NaNoWriMo 1K-A-Day: Day 10

King of the Roses (David)

Gunther had his back to me when I stepped out onto the street. He was still yelling. Phil’s gang was there too, whooping and hollering and egging him on.

“Shizz ain’t no match for the Big Guns!”

“Yeah, you tell ‘em!”

“Gonna get us some sweet justice!”

"Teach those uppity Bible-Thumpers a lesson!"

Gunther spread his arms wide. “Your prayers cannot save you!” he howled. “So what will it be, Sullivan? Who among your crew is man enough to fight me?”

I took a deep breath, and stepped out to the middle of the road.

The gangsters stopped their whistling. Gunther noticed, and he turned around. The only thing moving was the wind. It blew through his thick, dirty-grey hair. He squinted at me as the street lamps flickered on in the dusky light.

“Who’re you?” He grunted, in a much smaller voice than the one he’d been using before.

It took a moment to get my mouth and my voice working right. “I’m the one who’s going to fight you.”

I’ll hand it to him, he actually blinked hard at the notion. He shook his head. “Get on back to your treehouse, boy! Fighting’s a man’s game.”

I made a big show of scanning the sides of the road. “I don’t see anybody else,” I said. “Guess it’s just you and me.”

His expression turned hard and dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re doing, fool. Come a little closer and I’ll turn you over my knee and tan your hide!”

I shifted my grip on the rope. “You think you can come here and wave your gun and use big scary words to terrorize a small community, just because a former partner in crime said you could.” I raised a finger and pointed at him. “But you made one big mistake.”

If I hadn’t been so concentrated on running through my plan in my head over and over again, I might have noticed the way his body hunched over, his grip tightened on his gun, and all the signs pointed to a quick end to the conversation.

“What mistake would that be?” Gunther demanded slowly.

A normal person would take the hint and stop talking. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had been telling Big Sulley to convince him to let me come out here, and I plowed ahead. “You presumed to threaten our faith,” I pointed to the shards of crucifix on the road. “You set yourself against the Almighty God--and it’s in His Name that I am going to defeat you. You signed your own death warrant when you dared to threaten God.”

Gunther’s face twisted in an awful sneer, and he turned positively purple as he bellowed and charged toward me. It was as if he actually transformed into the wild animal I’d been thinking him to be. That made it easier to get into position to do what I had to do. I had a tree right beside me, with a branch hanging over my head. I dodged to the side and tossed the lasso out in front of Gunther. The rope draped neatly over his neck. Gunther didn’t seem to notice the new collar as he changed directions to get at me, but by that time, I had tangled the rope through the brass knuckles, and now I tossed it as hard as I could toward the branch. It went straight up, and sank right over the other side of the branch. Gunther was nearly on top of me, so the minute the brass knuckles fell into my line of sight, I lunged forward, gripping it in both hands. I was nearly hauled over backwards as my arms suddenly had all of Gunther’s massive weight on it, but I dug in my heels and kept pulling. I heard the frantic gurgling sounds and I kept running, throwing my entire weight on the rope. I couldn’t run any further, but Gunther still hovered just above the ground, pawing at the rope with his thick, rough fingers. I sank to my knees, hauling on the rope for all I was worth. The rope bucked and wriggled as the large mobster struggled to breathe. I was almost curled into the fetal position, and I dared not relax until I didn’t feel any movement on the line. Only then did I dare to turn my head and look up.

Gunther the Mobster hung high in the tree, face nearly black, his body completely slack. I finally let go of the rope, and the huge body hit the darkened street with a wet smack. I heaved a huge breath, at the same time I wondered how long it had been since the last time I took a breath. Phil’s gang stood absolutely silent.

I stood to my feet. Lights were coming on in all of the houses around us. Where only minutes before there had been closed curtains and barricaded windows, people were standing and staring and talking among themselves right in front of the windows.

Gunther lay where I left him, facedown in the asphalt. I rifled through his clothes and pulled out any weapons I could find. The man had guns strapped to his shoulders, ankles, and to his belt, but he had blades of various sizes and shapes secreted in even more places around his clothing. I had quite the pile on the sidewalk next to me when I finished. This done, I pulled the end of the rope down from over the tree branch and used that to lash Gunther’s ankles. Using the brass knuckles as a handle, I pulled the unconscious body right toward the knot of gangsters. They backed up and let me pass. Nobody seemed very eager to get too close to me. I dragged that man all the way to 19th Avenue, where Phil and the rest of his gang sat back and waited. I saw a lot of bottles and cups and even a few grills open, like they were so sure Gunther would win the fight that they had set up a celebratory block party in advance.

All chatter died as I came into their midst, dragging the body behind me.

NaNoWriMo 1K-A-Day: Day 7

Brothers At Arms (Joseph)

A deep, vibrant fragrance caused him to raise his head. It wasn’t anything like the flowers that decorated the house. Joseph whirled around as Fatin Ataullah strode into her husband’s office. She wore a loose, flowing silk kimono over simple dark-washed skinny jeans and a close-fitting, scoop-necked crop-top. Her thick, long jet-black hair cascaded over her head, and her ice-blue eyes sparkled as she watched him.

Joseph tensed at the gleam in her eyes. He knew the relationship between the Consul and his wife was strained; he heard them frequently fighting over petty things, such as the way she dressed. She would have no productive excuse for going into his office.

“Sayyidita,” Joseph slipped out of his chair and bowed low to her, both showing deference--and positioning himself between the woman and the letters. “Forgive me, your husband is not home--”

“Yes, I know,” she waved a hand and smiled, still staring at him with a tiny smile playing around her lips. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

Joseph kept his eyes downcast, as was appropriate for a servant. “Ask; I am yours to command.”

Fatin did not reply right away, but Joseph had learned better than to relax, even in the slightest.

“You are American?” she asked.

Now it was Joseph’s turn to balk. He had not broadcasted his origins, but at the same time, he was not surprised that she knew, since the Consul must have also known.

“I am, Sayyidita,” he answered. He waited for her to make the first move.

Her soft linen sandals shifted to the side and walked back toward the door. Joseph held his position, following her out of the corner of his eye until she had retreated far enough out of the room for it to be within the bounds of etiquette for him to return to his work, since she had not verbally dismissed him.

He had only reached for the pen, when her voice reached him again.

“Do you think I am pretty?”

Joseph froze, and his blood chilled; she had spoken in near-perfect English, the first he had heard since being thrown in the back of that sheep truck. What sort of question was she asking? Did she honestly want to know, or was she testing him? Which answer should he give? He had probably hesitated too long by now, anyway. Joseph decided to go for honesty first, and deal with the ramifications as they came.

“Yes, Sayyidita,” he answered, not trusting himself to say more.

She giggled softly, and he heard her hands sliding over the smooth wood of the door frame. “You are not even looking, abdul,” she made his title of service sound like a playful pet name.

Joseph felt his chest constricting. “Forgive me, Sayyidita; I do not feel it is right for me to look on you while your husband is not at home. I only mean to honor my master, and honor you.”

The scent of her perfume grew as she stepped closer.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

Joseph immediately transferred his gaze from her feet to her eyes.

Fatin Ataullah was indeed an alluring sight; Joe immediately recalled several examples of models on magazine covers, air-brushed and photo-retouched to immaculate perfection. All those seemed phony and fake as he stood barely six inches from a woman who could easily outclass any of them. And yet he only looked at her eyes.

Fatin smiled at him. “That’s better,” she murmured, running a hand through her long, dark hair. For a woman fast approaching her thirties, she still looked and carried herself as one twenty years younger. She sauntered away, leaving Joseph to stand there and watch her hips sway as she walked. The minute her back was turned, Joe resumed staring at the carpet.

He did not move until the sound of her softly-padding footsteps faded beyond his hearing.

The exchange flooded the young man’s mind with doubts; he had always spoken Arabic out of deference to the man who had paid money for him--never once did it cross his mind that either the Consul or his wife would know English. But, of course, as the Consul, it would make perfect sense for Karim to know multiple languages; how to discern this, though? The volatile man might suspect something untoward if the man he trusted most began asking about other languages; it would not be a stretch to conclude that Joseph was trying to find a language his master did not understand, with which to communicate with the enemies of his master. What should he do?

>>>>>>>>>>

King of the Roses (David)

“Boy?” The raspy voice grated like sandpaper over my ears.

I jumped to my feet out of habit. Big Sulley had a tendency to kick anybody who didn’t stand when he addressed them.

“Sir, I--”

Sulley’s big hands, stiff with arthritis, reached out and clamped my shoulders. He shook me, but it was more of an involuntary muscle spasm than actual menace.

“What are you doing here, boy?” he grunted.

I took a deep breath and prayed for peace. “Sir, I am here to do what needs to be done.”

Sulley still stared at me, his thick eyebrows drooping so I couldn’t tell if he was sneering or just looking at me. “There is nothing we can do. I am going to give the street back to Phil.”

“Just like that?”I was so surprised to hear the conclusion that I forgot all sense of respect for our not-so-fearless leader. “Mr. MacDonald, this isn’t about who controls the streets--”

Sulley sighed and shuffled slowly over to his big leather armchair. “That’s all he wants, that’s what he’s going to get. It’s not worth a fight. It’s just a few blocks. It’s Real is all but dead as a ministry. There really isn’t any point.”

“No point?” I couldn’t believe the community that had lasted my whole life would just roll over and disappear like that. “Did you not hear what he’s been saying? Gunther is making death threats against God! What sort of a ministry can we have here in Portland if we just abdicate at the least sign of aggression?”

“David.”

It felt weird, hearing Big Sulley say my name. He held out his hand over the armrest. When I offered mine, he patted it like a little old lady. “You have helped me well with your music over the years, when my torments come. I don’t know what I would do without it; I want you to go home, to stay safe.”

“But we’re It’s Real!” I reminded him, pulling my hand away. “How real is it, if all we do when things get rough is give up and go away? Is it Real? Or Isn’t it?”

Sulley frowned at me, the corners of his mouth sinking deep into his wrinkles. “Why are you talking like this?”

Gunther is an angry dog that needs to be taken down, I reminded myself. “Sir, I’ve faced mad dogs that were practically wild with aggression, and one time, on a walk in the woods, a cougar attacked the puppies in my care. They couldn’t protect themselves, so I stepped in to defend them.” I wasn’t bragging, I was only stating facts. “That mobster out there? Yeah he’s big and rough and he’s got a loud, foul mouth--but he’s no different than the cougar or the mad dog.” I pointed out the window to the houses, where more than likely people cowered behind couches. “These people need to know that nobody can stand up and say those things about God.”

Sulley had stared at me, not moving, not even blinking the whole time. I finished, and he still did not move. I wondered if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open, but then he spoke.

“Take the gun,” he said.

The ReBible Series: "King of the Roses" Excerpt--Lost Dog

Sulley scuffed the pavement and swore under his breath.

"Razor!" he yelled. A gust of wind played through his thick, dark hair and blew down his neck. Sulley adjusted his collar and continued scanning in the fading light. He whistled into the darkness.

"Razor! Here, boy!" Stupid dog! Why would he run like that? It had been a quick trip to the store. Sulley's huge Rottweiler could always be trusted to stay at the house, but this one time, Sulley had come home to find the gate to Razor's run wide open. The front fence, with the blue recycling bin behind it, would have presented very little obstacle for the dog. With twenty minutes' head start, just how far could the dog go? Which direction? Sulley had asked a few neighbors to search southward and into town, while he followed Macadam Avenue northward. Two hours had gone, and Sulley had not even seen the dog. His cell phone beeped. Sulley dug it out of his pocket and checked.

"Searched all over town. No sign of Razor."

Great, just great! Sulley continued trudging up the hill. The incline transformed into a decline, and Sulley knew he was headed into Portland. What on earth would make a dog run three hours into the next city? As he crossed under the freeway, Sulley glanced at the bleary-eyed hobos and decided the best course of action would be to keep his head down and find his dog as quickly as possible.

>>>>>

Samuel knelt in prayer. Teresa Cortez had just discovered the redemption of Christ, had entered nervously and departed rejoicing. Now Sam prayed over this new soul, praising God and praying that He would bless Teresa and her "Real Sister" Molly, the woman who committed to mentoring other girls who came to Christ, in the first stages of their new spiritual life.

Kneeling on the floor, Sam felt his mind wander, and he began thinking about dogs. Not little dogs, big ones; and not the mean, ferocious dogs, but the big dogs that some people owned as pets; furthermore, not necessarily a breed good around children, but a man's dog, a bachelor's dog—like a Rottweiler.

Someone cleared his throat on the other side of Sam's desk. Sam picked up his head.

There was a face he had never seen before, but Sam could not deny the inkling that there was something in this young mam that commanded respect. His stature, for one; Sam had seen tall guys, young guys, burly guys, and guys both young and tall, but this stranger was tall and burly and young; the desk was not as high as his waist! He was remarkably good-looking, with thick dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He dressed warmly and well, so Sam knew he wasn't living on the streets. He stood erect and confident before the desk, so he wasn't just a curious passerby. Sam felt the leading of God on his heart, "This is the man I have chosen."

Sulley opened his mouth to speak, but before he uttered a sound, Sam stood and extended a hand.

"Reverend Sam Oldman, but most just call me Old Sam, how are you today?"

Sulley immediately took his hand. Sam felt the power of a workingman's grip.

"Sullivan MacDonald, sir."

A healthy respect for his elders, good!

"I seem—"

Sam felt the pieces falling into place, and he raised a finger to interrupt Sullivan.

"Your Rottweiler, I presume?"

Sulley started, "You've seen him, then?"

Sam felt so overwhelmed at the working of God that he hardly knew what he was doing as he said, "Follow me to my house. Dinner has just been served, and I would be honored if you would join me for a meal while we talk."

Sulley sighed as he automatically followed the strange reverend. "Well, that sound wonderful, but I really should just pick up my dog and get back home—"

Sam led him up the steps of a large green house with white trim. He stopped at the front door.

"Razor is safe at home, your neighbors who so kindly searched all over town for him are now watching him, and I am not going to let the man God has chosen to be a community leader for this ministry take the risk of walking home alone in the dark; understood?" Samuel did not wait for a reply but stepped immediately into the house. He waited at the open door, letting the smells of Dorothy's chicken pot pie lure the young man toward the door.

Sulley was almost too thunderstruck to move. He shied away from the old reverend as Samuel crossed the threshold.

"H-how did you know my dog's name?" he demanded shakily. Sulley offered no resistance in his shock when Sam escorted him to the table and gave him the seat at its head.

Dorothy laid heaping plates of fresh chicken pie before them. She and her son and two daughters left the men to their meal as they brought more of the same over to the warehouse to serve the rest.

Sam very calmly blessed the food and dug in. He glanced up and saw Sulley still staring at him as a little child does a magician who has just pulled a quarter out of his ear. Sam gestured to the steaming plate in front of his guest.

"It's good; eat it before it gets cold."

Sulley grabbed Sam's hand, restraining him from eating another bite. "I want to know just what's going on here, old man," try as he might he could not keep his voice from shaking, but he was beyond caring. "What do you mean, God has chosen me to lead a community?"

Sam smiled and plucked his fork out of the pinned hand. "Not just a community, Sullivan," he ate the bite of pie from the fork and gestured with it outside. "I'm going to introduce you to this community, and you're going to lead it."

"Lead it?" Sulley cried, "I'm only twenty-three for Chr...for crying out loud! How in the--How can I lead a bunch of people older than I am, who have more experience than I do? I'm just a messed-up guy from Lake Oswego, not a seminary student! I'm no friend of God, what do I matter?"

The mention of a seminary student struck a nerve in Sam and made him wince, but he maintained his composure. "Age and lifestyle has nothing to do with it, my son," Sam informed him, "As the saying goes, God does not choose the equipped, He equips the chosen." He emphasized his words with a flourish of his fork. Dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin, he chuckled. "As for not being a friend of God, well, I think we can remedy that situation!"

Three days later, Sullivan McDonald returned home. Razor bounded out the door and nearly bowled him over in his excitement at being reunited with his master.

Triana and Brent Marshall came out to greet him as well.

"Sull, man," Brent said, "I tried to call you when we found Razor. Where did you go?"

"We've been worried about you," Triana agreed, trying in vain to coax the big Rottweiler off Sulley, who seemed to enjoy the devotion. "Brent and I were ready to organize a search party for you!" Finally, Razor calmed down ad Brent lent a hand to help Sulley to his feet. As he did so, Brent saw a new light in his friend's eyes, a spark that had been smoldering behind bitterness and low self-esteem for so long. Brent got the feeling that this was Sullivan McDonald, reborn.

He swore under his breath in amazement. "Sulley, what happened to you?"

Sulley grinned at his friends. "Thank you so much for taking care of Razor; Brent, I'm going to need you to call Mike Turner and see if we can't get this house on the market and sold. I'm going down to get a U-Haul trailer, and I'd love it if you wouldn't mind helping me pack up everything we can fit into a trailer."

"What's going on?" Triana was very worried about her friend now.

Sulley was already pulling out every suitcase and duffel bag he owned and throwing clothes into them. "I'm moving into Portland, to It's Real."

"Okay," Brent tried to catch Sulley's shoulders, and brought him to a halt in front of him. Sulley still grinned like an idiot—but there was a sort of calmness of purpose behind the madness. "Stop," Brent said. "You're going where now, for who?"

Sulley shrugged Brent's hands off. "It's an ex-con, ex-gang community called It's Real, and I'm going to be their leader."

"It's Real?" Triana walked in to join them, "What kind of gang name is that?"

Sulley closed the last suitcase and moved to the den to start packing up his library and movie collection.

"It's a Christian organization that teaches these people about God, and how to live the truth of the Gospel like it's real." He stopped in the midst of loading his collection of horror films and risqué comedies into the box. Sulley shook his head and took them out. "Starting now," he muttered to himself with a chuckle.

"Sulley." Triana knelt in front of him. Sulley looked down at her from his squatting position. She had always been beautiful in his eyes; he'd even had a crush on Triana Faber that he never realized before she started going steady with Sulley's best friend Brent Marshall. She looked at him now, green eyes locked on his blue ones, silently pleading. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Sulley had never been so sure of anything in his life. "I am, Trie; people are saying God chose me for this purpose."

"What people?" Triana got to her feet, "I thought you said once that if there was a God He was obviously too busy to pay any attention to you. Now you're not only convinced that God exists, but that He's given you a job and you have to turn your life upside down to follow it?" She frowned.

Sulley laughed and lifted the box—only half-filled with all the books and movies he wanted to keep, while the rest lay scattered over the floor and untouched on the shelves—as he replied, "That's the beauty of it, though! Maybe God wasn't too busy for me, maybe I decided to be too busy for God, but that doesn't mean He completely ignored me. Now, He's changed my life, but I don't feel flipped upside-down."

"How do you feel?" Triana asked, following him out to the car.

Sulley shoved the box in among the suitcases and slammed the lid. "I feel like I've had no direction or all the wrong directions all my life, and finally here's my chance to do something that was meant for me, something good, something needed." He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. Brent came out to join Triana.

Sulley waved, "I'll drop this stuff off at my friend's house and pick up a U-Haul truck on my way back up. See you in a few hours!"

Brent and Triana watched him pull away.

"Yep," Brent mused, "Sulley's gone clean off his rocker."

Triana wasn't so sure; something she had seen in the young man's eyes told her otherwise, but she said nothing.

>>>>>> 

For more excerpts from "King of The Roses" and other installments of the ReBible series, Check out the "ReBible Series" Page!

When Pollyanna Cried

Nothing Like Pollyanna
I rubbed my temples, her continuous, vicious grumbling ringing through my head. "Can't you just find something positive to think about?"

She whirled on me. "You want me to be happy and not care about the terrible things that are happening? You just want me to say everything's fine all the time, even when it's not? Who do you think I am, Pollyanna?" Her voice rang shrilly with mockery. She crossed her arms and glared at me. No one could ever accuse her of being a Pollyanna. Never at all--but was that really a good thing?

Pollyanna is always remembered for her sunny disposition. She is attributed a rather milk-toasty, saccharine sort of character. Just another in a line of docile, primly-dressed, kid-gloved, white-cheeked girls seated mouse-like at home till a dashing young gentleman who saw her passing in the street decides she is just the "virtuous woman" he wants to bear his children.
Compared with that other "paragon of Christianity for little girls", Elsie Dinsmore--I rather think Pollyanna's the one with her head on straight, not floating in the clouds.

"Once, when father felt 'specially bad, he counted 'em. There were eight hundred of 'em... He said that if God bothered to tell us eight hundred times to be glad and rejoice, He must want us to do it--some!"

That "some" is important to understand the lesson of Pollyanna: rejoicing in difficulty doesn't mean we're ignoring the presence of the difficulty; it means we are lifting our eyes to God, who is far above the mess.

Whenever Pollyanna was playing the "Glad Game," she didn't once pretend that things were any different than they were--but with every storm cloud comes a little vivid color. We're not smiling to hide the hurt and wear a mask; we're smiling because "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in time of trouble." (Psalm 46:1) 

When it seems that Satan's minions have unleashed hell on earth, when it feels like nothing good is happening, when we see our circumstances crumbling around us, we can smile, because a child of God should know that "My help comes from the Lord, who made the Heavens and the Earth." (Psalm 121:2)

Who in the Bible had most cause for complaint? Some beleaguered soul might proclaim the Psalms as their anthem, because of the many times David railed at God--not against Him, but to Him--and the despondent texts. The dude was shunned by his brothers, stood alone against a giant while every other trained warrior in the nation cowered in fear, was chased all over said country by a crazed king who alternately swore never to harm him only to turn around and break that oath; he was betrayed countless times by people he trusted; his own son plotted to overthrow him; he knew he was God's anointed king, even as he broke nine of the Ten Commandments in the matter of Bathsheba--If anybody had cause to bemoan their lot in life--in both circumstances within their control, and ones of their own making--it was David.

But look again.

I haven't sat down with the book of Psalms to verify this, but I am willing to contend that for every time David had something to "vent", the Holy Spirit would come and give him something to rejoice in for every circumstance. The second fruit of the Spirit is "JOY." We don't rejoice to the exclusion of suffering; positivity has its moments of solemnity and of mourning. That's why the command is not, "Laugh always!" or even "Smile always!" but "REJOICE always!" Sometimes, we will experience circumstances that do not warrant smiling; indeed, it might be physically or psychologically impossible to smile. Yet we can still REJOICE in our hearts.

Happiness is the absence of suffering; rejoicing is the presence of hope through the suffering.

Pollyanna cried. Pollyanna forgot herself and let her feelings loose. Pollyanna's "scrapes" consisted of wanton moments of the brash desire to be the vessel for providing for other people's needs. But what Pollyanna didn't do was pretend something wasn't happening. She didn't turn a blind eye to hardships in a desperate attempt to make like everything was sunshine and roses. A chapter in the sequel, Pollyanna Grows Up even describes a day when she intentionally took a dare from her crotchety Aunt Polly and purposefully didn't play the game.

The scene was an interesting one. Every time Aunt Polly complained, Pollyanna agreed with her; every time Aunt Polly pointed out that something was going wrong, Pollyanna dolefully predicted a further downhill slump for the unfortunate circumstance. What is more, Pollyanna kept it up the whole day long. She was no stranger to misery when she saw it; she knew what it was like to have not even a change of clothes to her name, and out of a barrel of stuff that she and other penniless people like her could claim, all that was left to her was a pair of crutches--not even anything useful.

But in that moment, her father invented the Glad Game, turning what would potentially be the worst moment of her life into the one that made her life better than it ever could have been.

"Playing The Game" doesn't come at the expense of being realistic; Pollyanna's descriptions of things are very down-to-earth and practical... not painted in a purple romantic haze like some of the flights of Anne Shirley's fancy. "Playing The Game" doesn't make the difficult circumstances go away; having a positive outlook is only fixing your eyes on the lighthouse in the middle of a storm--it doesn't make the storm any less, but you become stronger because of the hope it gives you.

We are creatures of comfort; we might understand that "suffering is a part of life"... but inside, we want the hard things to just go away. We want to "retire" from the struggle that is the Christian life. Yet we know that there is going to be no time when God will say, "All right, I've gotten all I want out of you; go ahead and live the rest of your life on this earth however you please, and I'll keep all the tough stuff out of your way."

Some people, when they acknowledge it, might be tempted to swing to the other extreme: "The Christian life isn't hard," they'll say, "it's impossible! There is no way someone can successfully live the Christian life, so just keep beating your head against the wall, or just dig your heels in where you're at and focus on maintaining what you have then and there, and that's good enough. The best we can hope for is the maintenance of mediocrity in the name of excelling."

Since when was Christianity free to idle in "maintenance mode"? Where is the hope in that? Where is the grace? For maintenance needs no grace. You've heard the saying, "Do what you've always done, and you'll get what you've always gotten"? If I'm going through the religious motions of a Christian life of maintenance, the practice will make those motions more automatic, more "self-driven"....

They'll be easier.

I won't need grace, because I know what I have to do to get what I've always gotten. I can do it. I control the outcome. I regulate the incoming influences. I predict the interpretations. Maintenance mode at it's highest efficiency is a life entirely dependent and centered on ME.

Is that really the Gospel message we want to share? Is this message truly the Gospel of Jesus Christ at all?

When Pollyanna Cried
In one of the last chapters of the book Pollyanna, the poor young girl has lost the will to play the game. It was all well and good to be able to tell people how to play the Glad Game, but it was quite another to be in a situation where she is forced to do it.

Isn't that true of the Christian life? It is one thing to roll your eyes piously heavenward and speak of "counting your blessings" and "depending on God for grace in every day"... but when the chips fall, are you actually doing these things or not?

Word gets around that Pollyanna needs someone to help her play The Game... and what happens? Do people frown and sneer at her, gloating over the fact that the "goody-two-shoes" has finally joined the "normal people" in their humdrum, hopeless lives? Do they immediately forgo any attempt at "playing The Game" themselves because clearly it didn't work for the little girl who invented it?

I would contend that, out of all the books with their benign little rich girls who sew samplers while murmuring Bible verses like platitudes and weeping over the "trials" like not getting their way or the fact that, yes, they bore unjust punishment without crying, but it wasn't enough because their "thoughts were naughty"....

Out of all those girls, Pollyanna is the best and clearest example of sharing the truth and light of the Gospel by LIVING IT.  

True, there aren't copious amounts of King James verses, but I would hold Pollyanna not as a "Christ-like role model" (as poor Miss Dinsmore is so unfortunately flaunted) but as a fairly balanced example of a disciple of Christ. She's not just reading her Bible and praying and desperately fighting to be the best and most Jesus-like she can possibly be; she takes what God says to do, and she does her best to follow His instructions.

The Gospel isn't just a MESSAGE we SHARE or a PROGRAM we PRACTICE. It's the HOPE we DEPEND ON for everyday life--and it's available to everyone who recognizes their need.

ReBible Series: "King of The Roses" Excerpt--"Siblings"

The Rottweiler bucked against the restraints. Strangled snarls rumbled in his throat, incapable of escaping his muzzled mouth.

“Hold him still!” Abbi cried.

I reached out and began stroking the large animal on the rump. He twitched and flinched, but as I continued to place my hand there, his movement slowed and ceased altogether. Abbi prepped the needle and plunged the puppy with his supplements.

“Okay,” Abbi turned to the sink and began washing her hands again, “Get him off my table.”

I got my hands around Denver’s collar and gently pulled him toward me. “Come on, boy,” I invited him cheerily.

Abbi grinned as Denver heaved his body off the table and stood next to me, still woozy from the drugs. She didn’t say anything, she just grinned.

“What?” I asked. She had that same look everybody got when I was out with the dogs, the look that made me feel like I had somehow performed a miracle.

Abbi nodded at Denver and giggled, “I’m the one who went to veterinary school, but to them I’m just the mean old lady with the pills and the needles. You’re the animal whisperer. You speak their language, and they trust you.”

Her observations were making me uncomfortable. “So?” I asked, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Abbi laughed again and went back to checking charts on the computer. “You’re a funny kid.”

Funny kid; I’m twenty years old, she’s thirty, and she still calls me a funny kid. It’s like no one realizes I’ve grown up—not even myself. Every time she calls me a “funny kid”, I’m thirteen again, and Big Sulley is sitting in the armchair next to the Steinway telling me I am “the funny kid with the angel music.” After a solid decade of being “on call” for Abbi during the day and Sulley during the night, I wonder if it’s even worth it to try college. What good is a degree if I can’t get a job without leaving people in the lurch? The very idea boggles the imagination.

I brought Denver out to the pens. Mariah was there with her friends, talking like she owned the place.

“This is Dot; I got to name her.”

“She’s so sweet!” One of the girls gushed, sticking her fingers through the grate so the Pomeranian-Silkie mix could explore them.

My sister happened to be standing in front of Denver’s kennel.

“Excuse me,” I muttered to her.

Mariah blinked as if she didn’t hear me, “What?”

I coached Denver forward, and she backed away, just like I wanted her to.

“Ugh, David! I thought all dogs were supposed to be leashed outside the kennels!” She frowned at me.

I prodded Denver with my knee to keep him from investigating Mariah’s guests like he wanted to; I didn’t see anything wrong with the pup. He was sweet and innocent, but he had this jagged scar around his eye and one leg bent funny, so he scares people away.

“Hey,” I called his attention.

Taffy—her hand still gripping Dot’s cage, grimaced, “What?”

“Not you,” Man, I hated the way my cheeks burned when I talked to girls! “I meant the dog.” I finally got Denver into his kennel, and he lunged to lick me in the face before I closed the gate.

“Weirdo,” Taffy muttered.

“Let’s go,” Mariah announced, “Davy’s going to start talking to the dogs again. Oh, by the way,” she turned to me, “Steve signed you up as the catering coordinator for the carnival next week. You can talk to Annie and find out what all that entails.”

Steve… If my brother knew that I’d named a particular grey domesticated rat after him, he would probably kill me—socially, not physically.

Steve Jordan has always been a model salesman, even from a young age. He could get anyone to do anything. He convinced my dad that it would be okay for him and Bailey (my oldest brother) to attend PSU together—Bailey as a Management major and Stephen in Marketing. Steven then got several foundations to fund their degrees through scholarships.

ReBible Series: "King of The Roses"--Introduction, By David Jordan

In the Pearl District of downtown Portland, Oregon, on Glisan Street, just west of Interstate 405, there is a kennel called Jordan’s Pets. Not all the animals inside have someone who claims them—well, somebody besides Abbi Jordan, I mean.

If there was one thing that could be said about Abbi Jordan, it was that she loved animals. Even through high school, she made it her personal mission to become as close to a veterinary doctor as she could manage, and she made it through the medical program at the community college in record time. She called Jordan’s Pets her “practice,” even though it was just a building Dad bought across the street so she wouldn’t keep bringing strays into the house. The neighbors didn’t mind having a “pet library” at their disposal, either. 

It was ingenious the way Abbi figured it out: customers wanting a pet could “rent” it if they didn’t want to keep it forever, and bring it back whenever they didn’t want it any more. If they chose, they could purchase the pet outright, and Abbi had a “physic package” in addition to the price of the animal, where she would perform all the necessary checkups and medical inoculations, and the critter would be ready to go. Either way, she was earning money, and enjoying what she loved most: finding good homes for strays.

It didn’t matter if they were missing a limb or a tail—she even took in a mangy tabby that had lost its eye in a fight—she would bring it in, clean it up, nurse it back to health, and let it stay till somebody came along and decided they wanted it. Very often, the strays were so mangled that no one did, so they became permanent residents of Jordan’s Pets. There were about fifty such residents as of June, 2005.

I know what you’re thinking: she’s crazy, right? How can one 24-year-old take care of not only other people’s animals, but the strays off the streets, too? The answer is simple: she’s got an assistant on speed dial. Whenever she needs help, all she needs to do is hit a button on her cell phone, and I come running.

That’s right; I’m her assistant. I’m also her little brother, David. That’s why I run.

At sporadic times during the day, I’d get a call, something like, “David! I’m swamped over here! Could you lend a hand?” and I’d go down and help her, like, de-worm a cat, or help a whelping bitch (that’s really what it’s called!) or feed the varying animal population in the kennel. My daily job is walking the six dogs she had.

There was Mash, a skinny, brown boxer with no tail and plenty of energy. He was usually regarded as the Alpha of the six. Three dogs had all been found in the same block, on the same weekend: a chocolate Lab with so many battle-wounds and scars that his ears stuck out funny, a fluffy charcoal-colored poodle with a broken leg, and a tiny Chihuahua somebody had tried to tie up in a garbage bag, but who had managed to at least get his body out by scratching the plastic with his paws till it gave way. Abbi found him in the alley behind the pub on 17^th Street with the bag on his head, too scared to move. When she took it off, he immediately started licking her as if he thought she was the most wonderful human in the world. He followed the other two with his own little doggie version of blind, stupid devotion. Abbi named them Larry (the Lab), Curly (the poodle), and Moe (the Chihuahua), and the kennel officially had its own Three Stooges. The other two dogs belonged to residents on our block: the shaggy Golden Retriever named Jade belonged to Mrs. O’Malley, who lived in the pink house facing Hoyt Street. Last of all was a beat-up old Rottweiler named Razor. He was Sulley’s dog, back when they called him Big Sulley, instead of Mad Sulley.

Abbi fed them while they stayed at the kennel, but every day after four hours of online school (some academy my dad signed us all up for to get us through grade school; he said it worked better, but I suspect it was because he didn’t want to have to deal with the public school system in our area), I’d go down to the kennel and pick up the dogs, taking them down Hoyt Street all the way to Couch Park, where I’d let them loose and pull stuff out of the backpack of dog toys I always brought with me. Jade loved to catch the Frisbee; she had this odd habit of continually running ahead of the Frisbee, just so she could turn around and nip it at the last second, and look beautiful doing it.

The Stooges were all digging dogs, and they preferred sticks to balls or discs. They were always bringing me branches to throw. Poor Moe never quite seemed to realize his size, so the branches he went after were always too big for him. He’d be a light-gold speck in the sea of green grass, trying his hardest to so much as drag a dead branch easily four feet long and so thick he could barely get his jaws around it. That made me laugh every time, and I’d run out there and “help” him by letting him fetch smaller sticks.

Mash was a chaser. He would chase little kids, balls, kites, squirrels, cats, other dogs—anything that moved warranted his attention until he was so tired he flopped down under a tree, panting heavily. Even then, he remained on the alert, and the instant something else moved, Mash was up and running again.

About the only dog that wouldn’t do anything was Razor. I guess he was Sulley’s intimidation tactic. He had all these scars around his mouth and his shoulders, like a fighting dog, but for Razor, it seemed, the fighting days were over. They’d probably been over since Old Sam moved into the yellow house on the corner of Glisan and 18^th. (Greg says that Sulley was a ganglord before Old Sam came along, and he'd sic Razor on anyone who wouldn't do what he said; I don't know much about it, since I was really young when Big Sulley snapped, and no one really talks about it anymore.) 

Anyway, nowadays he was the one who just sat next to me, watching everything, but not moving a muscle. If we stayed at the park long enough, and if the other dogs left him alone for long enough, I could usually coax him to at least lay next to me as I sat against a tree, and once he even put his head on my lap. Of course, when that happened, the moment lasted only a few seconds before Curly ran up with a ball in his mouth. The other dogs made Razor irritable; not mad—he wouldn’t attack them—he’d just sit there and growl at them. It was enough, though; none of the other dogs wanted to risk finding out if Razor would chase them. Well, everyone, that is, except Moe. Moe never seemed to understand anything, much less the savage growls of an angry old Rottweiler, and he had unquenchable faith in every dog’s willingness to play with him. One bite and a snap from Razor, though, and Moe wouldn’t even come at me from the front. I’d either have to move away from Razor, or I’d hear feverish panting coming from behind me, as Moe was trying to be as stealthy as possible.

Most of the time, though, Razor would just sit. I’d try to get him to get up, walk around with me, but he’d only come when I walked out of his sight. Then he’d stalk over to where he last saw me, and sit again, his triangular ears stooped with age, and his eyes keen as ever. I spent much of my afternoons this way, and I loved every minute of it.

Usually after I’d been at the park only a couple hours or so, my cell phone would ring again, this time with a message from Johnny, Sulley’s son and my best friend.

“Come quick,” Johnny would say, and I could hear Sulley screaming his head off in the background, “he’s bad, and getting worse.”

“I’ll be right over,” and with that I would round up all the dogs (I’d trained them to not only come when I whistled, but bring their toys as well), and take them back to the Kennel, and then it was off to Johnny’s house, the big green-grey-colored mansion on the corner of 18^th and Hoyt.

I’d always have to come in the back door, because Sulley would be in the front room with a shot gun, screaming out curses and threats to the demons in his head. Johnny would point me to the music room and then disappear to the basement.

In the music room was the key to maintaining Sulley’s sanity: the piano. I would thank God for the piano lessons Dad made me take as a young kid, because now it was the only thing that helped keep Sulley out of the sanitarium. I played music until I heard his shouting stop, and then I’d hear his shuffling, creaking step behind me. I tried not to look over my shoulder as I continued to play, because I always saw the barrel of the shotgun first, before Sulley approached the doorway. He’d stand there, watching me, fury etched on his wrinkled, sagging face, then as I continued to play, he would slowly creep into the room, heading for an armchair next to the piano. I played him into the armchair, and I would keep on playing until I heard him snore. Once Sulley was asleep, I was free to go home without fear of any more fits for at least the next eight hours. After that it was anybody’s guess: three in the morning, five, eight—only once had he ever had another fit as soon as he was conscious, and I think that was because somebody’s car backfired at about one AM, so I got the call to come play again.

I spent much of my evenings this way, and it scared me every time.

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