Notes From My Knapsack 5-21-15

Notes From My Knapsack 5-21-15

Jeff Gill

 

A Body in the Well (conclusion)

___

 

Back at the tavern, Job Case sat with William and Sarah Gavit on one long bench alongside the large hearth in the public room. Opposite them, closer to the fire himself, was Hezekiah Mirk. Case and Mirk were closest to the warmth, boots to one side, woolen socks steaming.

 

"So, Chief Justice Gavit, what do you propose that we do?" Case had just finished describing the scene at the well southwest of town, and the conversation he had just had including Mirk with Caleb Munro's widow, Tirzah. "That was near enough to a confession of murder."

 

"Was it?" asked Mirk gently. "She repeated what her . . . second husband had told her. She might have misunderstood, she could have misheard, we don't know."

 

Gavit smiled grimly. "You have the makings of a lawyer, Mr. Mirk. That's correct, her statement, even sworn in court, is not a confession. And you told her, Mr. Case said, that her account matches the wounds you saw on Munro's body?"

 

"That's correct. His face is not marked, and his skull is . . . depressed from the top. If we could call back this Judson fellow, and he's battered about the face and front, I'd be tempted to credit her, or rather his story told us through her. A man choked with rage, blindly lashing out again and again, charging forward and plunging into that open well headfirst…" Mirk looked at his hands in the firelight, and the other three knew he saw them in a different light than they did. Stories of Lundy's Lane had been told, not by him, but of slaughter and blood unimaginable.

 

Gavit looked at his wife, then back at Case. "We are left with your question, then; what shall we do? We could try to get Tirzah to call back Judson from Lancaster, inspect his wounds, take his statement."

"If he'd return," shrugged Case.

 

"That's right," Gavit went on. "Or we could send to Newark for a warrant, recruit a bailiff, and go bring him back before he flees farther. What do you think, Mr. Mirk?"

 

Hezekiah looked up and directly into William's eyes across from him. "Or we could do nothing."

 

"Nothing, Mr. Mirk?"

"We see to Caleb Munro's proper burial, we report his death. The circumstances of his return are well known in the district. Who is there to file a charge? If anyone believes justice requires one, they can travel the few miles to the courthouse and do so. We honor the man's service in the late war, we allow his friends to help see to his burial and marker, and speak honestly to what we know if asked."

 

"If it's up to his friends," nodded Case, "he will have a plank for a tombstone. But the village will honor him, and bury him rightly."

 

After a long silence, Sarah added "There are many problems in this world that are best served by letting them alone for a season."

 

William stood, and then did the rest. "We all have work to do, and perhaps I can send the parson down to let Tirzah know what's to be done for Caleb."

 

"Husband," Sarah said, "I think that right, but I should say that my guess would be that she will have been long gone by that time."

 

A year later, an envelope arrived from Natchez, Mississippi addressed to William Gavit. It came with money enclosed and a note saying only "To cover the costs of burial for Caleb Munro."

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's enjoyed sharing this fiction based on stray facts of life in Granville 200 years ago. Tell him a story at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 5-16-15

Faith Works 5-16-15

Jeff Gill

What a wonderful world

___

"I see trees of green, red roses too;
I see them bloom for me and you,
And I think to myself what a wonderful world."

The world may have good days and bad, and we may know sickness and health, poverty and wealth, life and death.

We make our way through all of this with very little that we can count on. Even the stones of the earth and the blue of the sky are temporary from a deep perspective. Just in the lifespan of a human, let alone a redwood, we don't have much in our lives that endures. Youth, careers, plans, even dreams have a way of advancing and receding that is independent of our intentions or actions.

Childhood homes go up for auction, teenage haunts are paved or demolished, places we took prom dates to that "had been in the family for generations" are a parking lot for a fast food chain today. The clouds pass by from west to east, the sun swings round from its rising to its setting.

"I see skies of blue and clouds of white;
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night...
And I think to myself what a wonderful world."

So anything, anyone you can count on, is precious. That helped make diamonds popular, because they are considered so hard and permanent that they endure. The market in resold wedding rings, though, has lowered prices somewhat. They're not hard to find, cast off, needing cash in return for lost love.

We lose our elders and our family and friends, sometimes in the order we expect by age, other times through shocking turns of events that make us wonder yet again who will last, who will stand with us. It can get lonely through the years.

"I see friends shaking hands saying 'how do you do,'
What they're really saying is 'I love you.'"

The traditional wedding vows, and in fact marriage preparation whether done by me or most other pastors, do not ask if you love each other. And in today's romance obsessed society, that would be greeted with amusement. "Do we love each other? Why do you think we're standing her?"

What the service does ask is "will you love?" First I ask of the woman "will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?" Then likewise of the man. "Will you love her?"

Because the question is certainly not do you love this person today, which is obvious; but WILL you love them, through the years, as you learn more about them, as you learn more about yourself, as you learn together what it really means to be as one, through the times of friendship and times, yes, of competition (do spouses compete in ways explicit and implicit? for moral advantage and to gain obligation? oh yeah, it happens...)? Will you love them when they have their unloveable moments, when they need forgiveness, when they need you and you are wanting not to be needed by anyone, but just to nurse your sorrows or angers alone? Will you love them then, and beyond?

It can be done. I've always enjoyed hearing the anodyne sentiments of those married fifty and seventy-five and even eighty years, often so simple in expression they seem beyond what can actually be lived outside of a greeting card.

Then you realize that this Tuesday you will have been married thirty years, which is not forever, but it ain't nothing, neither. And a woman has said yes, she will love you. And has, through the years, right up through tomorrow. I haven't made it easy for her, let's just say, and leave it at that.

But she's been my rock, and my reliable source of strength, and my partner through thin and my own frequent thickheadedness. And I will love you, Joyce, as long as life lasts in me.

"Yes, I think to myself what a wonderful world."

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about your secrets to saying you will love someone at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Notes From My Knapsack 5-7-15

Notes From My Knapsack 5-7-15

Jeff Gill

 

A Body in the Well (pt. 6)

___

 

 

Hezekiah Mirk and Job Case paused at the banks of the Pataskala to take off their boots and roll up their leggings.

 

"Heaven's my witness, I don't know what I'm even going to tell Tirzah Munro," said Case absently. "Her . . . first husband dead in the Avery well, and her second . . . newest . . . um, husband disappeared, and she . . ."

 

"That's her, isn't it?" asked Mirk. They both looked up from the log they were sitting on, across the river. There where the path from Lancaster crept sideways down Flower Pot Hill to end at the water's edge, a tall woman stood with her fists on her hips.

 

Case only nodded, then stood and nodded towards her, almost but not quite a bow.

 

"He tripped." She did not shout, but the words were said loudly, with emphasis, and in the same way she said them again. "He tripped."

 

"Who tripped, ma'am?" asked Mirk, rising awkwardly to his feet, one boot on, one boot off, a woolen stocking in his hand.

 

"My Judson tripped Caleb as he flew at him in a rage." The light breeze and gurgle of the flowing water did not mute the clarity of the statement, across a rod's worth of creek bottom. She folded her arms, and went on.

 

"Caleb heard somewhere on the north edge of town, as he came back, poor soul, from his long trip to Montreal and down and around back to Ohio, that his wife had remarried. He didn't come looking for me for explanations last night, he went looking for my Judson."

 

They nodded, both feeling at a distinct disadvantage sinking into the mud, one barefoot and the other half so, but also knowing they stood as witnesses to a statement she wanted to make in her own time.

 

Tirzah, once Mrs. Munro, looked down at the water flowing past her feet, then looked up sharply and continued. "Caleb found him at work at the distillery, took him out, and hit him. Again and again. His face is much battered. Judson's no man of violence."

 

They both nodded at that, encouraging her to go on. The mud was cold, too.

 

"They fought, though Judson kept trying to explain what had happened, just blocking the blows, but Caleb would not hear. He simply swung, and swung again."

 

It was clear to Mirk that a turning point was coming in this tale. He said gently "And Caleb's face, ma'am, was not marked, which supports your account."

For the first time, Tirzah smiled. Both men could see in that smile something that would drive a man through a Great Lakes winter. And the smile faded, as she understood and envisioned what Mr. Mirk had seen to tell her that.

 

"Yes," she said. "He tried to tell him. But he was backed to the well they'd driven to get fresh, pure water for the workings; Caleb rushed him in a rage again, and Judson stepped aside and tripped him, hoping that sprawled on the ground he could have a moment of pause to reason with him. But the kerb of the well mouth is low, and Caleb hurtled in, head first. Judson stood there, listened a moment, and realized there was no living man to come back out of that shaft, so he came back here to tell me of the tragedy."

 

There was no love in Tirzah's eyes as she said that, but her emphasis on the word "tragedy" was clearly meant to include all three of them.

 

"Where is Judson now?" asked Case.

 

"Halfway to Lancaster, I'll be bound," she replied, letting her arms fall to her sides. "He felt that he should get away, at least for a time. I can call him back if need be."

 

Mirk and Case looked at each other in puzzlement. What should be done next? Other than putting back on their socks and boots, that is.

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him what you'd like to learn about Granville history at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 5-9-15

Faith Works 5-9-15

Jeff Gill

 

Mothers, and worship, and remembrance

___

 

Mother's Day. I just helped my wife bury her mother, and have done so for a number of other families in the last few weeks. It's going to be, well, tough.

 

Sometimes I think we can almost overplay our "qualifications" for Mother's Day in this ever more inclusive age. We don't want to offend the childless, irritate the unmarried, or further grieve the bereft by putting too much weight on the occasion.

 

It's been true for the century or so we've been marking Mother's Day in this country that we need to acknowledge those who have lost mothers recently, and those for whom motherhood is a lost or blasted hope. There are an assortment of ways to do this, and I pray I've been appropriately sensitive from the pulpit on occasions when I've been involved as a pastor in Mother's Day observances.

 

And there's an argument that Sunday worship is not a time to drag into the church, or at least into Christian worship, any cultural creation. It's the same one that leans against Memorial Day and Fourth of July being carried into church for fear that they will (and they can) obscure the real reason why we worship.

 

I take a more nuanced, if cautious view on that question, but I've certainly seen boundaries crossed that are hard to uncross in the middle of the service. And I have a certain sympathy for those who say that having mothers stand up or that sort of direct recognition can be cause of a pang for those who are not.

 

This year it's a different pain I'm contemplating, though; it's the unavoidable pain of little reminders of loss, and grief, and sorrow. No one can protect you from those cobwebs of remembrance suddenly snagging you on your way down today's path.

 

There's an anniversary coming up May 21 for a well-remembered occasion ten years ago, just up the road. A nationally, even globally famous author came to Kenyon College up in Knox County, to give a commencement speech. These things happen every spring, and as a commencement speaker once said to me just before taking the podium, "If you manage to get onstage and off again without embarrassing yourself, you've done a good job." Let's say that expectations are low.

 

What David Foster Wallace delivered ten years ago was a speech that is today probably the most remembered, and certainly the most cited commencement speech in history. It's known today by the title "This is Water," and while it's been turned into a full-length book and some video treatments, you can find the full text and even a video of his original speech at Kenyon online without too much effort.

 

The single most cited passage in the address goes like this: "There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship."

 

Everybody worships. Wallace perceptively goes on to outline some of the most common forms of "default-setting" worship that many of us engage in:

money and things, body and beauty and sexual allure, power, intellect. He takes them apart by cutting directly to how the worship of each can only eat us up alive.

 

Wallace, for all his inner torment (he died three years later under the weight of a lifelong struggle with depression and addiction), is starkly honest with his somewhat stunned audience about how soul-deadening it is to worship that which does not give you life. My words, those last, not his, but that's my take in brief on his not-overlong speech – seriously, look it up and read for yourself.

 

And we can, by focusing purely on externals, "worship" motherhood in unhealthy ways. Mothers do, indeed, give us life, but rituals of keeping up appearances can be more a burden than a blessing.

 

What I think Wallace wanted those graduates ten years ago to consider, and I'm happy to affirm, is that what we become what we worship, that our choices consciously made or not shape us. The affirmation he specifically makes in "This is Water" is "The only choice we get is what to worship."

 

I would suggest the question is really better understood as "WHO to worship," not what; a person more than a proposition. Mothers help us know who that person is, and at their best, that Someone shines through them clearly.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about your prayer without ceasing at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 5-2-15

Faith Works 5-2-15

Jeff Gill

 

A day to pray, for starters

___

 

 

On the steps of Newark City Hall, on Thursday, May 7, our community will have an opportunity to observe National Day of Prayer.

 

At noon, we'll hear singing from young voices, prayers from clergy around the area, and the roar of passing traffic. Life will not stop there at the intersection of Fourth St. and Main, but we will bring our prayers into that space.

 

People will still pass us by to enter and exit the building, going about their business, and yet we will sing and pray and rejoice.

 

The weather? This is Ohio. It may be warm and sunny, for a while. It may rain. The winds might blow and chill. We will still pray. The size of the crowd, I've noticed over the years, might go up or down a bit, but in general, people who can will come, and stop, and pray.

 

What is prayer? That's a question even those who've been part of a worshiping community for years might still ask.

 

The disciples, gathered around Jesus on the Mount of Olives, looking across the Kidron Valley at the Temple Mount itself, asked him "Lord, teach us how to pray." They didn't ask how to preach, or how to succeed, or certainly not how to fight or even win – they asked him to teach them how to pray.

 

In response, Jesus gave them a model, a sample outline. We've tended to turn that into a series of words we "say" when the Boss' point was "pray like this," not quite "pray this precisely."

 

That model prayer does some interesting things. It starts by telling us to focus on God first, describing and envisioning and imagining to whom we pray. The Lord's Prayer continues to help us focus on God's will, and divine purposes that might well be beyond our wishes, or even our complete understanding.

 

Then Jesus does something I don't know that we notice often enough. When we've reminded ourselves that the focus of prayer is the One we are addressing, then we may ask for the help we need, that so often reminds us to pray in the first place: and the simple request in this model prayer is a paired petition, two needs that are laid right up against each other.

 

"Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our sins…" There's the basic bodily needs, and the basic spiritual need. We don't ask for chicken tenders with that special sauce we love, but for the grace of essential nutrition, and just as much as protein and carbs, we need for our spiritual health to know that we are forgiven.

 

Forgiveness, for our mistakes, our willful disobedience, our hurts and harms done to others: that's as essential as a piece of pita bread when we're hungry. Our soul, our basic self needs to know that we can move forward even when there's so much in our lives that can hold us back. We need to get to the heart of the matter, as Don Henley says, and that's forgiveness. We need it like we need our daily bread.

 

The Lord's Prayer goes on, and our need to work on our prayer lives goes on. Prayer has been called active listening, and I'd agree ("Be still, and know that I am God"); prayer is also that concept that has some modest traction in our culture today, what's called "mindfulness."

 

Mindfulness is simply a modern framing of what Paul said in I Thessalonians 5:17, "pray without ceasing." Paul clearly did not mean "rattle on to God in words endlessly," but he was helping unveil part of what prayer is, what prayer means. To pray without ceasing is to walk and journey and reflect and live in awareness of who God is, and how God is present and active in our lives.

 

Mindfulness, as prayer without ceasing, is something that continues even when a truck compression brakes right in front of a crowd at prayer, even when you're the truck driver who just saw the light change, and is part of your prayer when words have ceased.

 

And as a pastor who has stood at quite a few deathbeds recently, I can tell you that words often cease. But prayer does not.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about your prayer without ceasing at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.