk Sheila’s dog and check on her. He didn’t do that everyday, she had other people checking on her and walking her dog. Wednesday was his day to do it, it was the least he could do considering all she had done for the new ministry they were trying to begin. It was also something they had worked out together that would be appropriate, not taking advantage of his or her time, or other resources.
George had walked this way to get the dog this morning. Getting the leash from the garage and then climbing the steps to get the yard and the dog-run. It was just before climbing the steps that he saw the legs of someone laying on the garage floor, police officers taking pictures, and standing around looking at the contents of the old cement wall garage.
“Hey! What are you doing?!” an officer called out at George. He had inadvertently frozen at the bottom of the steps to the garden…
“I, uh… What happened? Who is it?”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back,” said the man. He stood up and George noticed his flashlight and gloves he was wearing.
“I was just going to see Mrs. Simpson. She called…” said George.
“And who are you?” said the other officer, who had moved between George and the entrance to the garage. The officer was a tall and wide Chinese man, perhaps from Taiwan.
“I’m her pastor. One of ‘em,” George responded, always catching his shared pastoral role a moment late.
“Give me your name?” said the asian officer.
“Sure, George Anderson. I’m one of the pastors at Green Lake Lutheran Church down the street. Mrs. Simpson has been a member of that congregation for a long time.”
“And how long have you been there?” The officer, George realized, must have some knowledge of how a church worked. He’s probably a Protestant, thought George.
“I’ve been there for almost eight years.”
“Right. And Mrs. Simpson called you?” George noticed the name on the uniform, Chang.
“Right. It’s… the man is dead.” George asked for confirmation of his statement.
“It looks that way… You had better go inside. We may want to ask you questions later. Make sure you give your information to the detective inside.”
“Thank you, officer Chang.”
The officer gave George another inspection as he turned and climbed the steps. The driveway walls never impeded the officer’s gaze, starting at the sidewalk at three feet and rising only two more feet when they met the cement of the garage.
George had the feeling he was being measured all the way to the garden door.
“Excuse me, can I speak with Mrs. Simpson?” George asked another police officer who stood outside the sitting room.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Simpson’s pastor, George Anderson.”
“She is expecting you, but you’ll have to wait over here until the detective is finished with his initial interview.”
George took a seat at the shaker style table and chairs that filled half of the dining room across the entry from the sitting room. Both room led further back into the house to another sitting room on one side and through a pantry to a large kitchen on the other. George had helped in the kitchen, played cards in the front sitting room, and once help celebrate a birthday with Shelia’s great-grandson in the cozy back room.
“How are you doing, Sheila?”
“Oh Pastor, how could this happen? I’m just sick. Henry was always such a great help with Kenya and George, this is horrible and terrifying! … How could this happen?”
“Sheila, I’m so sorry. What happened? Or what do you think happened?”
“I don’t know. I got back from a lunch with Stein and Judy, and lay down for a while in the back room with the local symphony recording from last year. The next thing I know I was sitting up, Kenya was barking, and I felt a bit strange. It was probably being disturbed from a deep sleep.”
“Right.” George was again thinking about ‘witness tampering’ and the problem of stories by ‘eye-witnesses’ when Kenya began barking again from outside. The barking reminded him that he was here as Sheila Simpson’s pastor most of all.
“Sheila, have you had any water, or juice, since you awoke?”
“What? No, I suppose not.”
“One of the things people forget in times like this is to take care of themselves. You need to keep yourself together, partly by trying to stay hydrated. It works better with your medicines too.”
“Can I get you some water from the kitchen?”
“Yes, please. Thank you Pastor George.”
George moved into the cream and black tiled old kitchen. The officers had receded into the front of the house and the garage. George caught a glimpse of the uniformed people still walking in and out of the driveway. Filling a glass from the faucet, he carried a tall glass of water into the back den.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do for you today, to help with the rest of the day?” George found that this question was usually responded to in the negative. If not, only one in three requests required any amount of his time – and Ms. Simpson was not one to put undue requirements on her pastor – one of them. Speaking of which…
Travis rang the doorbell and entered the house – the officers had apparently left the door open.
“Hello!”
Immediately surrounded by two detectives in front of him and one uniformed officer from behind, Travis shrank somewhat.
“Hello,” said Travis, re-shouldering his role as pastor to the distressed widow. “My name is Travis Stephenson. I am one of the lady of the house’s pastors.”
“Did she call you too?” one police officer asked.
“Too? Uh, no she actually, I came on my own accord to ask after her.”
“There is already a pastor back in the den with her.”
“Great! What a relief. May I see Ms. Simpson as well?”
“Yeah, sure, sure. Go on ahead. We’ll get your information before you leave.”
“Hello,” Travis said as his head, then the rest of his body popped in and then entered the den a moment later.
“How are you, Sheila? George.” The last recognition was a nod and look of recognition and question, meant to say – How are things going, really?
“Pretty okay,” said Sheila.
“Good,“ said George, “as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
band name: inci-pid
