Tag: Writing

Perfect Wedding – An Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from a larger work of fiction that I have been pecking away at for quite some time. Alas, it still waits to be complete. The larger work is more from the science fiction genre, but like all those works, some reality slips in. I felt like sharing this excerpt now because, well, I wanted to share something light. I hope you enjoy…

 

Pastor Cary looked at the bride and groom in front of him, standing with family and friends, bridesmaids and groomsmen to rehearse the day they hoped would be a “perfect day” for both of them. He looked around at the ornate sanctuary they were standing in, fiddled a little with the microphone and said, “It is my tradition to ask the groom to keep looking at the front of the sanctuary until I let him know it is time to turn and see the bride walking down the aisle.”

“How nice,” the bride beamed.

“Perfect,” the groomed whispered.

“Yep,” said the pastor as he recalled the time he started this tradition at his very first wedding:

It was twenty years before and Cary stood at the front of the church and checked the stole hanging around his neck for the seventeenth time that afternoon. Just like it was sixteen times ago, the stole was straight. But unlike then, it was now soaked with perspiration from his neck. The heat from the August sun was warming up the little country church and the ceiling fans could do little more than stir the humidity that settled on everyone gathered for the wedding.

The groom stood off to Cary’s left looking cool and calm despite both the order and stickiness of the day. Perhaps his military training was helping him in this particular instance. His dress uniform helped Stephen look both at ease and at full attention at the same time. His shoes were so shined that Cary couldn’t help but notice them and in doing so, managed to steal a glance to make the eighteenth check of his stole. “Still straight,” he thought to himself.

He glanced over at Delia, the pianist, and thought for a moment how very old she was and how many weddings she had seen compared to him. “She’s quite possibly older than the trees that went into making that piano and probably played more weddings than there are keys on it,” he thought. Of course, Delia wasn’t actually playing the piano as much as strumming it. She was finding the first note of a chord and then letting the rest of her fingers fall not so gracefully into place giving the illusion of a song rising out of the instrument. She opened her eyes, which normally stayed closed during her playing, and looked at Cary as he gave a little nod to signal her to start the procession for the bride. She never even noticed but kept right on playing, no strumming, the old Gospel hymn she had decided to torture for the moment.

Cary waited a cautious minute and then hazarded a step to his right towards the piano. That got her attention. She stopped mid chord, leaving an already unresolved melody quite unfinished and said, “Now?” much louder than Cary had hoped.

“Yes. Please.” He responded with a calm smile settling on his face even as another bead of sweat found a home in his stole. He tugged at it again, this time not even caring if it was in place or not.

The old company building that had been used for generations as a gathering place for the Methodist people lacked almost as much architectural adornment as it did practicality. It was pretty, but in the quaint way pretty is used to describe something plain, like the side of a barn or an old Plymouth. Cary always thought of it as a worship space that provided the bare minimum anyone needed to know that there might be some creative force in the universe. Whether it spoke of an Almighty God or an employer that wanted those who gathered to remember who was really in charge was a really good question.

The front doors of the church were located at the top of maybe a dozen steps leading straight from the weeds that were only somewhat infested with gravel in the parking lot. Cary had seen earlier that the bride, Roberta, had arrived and was thankful she had the good sense to get prepared at home and make the trip to church. The little nook that served as a narthex inside the front doors left very little room for anyone to wait in the best of weather, let alone the  West Virginia August heat. Cary had greeted her in that narthex along with a few members of her family. Those kinfolk, with the exception of two cousins who had been serving as ushers, took their seats and Cary made his way through the basement of the church to lead the groom to their present location of sweating.

Just as Delia ended the silence that had settled over the congregation with her own question of timing, the interior doors of the narthex opened with an equally non-musical flourish. “Thing One” and “Thing Two,” what Cary had taken to thinking of the ushers after he failed to recall their names, opened those doors with great gusto. The door on the right, which swung quietly on its ancient hinge, was positioned so that it could never fully be opened, yet another tip to the impracticality of the building. Somewhere near the eighty degree mark of its swinging arc it made contact with the last pew on that side of the church. Thing One had no idea this was about to happen as he pushed the door open so it crashed loudly into the pew holding the entire Smith clan. Several of them started at the sound of wood on wood and all of them moved forward. Cary simply closed his eyes long enough for a trickle to go from brow to eyelid and then he reached up and wiped it dry.

Wishing the damned sweat had been some form of acid that would have temporarily blinded him, Cary opened his eyes to see Thing 2 standing against the back wall of the church trying to figure out what to do with the door on the left, which only barely reached a ninety degree point when it was completely against the wall. However, with a bride about to make her entrance, there was little room for both door and Thing 2. Cary watched as the usher extended his fingers and arms to an almost ridiculous length and then flattened himself against the wall preparing to be frisked by the nearest available officer of the law. “Door stops,” Cary thought. “What this place could use is a couple of good door stops.”

By this point Delia was well into the butchering of the wedding march and the bride, who seemed completely unaware of the commotion caused by her cousins was making her entrance. The groom, however, had missed it all and was looking at the pastor with both confidence and expectation.

On this first occasion of Cary’s master plan, the groom turned on cue after Cary invited the congregation to stand and he was greeted with more than half a dozen older members struggling at best to rise to their feet and turn towards the center to see the bride. One of them, a retired pastor, stumbled into the center aisle and appeared to be lurching towards the bride when his wife just managed to pull him back by his belt and keep him from falling. The groom also got to see Mr. Smith, who turned out to be a distant relative of the bride but a closer relative of the ushers, smack Thing One across the back of his head and shake a finger at him for opening the door so carelessly. And to place a perfect little topper on the layers of Pastor Cary’s master plan the groom also got to see bride framed by the image of Thing 2 still struggling to hold the door open and giving the appearance of making love to back wall of the church.

Delia kept up her slicing and dicing of The Wedding March until the exact instant that the Bride arrived at the front of the church and without even a hint of finishing the chord, let alone the phrase, she stopped. Pastor Cary grimaced, pulled at his stole and collar again, and asked the congregation to be seated. Between the creaking of old pew and sighs of people finding their seats, Cary was quite certain he heard someone, somewhere break wind. Still, he opened his little Book of Worship and said words he would say hundreds of time till today, “Brothers and sisters, just as Jesus graced a wedding in Cana of Galilee…”

Although he was looking down at the small print in his book, he knew without looking something else was happening. At the very extremes of his field of vision he saw the bride’s dress shaking and the groom nervously tapping his foot. He stopped after he said, “so may Jesus be present as Stephen and Roberta come this day to give themselves to one another,” looked up, and saw that both bride and groom were doing all in their power to fight back laughter. The dam burst when in the silence they looked up from the floor, caught each other’s eyes and they both burst out laughing bumping military shaved head into veiled head as they bent over in the pain that such a release of joy brings.

Pastor Cary almost attempted to say something to bring back the somberness of the moment but Delia’s “Oh my!” as she banged on at least a third of the piano keys sent the rest of the congregation, save Things One and Two, right into the throes of laughter themselves. The ushers appeared to busy nursing a sore noggin or creepily studying a section of the back wall to even notice what was happening around them.

Coming back from this blessed memory, Cary said, “Yes, I just want to make things perfect for you both.” Try as he might, he had not been able to recreate that perfection again.

 

8/6/14
Chautauqua Lake, NY

Crowded Place

I have been in some very large crowds. I’ve been to Disney and the Harry Potter theme park and those were very crowded locations. I have been to a college football “bowl game.” Granted, it was the “Continental Tire Bowl” but still, it was a very large crowd. I’ve been to JFK airport…now that was a crowd. It seemed especially crowded when my visit there fell at the same moment my nine month old daughter, Leslie decided it was time to learn to walk. My  toddler. Busy people. Not a good mix.

Perhaps the most crowded place I ever visit, though, is my own mind.

I can’t even begin to list all the people that are there and the noise that takes place in that venue of my life.

There are, of course, the voices of people long gone. My grandparents all reside there in some shape or form and they pop up when I least expect. Sometimes Uncle Joe, Uncle Gene, Uncle Rodger or Marsa show up with them. They are not ghosts. They are more than just voices. They are something of the crowd that makes up the world inside my mind.

There are plenty of living people there too. My entire family takes up a good deal of space. Sometimes they are arguing. Sometimes they are encouraging. Sometimes – I think these are my favorite times – they are just there. They are just there bearing witness to what else is going on in my life. Absent in body, but always a filter for all that I experience in some way.

There are of course good friends there. I can’t leave them out. Some are not very present in my life but they are always present in my thoughts. Dan? Haven’t seen him in years and years, but I think we could strike up a conversation in about three seconds flat. Stephanie, Brad, Johnna, Mark and Amy…well, they are always there too. I see them more often but their presence lingers as it should.

Of course, there are some who reside in my mind that at times I would love to evict. But I can’t. And I probably wouldn’t if I had the ability. These are the ones who taught and teach me difficult lessons in life. Some of them are people I have hurt terribly. Some of them are people who have hurt me. Some are both. I long to be in contact with many of them…but, well, I know I can’t or won’t or something.

And there are bunches of people from my “neighborhood.” Some of those voices are friendly and some are not so friendly. Sometimes I have trouble telling the difference. I know some get angry with me at times, but that is normal. I am a leader after all. I can’t even please the shadows that reside in my mind, let alone those who are real and outside of me. One in particular is cropping up a lot lately. Sigh. I wish we could agree to love Christ together despite our difference.

I can’t forget all the unreal people there too. People I have picked up as I have read some novel or watched some television show. Their voices entertain and inform me. Tyrion, Harry, Lilly, Frodo, Eragon, Deitrich, Albus, Morgan and Mother Abigail…that list is almost endless. Joining them are these new folks I am meeting from my own brush with writing fiction. Most of those folks I don’t know well although some of them I trust and some of them scare the crap out of me.

I heard today that Jesus cleared the temple so that it could be the space that was supposed to be holy. I was asked to do the same with my mind so that it could just be me and Jesus.

Don’t think that is going to happen in this lifetime. It’s a crowded space, my mind. It’s crowded because my heart opens to just about everyone I meet and my imagination is fueled by meeting them. Then, when I seek my own inner introvert, there they are, ready to energize me anew!

Perhaps instead of throwing them out of this temple, I will just start introducing them around. “Jesus, this is Tyrion. Tyrion, Jesus.” This could be quite amusing!!

However, I am blessed and thankful for each and every voice that has become a part of mine. Thank you. I pray that you enjoy your visit.

Mired

He felt mired in the muck of mediocrity, that was for certain.  The Book lay open before him on the desk.  The damnable cursor on the computer screen blinked.  And blinked again.  And as if for good measure, it continued blinking well into the night. “Go into all the world and make disciples…”  The words mocked him.cold weather

It was Saturday night and inspiration had escaped again.  Perhaps it went out the window on Thursday afternoon when the parishioner dropped by to tell him that there were lots of problems with the church.  “We just can’t seem to get our act together and go any one direction.”  Go into the world and make disciples…

Perhaps it had left even earlier in the week.  Tuesday maybe?  That was when the counters let him know that there was not enough in the end of the year offering to meet the total obligations that they hoped to pay to the denomination.  Something left him them.  He wasn’t sure if it was inspiration or hope.  Go into the world and make disciples…

Or maybe Saturday morning when the other parishioner stopped by to say that he was leaving the church.  “Nothing wrong,” preacher.  “I just feel it is time to go on in order to keep the peace.”  Yeah…that could have been it.  Go into the world and make disciples.

He got up from his desk in the little study and stood by the Kuerig© as he waited for another cup of decaf to brew.  He walked over and got a couple of the leftover chocolate chip cookies.  He then stood in the living room where his family was watching some movie or another on the screen.  “Sermon fuel?” his oldest child asked.  He swallowed and nodded and then took the ten steps back to the study.  Go into the world and make disciples.

“This really shouldn’t be that hard,” he said to the blinking cursor or himself.  Or maybe it was a prayer uttered to God.  He really didn’t care all that much.  The coffee was hot.  The cookies were good.  His mind wandered back to the mornings earlier that week when the wind chills were well below -20.  He thought of the so called “Polar Vortex” and how interesting it was that meteorologist always seemed to be coming up with new names to call weather patterns that had been around for years.  “Winter Storm Ion?  Really?  We are naming snowstorms now?” he thought as he finished the last cookie.


A song played in the background – something from YouTube. His mind continued to dwell on the storm and cold and he remembered the phone call he received on Tuesday just after the counters left.  Someone wanted to do something about the few homeless people in the small town they lived in.  Maybe they couldn’t do it for this cold snap, but there would be others.  They had places for people to stay warm.  There were plenty of people around to help open doors, prepare food, share seats and conversations.

The cursor stopped blinking about then and letters started to appear on the blank page.  Go and make disciples.  Go, make, disciples.

On Words Dying

Yesterday, I read a haunting post from a pastor I follow on Twitter, Jonathan Martin.  You can find the post here and you may well wish to read it first.  It made me think for a long time and made me wrestle with some of my own demons about words.  Not all of them are worked out in this post, mind you, but it is a start.  Thanks, Pastor Jonathan Martin.  I think.

He sat as his desk and listened to the cats fighting three rooms away even as he listened to the voices inside him argue over the need to write.

“Practice,” the old, wise voice that had read masters and novices alike said.  “Put the damn pen to the paper.  Tap away at the crud covered keyboard.  Fill the empty space with some of those things floating around in that jumbled mass of nerves you call a brain.  Get something down so that mess of nerves can at least sort out what is good and what is trash.  Practice.”

“Nah, just wait for your muse to arrive,’ the other voice growled from the depths of the man’s belly.  The man never knew the age of this tormentor but he knew from the rumbles and discomfort where he had taken residence.  The gut.  “Wait for the muse to arrive.  That is, if the jerk ever decides to truly show up.  In the meantime you’ve got plenty to occupy your hands and mind.  For crying out loud, it is almost a New Year and leaves still need raked.  Cookies need baked.  I love the cookies, you know.  Besides, you will be pouring out words in a sermon or two soon enough.  Be content with what they will do.  (Or more likely, what they won’t do.)”

“Practice.”

“Just wait.”

He walked through the house aware of the war that raged between heart and soul, between blank space and filled lines.  He looked upon two cats, one stretched out in a windowsill batting eyes at the roaming person disturbing an important nap, the other, stretched out upon the recliner and oblivious to the footsteps of the man.  Stroking the fur of the undisturbed cat, he heard the restful sound of sleep.  He listened to the silence of words dying.  Again.