Salvation

This one is a bit longer, but is a creative short story I've written.


"Salvation"

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 “The usual?” 

Eyes down, I nod and push the bills across the counter. 

“Is that it for you sweety?  Sure I can’t get you anything else?”

“What?”

“Anything else for you this time?”

“Um…no.”  My eyes jump back and forth, not wanting to look at her—for her sake.  They dart back down to the counter. Back to safety.   

My corner seat is occupied by an old man with more grey hair than God.  He is reading a newspaper, so I force myself to glance around the room and find another chair.  I settle in an unfamiliar seat, closer than I wanted to be, but my laptop screen is a welcomed distraction.  I plug in my ear buds and the music of Frédéric Chopin flows up and covers the background noise. Just when I am just relaxing my shoulders and breathing deeply, I catch a motion on the edge of my view.  Before I can stop myself, I see a woman walking up to the door.  Unaware.  Happy to be so.  I shut my eyes quickly and squeeze the lids tightly so she won’t see the sneer written on me—I try to focus on nothing.  Turning the volume up, the wash of the music runs up and over my brain.  I close my eyes so that I, in ignorance, can let her walk past.  She swishes past my seat, unaware.  I open my eyes, hoping, wishing it is gone.  It never is.  Above her head is an illuminated sign.  Above everyone’s head is an illuminated sign.  I shouldn’t have looked up.  I know better than that.

 A police officer walks by the window from my right, one hand on his belt, the other shielding the sun from his eyes.  Over his head the same sign hangs—as wide as his shoulders, only a few inches above his head and neon words recounting things I wish I could un-see.  I shield my eyes from him and look back at my laptop, not wanting to know any more.  Focus!  On anything else, focus.  I pushed the ear buds further into my canals and they fire small bursts of pain, threatening to break through into the core of my mind.  If they did, at least it would go away.  I wish that just for one whole day I could let my eyes rest.  Let my mind rest.  When I first started seeing the signs, I read them all.  And why wouldn’t I?  Knowledge is power and mine was great.  A god in my mind, but a god with bones and blood—cracks in my hull.  Too much cargo for not enough ship, I sank to the oceans floor, held down by the knowledge of evil, gasping for a single bubble of air. 

The café is full now—fuller still for me.  Regrets.  Sins.  Failures.  Mistakes.  Darkness locked away inside their hearts so deep, even they acted like they were not there.  They’re all scattered around the room, crowding my senses.  It seems I can smell, even taste it all.  The putrid odor wafts around my head, threatening the thin walls of my skull.  I can hear the heavy pounding of judgment echo in this small room.  When I breathe through my mouth I can taste it—through my nose I can smell it—on my skin I can feel it—so heavy in the air I wade through it.  The overwhelming nausea makes me want to be alone again.  When I am alone, locked in my room, it is quieter, but still there.  Looming at the cracks of the door, the florescent light seeming to seep up through the floorboards like smoke.  I prefer it dark and quiet, but today is Tuesday, so I am here.  Tuesday is my day to breathe.

At that moment, within the chaos I have never grown accustomed to, I hear a stillness.  My eyes are closed, resting, and I can feel a soft, cool breath of wind pass across my face.  The air seems less thick and the smell subsides for one glorious moment.  Fresh.  Air.  My brow unknots itself and I suck in the fleeting wave of air.  I flutter my eyes open and look around the café.  She’s here earlier than usual--the girl, no more than 25.  She has a plain face, nothing remarkable that anyone else would see.  Anyone else.  Nothing remarkable, except that bubble of air.  I start in my seat, almost knocking my laptop to the ground.  Every Tuesday afternoon I wait for that bubble of air.  The only bubble I’ve ever found.  Her face does not sit under the sick fluorescent light.  Her face knows sunlight well and soaks it like a flower.  Above her head hangs no judgment.  I have watched her, envied her, hated her and wondered at her freedom.  Every week for the past nine months she has lunch with the same companion.  Six days I hold my breath.  One day I breathe.  Six.  Then one.  Glorious.  Breath. 

She is tall, for a girl, and has dark brown hair, straight and long and pulled into a ponytail.  It’s almost always in a ponytail.  She is wearing her blue blouse today, though I usually prefer the brown one—it matches her eyes and brings out her dark arms, long and slender.  As mine was, her normal seat is occupied—why is the café so full today?  I pull out my notebook, slouch down in my chair, continuing my notes.  “The Clean One arrived first, again” I scribble.  “She usually arrives first, but she is a little early today.”  As she waits, she reads.  She always reads while she waits for The Other.  Ten minutes go by and I keep making additions to my notebook.  Her companion arrives.  She is not so tall as The Clean One, and hair darker than coal.  She is usually late, but today she walks in quickly and sits down across from The Clean One.  They both meet here, every week, one hour.  Our tables are closer than usual, but above the hum of the general babble, I can’t make out their words.  

The notes I’ve taken are meticulous, but I feel they are still incomplete and missing some grand revelation.  Like a scientist observing a creature’s eating habits, I note everything.  The sounds around me turn to background clatter--the feature presentation is beginning, and I have the only seat in the house.  Her face is like a crack of daylight that pierces the catacombs I wander through.  The darkness in the room bends in midair and is drawn into oblivion.   

Until today I’ve seen them, exchanging smiles and nods and gestures.  They always read, pointing to parts of the book and interjecting, flipping through it like recipe cards.  Their conversation is muffled, like an argument you can hear through a wall, but their faces never made me think they were angry at each other.  She always has such patience with The Other.  She seems to be teaching her something, but as an equal.  She has a certain look of humility, calm and caring.  I scribble notes and channel all my attention towards the pair discussing and reading only two tables away from me.  “Today, they are more passionate.  The Clean One speaks, The Other interrupts with a hand gesture like a lawyer, The Clean One retorts.”  

I sit there, eyes flicking up and down, from my notebook to their faces and back down again to my notes.  They carry on like this for the next ten minutes and my hand gets cramped from writing. 

“Their behavior is peculiar today.  Earlier, they seemed to be wrestling with each other with their words, but now they are calm and quiet.  Both their heads are down and they seem to be talking, but I can hear nothing.  The Other has her head on the table she is convulsing, quietly and rhythmically, almost like she’s cr—“

My mouth slipped open and the scream came from the core of my stomach—my eyebrows seemed to come unhinged from my face—my eyes, so wide they might have fallen out, but were held in by sheer friction.  The entire café is frozen and stares in abhorrent shock.  The scream was slipping out of my throat and into the open air.  My ears understood what my mouth was doing before my brain did.  It lasted longer than a breath should have—much longer.  Both girls looked at me.  One.  Long.  Pause.  My ears, hot and heavy, resound the pounding of my heart.  I have no moisture to swallow.  The edges of my eyes pulse white with the increased pressure in my face.  The girl who was unclean sat there, mouth open and face flush.  The fluorescent sign, the gallows that loomed above her head was wiped away in one instant.  In one dramatic pass of some cosmic hand, it has been thrown into oblivion.  Where her sick glow was, I can see the open, clean air.  The darkness in the room is bent inwards towards them both now, and they seem to give off more than double the radiance.  The two, now Clean Ones sit, staring at me, horrified.  The moment that seemed to last an hour, that rushed to its climax in just one sick second, was over as quickly as it began. 

“My God!  What is wrong with you?!” 

It was the old man who was occupying my usual table.  His face was contorted into a bulldog’s anger and he seemed to shake back and forth as he breathed his heavy gasps of air.  He slammed one hand on his chest in a theatrical gesture.

“Son, you gave me a start!  What the Hell was that?!” 

“I…I’m not…sure.” 

The engine of my being is stalling and sputtering for something to fuel it, something of substance to feed off.  I have no answer.  I can’t even form the question.  As I turn back towards the two Clean Ones, I say aloud

“But I need to know too.”

Poetry Time

These are two short poems I have written.

"Pawn"

To my flanks are those like me,

first to fight and first blood shed.

Uniformed we stand together.

Behind me skills I can’t imagine,

moves and slides beyond my grasp.

Bound we trod, our pattern set,

my brothers follow, strength in numbers.

Death to those who rush ahead.

“Stay by me!” I shout in protest,

the hand controls the fate of all.

I see the danger, cry aloud,

god has stopped his ears this time.

I can’t fall back, the turn is done.

Omniscience sees a bigger plan,

he justifies the end and means.

And next:

"Peace-Made Man"

Silent night,

The air was still

The fog suspended mid-air.

Thirty-forth battalion crept

Along the edge of target.

Sergeant Lane

Determined quickly

Tonight would see the bloodshed,

Of some unholy target

Hiding in a foxhole.

Sights are raised,

Target seen,

Crouching in the distance.

Steady hand will find the bull,

The eye of villain target.

Through the fog,

And through the sights,

Sergeant sees the target.

Writing down the thoughts in mind,

No doubt, the pain of bloodshed.

Quickly falls

Determined valor,

A writer’s heart can see another.

Pain is equal on both sides.

Target is a man it seems.

War will make

A warrior-man,

But only peace can make a man.

Why destroy the peace-made man,

To make the man who targets man?

The Anatomy of Color

The Anatomy of Color

“Today?  Today, I am a pirate, Walter!  And there’s not one thing you can do about it!” 

With a bath towel hanging lengthwise around his neck and a broom handle sticking out in sword-like fashion from his belt, Sigmund waved his hands in exaggerated motions, mischievously drawing his weapon from its sheath and stabbing the absent foes surrounding him.  Eyebrows raised so high they might have leaped off of his face and into his curly blonde hair.  With wild, frantic leaps, around the brightly lit room his thin figure looked more comical than threatening.  His hair bounced and flopped with each bound and twist and excessive gesture he made.   

Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the corner of his mouth slid upwards in amiable amusement.  With bright eyes he watched his brother leap around the room defending his marauding vessel from imaginary attack. 

“A pirate huh?  Why would I want to stop that?  That’s a great idea, Sigmund.  Just a great one!  And what will your pirate name be?  You know you need to have a clever pirate name!”

“I think I shall be Captain…Captain…”

The sunlight was shooting through the window panes like golden spears stuck in the ground.  Sigmund fell in a dizzy on the floor and was becoming preoccupied with the rays on the ground that now pierced his hands and face.  Running his arms along the angled axis of the sun, delight filling his eyes.  The room was bright now, as somewhere outside the clouds found themselves pushed along on their way.  Sigmund sighed a long, exaggerated gasp, rocked back and lay facing the ceiling.  Closing his eyes he smiled.

“I can see colors, Walter.  So many colors I can’t even tell you.  Should I paint them

Walter?  I don’t know if I can, but I would try.  Do you want me to?”

On the far end of the house the doorbell was being rung and Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood up straight and reached for the handle of Sigmund’s open door.

“I would love to see you try.  Go get your paints while I get the door.  You need to promise me that you will not make a mess while I am gone, alright Sig?”

“As you wish Brother!  But I will paint you such a masterpiece, you might fall over in shock!”

“Yes, I just might at that!”

Smiling, Sam (for that was actually Walter’s name) shut the door and made his way down the hallway and down the stairs towards the front of the house.  The large double doors stood twelve feet high and the thick mahogany made the doorbell reverberate in the large foyer.  The door opened and a middle-aged brunette stood in the sunlight, holding a piece of paper and a black portfolio open in her hand.  Behind her, a black SUV sat in the large gravel driveway.  She stood for a moment, looked Sam over in one sweeping glance and jotted down a note in her book.  Sam’s young, slender frame was not an imposing sight. 

“Good afternoon.  You are Sam Rhodes, yes?” she said, in a flat business tone without eye contact.  “I am Ruth Meadows from the Department of Children and Families.  You were told to expect us?”

“I was, yes.  Won’t you come in, Ms. Meadows?  Sig is painting in his room right now.  Do you want to speak to him now?”

“All in good time,” she said as she walked into the sunlit foyer, her high heels making a harsh knocking sound on the tile floor. 

“I have some paperwork to fill out and a few questions before we get too far along.  You have been taking care of Sigmund since your mother and father’s accident?”

“That’s right,” Sam replied and looked at his shoes.

“By yourself?”  Her tone lent itself to disbelief and suspicion rather than admiration or respect.  “Eighteen-year-old brothers do not often choose to take sole custody of their special needs siblings.”

“He’s my brother,” Sam stated more as defense than explanation.  “He also has special needs, but first he’s my brother.”

A moment of silence ensued as they both looked at each other – only broken when Ruth resumed scribbling in her notebook, which was still cradled in her arm. 

“I understand that finances will not be a problem, considering your parent’s estate was considerably large?  Do you have a financial advisor to…oversee…that…you…”

“To make sure I don’t spend it all in one place?” Sam quipped.

“I suppose you could say that.” 

“Yes, my Uncle David.”

“I see…”  More scribbling.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Ms. Meadows checked boxes and jotted down notes in her file.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, suddenly remembering that he was a host, “would you like something to drink?  I have water, juice, soda…”

Ms. Meadow’s eyes slowly raised and narrowed at Sam.

Knowing her suspicion, Sam answered “No, there’s no alcohol.  I’m eighteen, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” she said as she went back to her notes.  “Some tea would be nice.”

Sam started to head for the kitchen to boil some water for the tea.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.  “That’s…very considerate of you.”

Sam smiled and left the room.  Ms. Meadows found a chair in the foyer and continued her notes.  A few moments passed in silent writing, when from the hallway she could hear someone humming and singing quietly.  She stood, closed her portfolio and walked cautiously down the wooden hallway.  At the doorway she stopped and listened for the music to continue.  She quietly opened the door and the rays of sunlight caught her off guard.  In the far corner of the room, a blonde haired figure was bent sideways, staring at a canvas.  A bath towel was in a pile on the floor next to him.  His entire torso was cocked to the side while one hand jaggedly slung paint on the cloth.  She stood in the doorway and tilted her head to the side along with the painter.  The color wheel, with bursts of designs and swirls seemed to played tricks with her mind.  The extremities with the tails and waves decorating the circular center appeared to move and sway.  They seemed to wave at her and change color under the yellow sunlight.  An optical illusion like she had never seen.  Mesmerized, Ruth straightened up and slowly made her way to the back side of the couch and leaned forward on her arms, cautious not to make a sound.  It was a hologram.  On the canvas were layers of colors that danced with depth in her mind.  There were only a dozen or so colors the child was working with, but the layers and motions and force of the patterns gave dimension and colors, more colors than her mind could take in.  Her thoughts were interrupted by a single sound.

“Hello.”

The word was so casual and melodic; it hardly brought her out of the trance at all.  It was when she realized that the painter had not turned around or sounded startled that she saw it as an anomaly.  She smiled.

“How did you know I was here?  I hardly made a sound.”

She took a deep breath.  Now realizing it was the first real breath she had taken since she entered the room.  She felt as if she had just taken a nap in the sun, and was awakened by a pleasant aroma.  As she breathed, she could almost smell the flower that had woken her up.

“I saw it was different in here.  I can see it you know.  Most people can just talk about it or feel it, but I can see it.  Walter says it’s special, but I don’t see how.  It’s just what I see.”

He never stopped his movements at the canvas, fixed on his task, but willing to engage as a courtesy to Ruth.  At this point, he slowly turned around and studied her face quizzically.  His eyebrows narrowed and eyes zeroed into lasers.

“Can you see it?”

“See what?”

At this, his face shrugged and he whipped back to his painting, tilted sideways again and continued.

“Neither can Walter.  But he loves when I talk about it.  I don’t see why though.  It’s as plain as daylight.”

“What does it look like?”

He said nothing for a moment as his hand made two more marks with the brush.  He straightened up and took a step back. 

“Like this.”

Ruth stared at the hologram Sigmund had painted and tilted her head in confusion.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Startled, she straightened up and snapped her head to see Sam standing next to her with a cup of tea steaming in his hand.

“I’m sorry, the door—“ she stammered.

“You wanted to meet Sigmund?  You’ve met him.  I see you’re both getting along.”  Sam handed the cup to Ms. Meadows and smiled at Sigmund.

“She likes my painting, Walter!  Do you?  Do you like it?”

“Oh Sig!” Sam bounded around the couch to get a closer look and tilted his head to the side.  “This one is amazing!  I think I like this one the best.  I still have no idea how you do that!”

He stared at it for a few moments more and Sigmund gave Ruth a wide smile, bursting with joy and pride.

“Run and put it with the others Sig.  You are amazing!”

Sigmund made his way over and gathered the easel and canvas in his arms and took them across the room to an oversized filing cabinet. 

“I’m sorry” Ruth said; as she flipped open her files again. “Is your name Sam or Walter?  My files have you down as…”

“It’s Sam…legally.”

“Then why does Sigmund call you Walter?”

Sam put his hands in his pockets and sat down on the back of the couch and smiled. 

“If you have a question about why Sig does something, I guess you should ask him, huh?”

There was a moment of silence as Ruth pondered.  She walked over to Sigmund and knelt down.

“Sigmund, why do you call Sam, Walter?”

He set the canvas in one of the drawers and upon hearing her question burst out:

“Because it’s his name!”

Ruth jumped at the sudden volume that he produced and quickly looked back at Sam.  He was chuckling under his breath, hands still in his pockets, relaxed and casual.  Sigmund continued like a flight attendant giving instructions.

“Everything has energies and they all have colors and his colors are a Walter, not a Sam.  I can see the energies in colors, but no one else can because they are stupid!  Why do you even like the name Sam?” he shot at his brother.  “It’s not your name!  It’s terrible and it doesn’t even match anything.  You can’t see anything.  I can see it plain as day.”

There was a moment of silence and then Sam burst out into laughter, filling the room with his bellowing noise.  Ruth was next, and then Sigmund.  It was contagious.  As the mirth subsided and tears were wiped away from corners of eyes, Ruth asked, through the tail of a laugh,

“What about me?  Is my name Ruth?”

“Your name?  Your name is…is…”

He smiled and looked around, up in the air and in every corner of the room.  He fixed his eyes on the top part of the window and said,

“There!  There is your name!”

Ruth looked up and saw only the top of the window, sunlight still pouring through.   Sigmund grunted.

“You can’t even see it, can you?”

“No Sig, I can’t.  What does it look like?”

“I will paint it for you.”  

Workplace and Grace

I work in a restaurant. Specifically, I work at Olive Garden. But don’t worry; nothing in this article is critical of my employer. I want to talk about relational-based jobs, like restaurants.

When I say a “relational-based job” I mean a job where you rely on the cooperation of many people to get a task done, and as a result, it behooves you to be on good terms with as many people as possible to get your job done. Also, these types of work environments tend to be very vicious in the areas of gossip, slander, and passive aggressive problem solving (or creating). Any workplace that is so relational-based is extremely volatile. If you make the wrong people mad, you could find your food conveniently delayed or your table might not get wiped down as quickly as someone else. Money tends to make people happy in these kinds of environments. That’s why we tip our bartenders and bussers (or ought to anyway).

 Here’s a fun situation: If Jack doesn't refill the ice bin often enough, expect Sam and Brittany to tell anyone who will listen to them exactly how lazy Jack is. Then Jack hears what Brittany said and tells Jordan how many tables he had, and how he didn't have time to get the ice, and wouldn't it be nice if Brittany didn't talk about people behind their back. Except now, he’s done the same thing. Then Jordan, who is friends with Sam, tells him what Jack said about Brittany, which gets around to Brittany. All the while, Tony, Sarah and Tim have been running food for everyone else, which goes hardly noticed, since that’s what everyone is supposed to be doing anyway.

So why is virtue ignored as the bare minimum and vice held up as the greatest of crimes, to be passive aggressively discussed, with everyone but the person it concerns? If our workplace is a machine, then speaking poorly about someone behind their back is like an oil leak. Very quickly, it drains all understanding or empathy or grace that usually lubricates the social interactions of work.

Ever notice how when someone else doesn't do their job, it’s due to laziness, but when you don’t, it’s due to busyness. It’s like when we’re in traffic – someone cuts you off and it’s because they’re a jerk. But when you cut someone off, it was an accident or you were in a hurry or they were in your blind spot. If we extended the same grace to everyone else that we give ourselves, I imagine people would seem a lot easier to get along with.

So here’s my challenge – and coworkers, feel free to keep me accountable to this:
1) To speak poorly of no one - whether I think they've earned it or not.
2) To point out the good things that people do and not take them for granted.
3) To not speak about someone behind their back.

Doctrinal View

People have often pressed me for my particular views on some of the more sensitive issues in higher theological doctrine; predestination, free will, losing salvation, baptism essential for salvation, infant who die going to heaven or not, and so on. Here is my answer to all of them. If debating high levels of theology somehow brings either of us into a closer relationship with God, makes either of us fall in love with Jesus in a deeper way, or brings unity among brothers and sisters in Christ, then I will gladly discus it with you. If, however, you are arguing to gain spiritual points, or to prove that you have a better understanding of God than another brother or sister, or to win a convert to your faction of Christianity, count me out.

If you are arguing that Christ does not save us, or that one cannot be saved then there is some urgency for that topic. But, if we are simply debating the method by which Jesus does save us, or the mystery behind God’s hand in the world, then I wonder about the immediate need for an answer. The truth is that there are greater mysteries in our faith and bigger issues to which we trust God. Here’s the issue. We would rather argue over the ways in which God could save people, rather than be that means of salvation.

The thing about the debates over salvation is that it is almost always, as far as I have seen, not a debate for one’s own salvation. The debate is almost always whether or not someone else is saved or can be saved or decided to be saved or was destined to be saved and on and on. What I mean by this is that, the argument is always based on the premise that the person speaking is in fact saved, regardless of the method they believe it came about by. So regardless of which side you choose, both sides are believers in Christ—whether they believe that they chose that or that they were destined to be saved, or that they were destined to choose or chose to be destined… Here’s the bottom line: are you now, as this argument is being debated, in a relationship with God? One would assume that the people arguing about it are the ones who have crossed over anyway. If so, stop arguing and trust that the God, who saved your soul from the brink of Hell, knows what He’s doing whether you do or not.

the time it has taken for countless Christians to argue over the minutia of the mystery of how Christ came to save us, I wonder how much good could have been done from your position of having already been saved.

God said love those who hate you and make disciples of all the nations and that He would help you and I do it. I say we do it.