Tis is fiction and contains one swear word and a dark theme. The Chosen; The Chooser A Parable by Winslow Parker With the gratitude of a faithfully corrected one, I am indebted to Mitch Lang and John Cronin for their critique. The scene is familiar, though the trees are older, more gnarled, more seasoned. The barracks are empty, the furnaces silent. I stand at the edge of the ten-thousand square-foot space, its edges and corners clearly marked. No one walks or picnics or plays on this sacred lawn. The grass is mown to a millimeter of perfection. The marker in the center is a perpetually-burning torch. My lips tremble, I weep, my Sholder heaving, chest convulsing. Now, when I perform, when I stand before large audiences, cut a new record, I always include Paganini's First Violin Concerto. I play it with all the tears I have. ***** I was the fourth, the newest member of the section. It was a privilege to sit in the same row with the master. He began to mentor me. I was young and talented, but his years of experience put him at the top of stringed masters in the Germany of 1942. He, too, though, was here with the rest of us. His Jewishness and mine were the passports into this hell. Our occupation, listed on the transport manifest, gained us this reprieve from the labor camp or the ovens. The Commandant, it turned out, has a love for the symphonies and sonatas of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and the vast constellation of other German composers, all long dead, but revered in Germany and by this sadistic killer. Our status gave us privileges. We had our own barracks, one musician to a room, a large practice space, instruments if we were so unfortunate as to not own our own. We received extra and better rations. Fortunate indeed, we knew, for they made sure we were witness to the heinous chaos inflicted on the rest of the prisoners. Daily, long lines snaked to the gas chambers and carts of bodies were shuttled to the consuming fires. A pall of smoke drifted over the camp on windless days. Everything was covered in a sheen of half-consumed fat. We knew our families were somewhere in the milieu, though we did not know if they were dead or alive. We became self-centered, insulating ourselves so we could continue to play, continue to live. I was the fourth. I was grateful to be chosen, to be protected by my talent. It all changed in a moment. The Commandant, rigid and Prussian, marched into the hall. We stopped playing and stood. Our conductor bowed to him, a required obsequie. We, in turned bowed as well. He looked into the eyes of each member. It must have taken five minutes though it seemed like hours. We held our collective breath. "You're all swine, Jewish swine," he said. "But needed swine. You make this place tolerable. It is a damn chore processing so many thousands of you." He paused, "I have an order." We cringed, knowing that orders rarely resulted in benefit. "My order is that you, Maestro," he pointed at our conductor, "are to reduce the number of violinists to three. I am no musician, but I am an afficionado. I know orchestras, their sizes, compositions and I know this one has one too many. By this, you are harboring one person from their just fate. By next week, this orchestra will be pared to its standard size. You are to decide and I don't care how." He executed a crisp about-face and left. Our conductor covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. The four of us, suddenly competitors, dared not look the others in the eyes. I trembled, knowing I was the newest, the fourth. The principal was a recognized name in Germany before the ascension of our foul leader. The other two were up-and-coming musicians in their own right. They were not so well known, but highly accomplished, nonetheless. One was professor of stringed instruments at a university. The other was Principal violinist for a State orchestra. My talent and resume` could never match theirs. I collapsed into my chair, burying my head in my hands. My fellow instrumentalists dispersed, leaving me alone in the midst of vacated chairs, empty music stands and

The Cross Within Your body contains somewhere between 35 and 70 trillion cells. That's trillion with a "T." 35 thousand billion (or seventy-thousand billion—depending on whom you ask). Have you ever wondered how all those cells stick together? Neither have I. but they do. If they didn't, we'd be a puddle of Jello—no organs, no skin, muscles, stomach, brain—just a sludge of individual cells. Not a pretty sight and not a very interesting pool of goo to study. I doubt humanity would have accomplished much if things were this way. Fortunately, or, rather, blessedly, they are not. And what makes the difference? It's a tiny protein called Lamanin. Among its many uses within the body, one type of Lamanin has receptors which bind to other receptors on the cell membrane. It can bind to two cells, thus holding them together. Now all this is interesting, but I hear you ask, "What's the point?" These Lamanin proteins, the ones which bind cells together, are cross-shaped. Kind of reminds me of Colossians 1:15-17. The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. It is the cross which divides history and binds the two epochs to one another. It is the cross which divides all humanity into believer and unbeliever while it also inextricably welds us all into one. Without the cross, humanity would be one incoherent blob. We would disintegrate into ever smaller units, living only for ourselves, infinitely selfish. To the glory of the Divine Lamanin! 5/31/24

Since we are "In Him," it is by faith, not by sensation that we know that He is living and working within us to will and to do His good pleasure. Though we hear no voice, see no vision, touch, taste or smell nothing out of the ordinary, He lives 5/16/24

The Word The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. Words are spoken by the mouth; heard by the ear. Words are written; interpreted by the eye. Inflection of word or sentence lends nuance to the spoken word. On a more subtle level, we see a person's "body language," the folded arms a sign of resistance; the outstretched hand of welcome and acceptance; the open smiling face; the tensed fist of aggression; the dreamy enlarged-pupil dreamy face of love. He lived among us, spoke to us, told stories and parables; yet few understood Him. His was not first a language of human speech, but a language of which He was the singular example. He wasn't Hebrew or Aramaic or Greek or Latin, or English, French or German. His language was He Himself, His life lived among us. His lessons were His life more than the spoken word. So far as we know, he wrote nothing, spoke volumes; lived out the real words in His person. He is the original "What You See is What You Get" (WYSIWIG). In this, He was completely successful. If we had only His acts and none of His words, His story would be complete. The Word of The Father would convey all that the Father wished to show humanity about Himself, for He was the Word of the Father complete and lacking nothing. "And we beheld His glory, the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth." John 1:14 5/5/24

Three Mothers By Winslow Parker They stood a few feet from each other, these three women. They probably did not notice each other for their focus was on their own beloved. Mary stared into her Son's face, feeling the wounds in her own heart. The other two mothers stared into their own son's dying faces. We do not know the names of the sons or the mothers. But we can know this with all certainty: they would pass through overflowing rivers; across dusty deserts, tread a thousand miles of Roman roads to be there with them as they died. They stood near Mary, one on either side, staring into the pain wracked faces of their own beloved dying sons. We can know this because we know our own mothers. We know, we experienced their love. We lived within the circle of their arms the arms that cradled us as infants, that hugged us as we went that first day to school, that surrendered us into the arms of a new of love. They loved us because they carried us for three-quarters of a year. We know because, no matter what the deed, no matter the opinions of others, no matter the condemnation heaped upon us, that a mother’s love is forever. We know that, though convinced of our guilt, they never stop loving. There is nothing we can do that will increase her love, because she loves, already, to the height and depth of the universe, to the breadth of human experience, to the whole of the human heart. There is nothing that can decrease her love because she has carried us next to her heart for three-quarters of a year, nurtured and cared for us, kissed away our tears, soothed our wakeful dreams, carried our lives with them as long as they, themselves, live and breathe. These three mothers open a window onto our heavenly Father’s--dare we say "Mother’s--love? For we can do nothing that can make Him love us more; we can do nothing that will make Him love us less. His love, the only love greater than a mother's, is infinite, all-inclusive, leaving no one lost in the wilderness. 4/18/00

On Getting Soaked It was raining—hard. In mere seconds, rain was running from the thatch of my hair, down my back, my face, into my ears. The tiny splats of individual drops, combined, in their billions, to a deafening roar. Puddles gathered, gutters ran, sweeping dirt and accumulated debris ahead of the miniature tsunamis. Visibility shrank. People huddled in doorways. Brave souls raised umbrellas, their appointments more important than their coiffeur. It was not typical Portland weather, but a twice- or thrice-a-season gully-washer As I slogged my way to work, wishing for a raincoat, I pondered a perennial imponderable. "It is raining, should one hurry or amble?" In other words, "Will I get wetter if I run or walk?" If I run, I "run into" more rain drops than if I walk more leisurely. If I walk the slow walk, the rain has more time to target me. Silly, I know, these frivolous worryings about meaningless topics, but, sigh, that's the way He made me. Then a thought struck me—not literally, you understand, but figuratively. So, I'll share this insight with you for your entertainment or edification—you choose. We have these variables: Density of rain measured in drops per square inch or centimeter; The surface area involved, that is the head and shoulders versus the entire front surface of the body from head to toe; The speed of travel; Wind direction and speed-this will be assumed to be zero since that makes the calculation less troublesome. Don't worry, I don't have the math skills to do a real calculation. My calculation would look something like this: Number of drops of rain, times the surface area times the speed of travel. So, one drop of rain per minute, times one foot per minute speed times the surface area of head and shoulders (not the shampoo) would seem to indicate that it would be better to walk at a normal speed to reduce the soaking effect. From here, increasing rain drops per second we can see that, eventually, running as fast as possible would likely be the best bet. But, then, don't forget the surface area problem. Running means collecting more rain over a greater surface area, right? So, perhaps, the best ploy is always to walk leisurely. Not being one to like to be wet, I don't think I'll ever try to prove this one way or another experimentally. It is difficult, sometimes, to know the best way to find and experience Father. Do I run after Him, multiplying connections with other Christians, studying scripture and praying for hours? Or is it better to give of my time and energy to feeding the hungry, visiting the incarcerated, clothing the naked? These are all things of the spirit, unmeasurable, unquantifiable. Perhaps it is even a silly question, an infinite imponderable. But if I wish to be soaked in Him, swim in Him, drown in Him, do I run or stand still to hear His voice? I still wonder. 4/27/24 Song from a home-church song book See attachment for the tune We Know A River 119 We know a river flowing with freedom We know a river full in view He is our river, He is our freedom He is our river straight and true. Come to the river flowing with freedom Come to the river rendezvous Gather together, meet in the river He is the river calling you (raise it) Step in the river, wade in the river Soak in the river through and through Once in the river we are the river We are the river lost in You. Dive in the river, plunge in the river Drown in the river, He in you Drink of the river, float in the river He is the river drawing you.

Romantic Comedy On occasion (read: rarely) I watch a romantic comedy with Ida. She really likes the Christmas romantic comedies on the Hallmark channel—you know, the ones that run from Thanksgiving through the new year celebrations and the ones that run from late June to August (aka: "Christmas in July"). If you're a guy, then you know the feeling: "they're perfect for each other." We know this from the first ten minutes. So, get together and skip over all the rumbling and fumbling, the missed chances, the misunderstandings and go directly to the altar where we already know that is what's going to happen. But no, they have to bumble their way through many a mistake before ending up before the minister/priest and say the "I dos." They hurry back up the aisle to uplifting organ/string quartet/brass quintet/harp music, laughing and smiling as they go. You just know they're going to live happily ever after. How could they not? They've already made all the mistakes two lifetimes can hold. It has to be perfect from honeymoon until death do us part. Right? We never know, since the movie ends even before the beginning of the honeymoon. But what about the discovery that he hates lasagna while it's her favorite meal? Or, what about her excited chatter at the end of the day while he just wants to watch TV? Or, when the first bundle of joy comes along and she's been up all night with the bundle of fussy and he rises all chipper, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? Especially when he asks her if she has made his lunch yet. OK, OK, I'll get to my point. So, in the Bible, the beginning scene is a new love. Adam meets Eve, falls in love at first sight. Then begins a comedy of errors. True to a romantic comedy script, Cain kills Able, Cain runs away from home. The world becomes an evil place. The flood washes it all away. Babylon, Abraham, Egypt, plagues, exodus, judges, priests, kings, prophets, Jesus, the ekklesia, the world in chaos. Then the revealing of the Son as Bridegroom, the church as body, temple, and…wait for it…Bride. Where does it end? With a wedding…and that's the end of the story. The wedding supper of the Lamb and His Bride is the last thing we hear of the Couple, the Lamb and His Bride. We know nothing of the honeymoon, the first days of married life, the long-term relationship. Well, we do know that it is a marriage forever. Fifty, sixty, even seventy years is nothing to this new joining. It is eternal, without end, an ever-growing, maturing, deepening love that cannot end. Will there be bumps or hiccups in this marriage? I think not. She is perfect, now, without spot or blemish, and, of course, He is perfection itself. Nothing can disrupt or sidetrack this eternal love affair, this romance of two who are always in synch, always thinking one of the other's needs, the one, the only, perfectly harmonious union. What ends at the wedding is a mere foreshadowing of all that will eternally be. "Lohengrin's wedding march, meaningful and beautiful though it is, cannot compare to the "Halleluiah chorus" welcoming the Bride into the Family. She is home, she is safe, she is beloved and in love, forever and always; no "till death do us part," for there is no more death, no more sorrow, no more tears—the love story begun and which has no end. Note: Comedy, in the context of stories, means a happy ending as opposed to tragedy which is an unhappy ending. "Romeo and Juliette" are examples of tragedies. "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens and "The Gift of the Magi" are examples of Comedy since these stories end happily. The visual image is that of the frowning and smiling masks which represent the two writing forms.

Convention Through the convention hall's western windows, I watch the sun slide toward jagged peaks. It shades from yellow through orange to its death-color of red. Its bottom edge crinkles as it touches the still-glacier-capped Sierras, then finishes its journey into a night of oblivion. Its light lingers, fading slowly, letting the stars have their night of glory. The speaker drones on. I fidget, unused as I am to sitting for eight straight hours. I miss the harsh operating-room lights on some portion of a human body, my colleagues gathered around, a bit like vultures around a corpse—but we try not to think of that outcome for we are healers, not destroyers. A sprinkle of applause wakes me from my fantasy of making the final stitch in an abdomen. I stand, stretch, see the boredom on my fellow surgeon's faces; their anxiety to be elsewhere, the gambling floor and other Vegas entertainments. The evening is comfortably cool after the heat of the day. I decide to stroll looking for a quiet restaurant for dinner. Street lights snap and fizz, bathing "The Strip" in halogen glow. She steps from a doorway as I pass. Settles into my stride. "Want a date?" she coos. "Sure," I said, holding out my hand. "I love dates." She mocks. "Not that kind of date, silly." I know she knows I'm from the medical convention. I've forgotten to remove my plastic name tag. I let my face show incredulity. "I mean, would you like to date me?" I stop, look her in the eye. She is young and pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way. I am sad, for I do not see the fake smile light her eyes. Instead, they show a dark shadow, a sadness, a deep sadness, perhaps regret, perhaps betrayal, a loss of girlhood dreams. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm married and Jesus is my life. I cannot disappoint either of them. It would be a betrayal." Tears jewel her eyelashes. She dashes them away with the heel of her right hand. . She turns away, sniffles. Her high heels tick tack on hard concrete. She stares over her shoulder at me as she disappears into a casino lobby. Mascara stains her cheeks. Perhaps she was raised in a Christian home. Perhaps she rebelled and was cast out. Perhaps an older family member took advantage of her. I will never know, but I whisper a prayer as she disappears through sliding glass doors. Based on a true story, told during a sermon by a surgeon in 2000. Used by permission. 4/11/24

Hi All, The link below leads to a new movie, “Eternal Theater” by a Christian universalist producer who draws together various experts and his own experience with scripture and church father’s comments on universal reconciliation. Enjoy! Win https://tubitv.com/movies/100018674/eternal-theater-a-storyteller-s-journey-from-hell-to-heaven

Foresight, Hindsight "Our hindsight often explains God's foresight." Don Shell 3/26/24 As the words left his mouth, he stopped speaking, surprised at the wisdom he'd just uttered. So, too, did my own listening thoughts. "Wait a minute! That was profound; worth keeping and meditating on." At fourteen, I tried to peer into the future, wishing to know what was to come; a la Doris Day. No resonant voice rattled my world; no vision splendid dazzled my eyes. All was as it was a moment before and a second later. No matter how often I asked at thirty, fifty-five, seventy, the future was never revealed to me; a dense fog of unknowing uncertainty blocked the days and years before me. Now, from the lofty height of a septuagenarian, I peer back through the mists of time with near 20/20 clarity. This achievement, that embarrassment, those harmful words, that hurtful episode—all are vinegar-cleaned windows, revealing their consequences in sharp mega-pixel clarity. I see just fine in that direction. For Him, it was just as clear—no, far more so—than my examination of the past. He knew, for He was the Agent of my future. He Who knows all, sees all, shapes and forms all—He knew and brought into being all that I now am, all that I have experienced. Now I see that His foresight, His forethought was an arrow directed toward the precise target of His heart. Pierced, He bled love revealing the plan that was His for me from all eternity past. So, now, I'd like to modify Don's profundity just a bit. Not only does our hindsight explain His foresight, our hindsight vindicates His foresight. What appeared dim in future outline, now clearer in hindsight, brings the wisdom of His choices, His bunny trails, His detours and seeming mistakes, into the truth that is His continuous leading; for which, as more hours and days and years pile up behind me, I am increasingly grateful. 3/28/24

Water Lillys Anchored, as they are, in the slime and sludge of a pond bottom, it would seem that a water lily should produce brown flowers. Contrary to expectation, however, their flowers are pristine white, resting on a field of green. They are one of the most beautiful of flowers, worthy of time spent enjoying its simple but elegant lines and the purity of its white. We, lilies-in-the making, anchored in the muck and mire of this world, in the detritus of our own making, do not gather our sustenance from the waste of the world, but from things of air and light and cloud and rain, things above. We are in the world, but not of the world, yet, we are planted so very firmly, in the chaos and evil of the world. We cannot escape it, we cannot evade it. By plan, or rather by the Plan of the Planner, this is where we are. Without the mire and muck, we would not, could not, become the Lillys toward which He is maturing us. Though it is counter-intuitive, it is, somehow, the environment into which He planted us. We dwell, not in angel land but in messy, dirty, stinky human land—by His foreknowledge and grace. For where sin abounds, grace does much more abound. (Romans 5:20 3/28/23

A bit of Whimsey Gold, frankincense and myrrh. Cat's purr; her gentle thrum lulls Him her gift to the newborn, along with the mouse she caught who disturbed Him as He slept on a threadbare piece of discarded cloak on a hard-packed dirt floor. Her silky fur delights His hands; whiskers tickle His face; He laughs, giggles, rolls over and over in delight. She presents her present of a dead mouse which the she of the house grabs by its dead tail and tosses it into the field across the dusty road. Cat mewls in protest, her gift rejected. Yet she purrs, feline gold, frankincense and myrrh For the newborn King. 3/25/24

If Words Were Real Friendly words would be warm bread, fresh from the oven. Sarcastic words would be ice cubes. Hasty words would be BBs. Cruel words would be jagged thorns. Angry words would be bullets, aimed at the heart. Loving words would be soft flower petals aimed at the heart. Appreciative words would be bright yellow daisies. Flirty words would be pink or blue lassos depending on their target. Gracious words would be a cup of wine. Hateful words would be a sharp dagger. Pleading words would be chocolate-covered raisins. Wooing words would be chocolate-covered macadamia nuts. Kind words would be an antiseptic. Forgiving words would be a high-potency antibiotic. Fearful words would be a constricting noose constricting. Disappointing words would be ashes. First words would be bubbles. Last words would be a puff of air. Cross words would be fingernails on a chalkboard. Hopeful words would be a bright light at the mouth of a cave. Sincere words would be royal-blue velvet. Lies would be sandpaper. Politician words would be iron pyrite (aka fool's gold). Preacher's words would be, for the most part, thin air. A four-year-old's words would be gems. A scientist's words would be hard stones, thrown with force. Jesus' words are pearls. 3/5/24

The Dark Side of Glory The Son is the radiance of His Father's glory1 Father, glorify me in your presence with the glory I had with you before the world began.2 There is, in my mind, a certain discrepancy between these two verses. When Jesus walked this earth, the disciples, the Pharisees, the soldiers gathered at the foot of His cross—none of these saw any glory in Him; He was a very ordinary man of His times. Yet, something there was about Him which touched the very core of many. They saw something of Father never before seen in a human. Then He said, "glorify Me…" This He said within hours of His death. "Glorify Me with the glory I had before the creation." The cross is His glorification. In His darkest hour, at that time, He revealed the glory He had with His Father from all eternity. Nothing reveals the Father's glory, His radiance, His perfection more than does Jesus, hanging lifeless between heaven and earth. Here is the brightest light, the most radiant of all Their acts; the outshining of Father through this horrendous act perpetrated on His Son. Thus, Paul can say that those moments were the absolute glory shining forth from the darkness of death. Jesus is, was and ever will be, the glory, the absolute glory of the Father. See Him shedding the bright beams of father's love into the darkness of this world. See Him there, dead, radiating Father's love to a sin-dark world—to you and me and all others. See Him, ignoble in apparent defeat, the Seed ready to burst from the earth in but a few hours to shine forth, to radiate, illuminate the darkness of Adam First's world.3 To Father and Son be the glory forever and ever.4 1 Hebrews 1:3 2 John 17:5 3 John 1:4 4 Romans 11:36

Promises, Promises He does not promise us wealth or health or beauty or popularity or recognition or excitement or happiness or pleasure or freedom from pain or travel or friends or a perfect marriage or children or a home or a house or a car or a jet plane or ease or a hammock in the back yard or even a back yard or a swimming pool with a cabana or a mountain house or beach house or a penthouse suite or a cardboard box or famous Dutch or Italian paintings to hang on the wall or a granite countertop or manservants or maidservants or an undersea submarine or a ride on Space X or gold bards or even lead ones or trips to exotic locations. What He does promise is Himself, the all-sufficient One from whom all spiritual blessings flow. 3/21/24

Beyond the Veil Long before dawn, still only half-awake from the dream, I dressed hurriedly. Carefully, I folded a tiny vial of blood and a fragment of unleavened bread into a square of discarded cloth. My sandals are silent in the soft sand as I wend my way between tents to the center of the camp. Entering the open space, I turn toward the still-dark eastern horizon. Stars, sprinkled across the black velvet sky, sharp and intense, drew my eyes. I approached the linen fence which separates us from Yahweh. On the eastern side, I pushed aside the red, blue and blended curtain, the only entrance. I entered the sanctuary courtyard. Ignoring the grasping hands and shouted warnings of sleepy priests, I pass the bronze altar on my right, the place of judgment, and a basin of water on the left, His cleansing grace. I approached the entrance to the tent of meeting, another mingled red and blue and purple curtain, hiding the sacred place within. I was about to commit the ultimate sacrilege, a death sentence at the hands of the priest or at the blast of Yahweh’s breath. I entered, saved from the aggression of the priests by their surprise. Yahweh’s presence should have done the same. I knew this would not happen, for I have the blood and the Bread. They came to me in a dream of the night, this bread and blood. When I woke, the dream was no dream, but reality; beside my bolster were the things of which I dreamed. Entering, I saw Lamps on a stand, dim pinpoints of light in contrast to the brilliant light peering over the final barrier curtain. Colors no man but priest has ever seen mirrored from golden walls and ceiling. A priest, startled by my entrance, stood at the smoking altar of incense. Gesturing wildly, he motioned me away. Ignoring him, I walked to the right side of the tent and pushed the final curtain aside. Light beyond comprehension struck me with a force greater than any human fist. The priest cried out in terror and hid his eyes from the presence of Yahweh. Entering, I stood where only Aaron and Moses were permitted to stand. Shimmering before me, was Light, the Source of light, light Himself. Here dwells the Shekinah glory, Yahweh Himself. I should have been dead, but I was not, for I held the blood and the loaf. Moving to the box of gold and wood and gold, I unfolded the square of cloth and, taking the vial in careful hands, unstopped it. Hesitating, I savored the moment, then poured the blood onto the mercy seat. Smoke fills the space. A sweet odor, sweeter than that which is offered on the altar of incense assaulted my senses. With immense reverence, I placed the bread, ripped from a whole loaf, onto the plane of gold. It, too, instantly became a haze of sweet-smelling smoke. I fell on my face worshipping. The sounds of angry and horrified priests faded as I was drawn into Yahweh. I ceased to exist, yet lived. Merged into Him was homecoming, being beyond all being, peace outside all human experience. His own hands raised me to my feet. I sang a song of praise, confession and worship comingled, as if fashioned of water, wind, fire and earth. I danced ecstatic with joy, overwhelmed, possessed entirely. Seeing, I saw beyond vision. Hearing I heard that which is forbidden to human ears. Sweet and sour, bitter and salt, combined on my tongue, flavors blended as no earthly cook could. Heavenly scents tantalized my nostrils. My body tingled with sensations so intense, so exquisitely pleasurable I knew that nothing else will ever satisfy. Time was timeless. I sang and dance, enfolded within Him. Eternity is too brief to absorb Him, comprehend Him, appreciate Him. Earthly awareness dawned slowly, reluctantly, a waning moon, feeble and distant. Voices, angry urgent shouts intruded. I sensed they were trying to formulate a plan to remove my body from this most holy place, Certain as they were, that I was dead, struck down by the Presence. I am of the tribe of Dan, the heel-biting serpent tribe, the serpent who will one day wound the Chosen One. What I did is forbidden by the Law of Moses. If Yahweh didn't kill me, they certai

Essay, For June 7 roundtable, “Remember When.” Words, 419 Day of disillusion By Winslow Parker “Jesus is coming!” they proclaimed. “He will be here on October 22. Be ready!” They gathered together on that day, in homes, churches, on hilltops to see Him arrive in the clouds. They were ready. He didn’t arrive. The year was 1844. The event is relegated to a minor footnote in scholarly books about that period of U. S. history. At the time, however, it was big news. Those who did not join the movement were a bit apprehensive on that day. Those who did suffered loss of all their worldly goods, ridicule, shunning. Their fields were unharvested, their social relationships strained, their property given away or sold to support the mission work of the group. They woke to ruin and ridicule on October 23. Most left. A tiny handful remained, however, forming the kernel of what became the denomination into which I was born. A doctrinal sleight of hand, a workaround, was proposed, accepted and taught that cast the failure, the Great Disappointment, into a new denomination. This remote event 101 years before my birth, was the event that colored my life for over sixty years. It grew. Three of my four grandparents joined. My parents then I, by default, became members. We no longer predicted an exact date for the return of Jesus to claim us, but we did know all the signs that pointed to His return. We were grateful that we were a part of “The Remnant,” those who knew the truth. We were privileged, special, completely under the spell of this great illusion. Our lives centered on the events of that long-ago day of disappointment. The denomination grew, established hospitals and schools around the world, held evangelistic meetings, drew away many from their denominations. No world event shaped my life so much as that obscure event among the subsistence farmers of New York, Massachusetts, Maine and Vermont. Kennedy and King’s deaths, Vietnam, Watergate, Gulf War, 9/11 were less eventful in my life than that mid-nineteenth century autumn day. It shaped my relationships with friends and family, my world view, my politics and my relationship to God. Nothing fell outside of that belief system. Then came my own day of disillusionment. It fell apart. I discovered nearly Everything I believed was built of sand. When scales fall from the eyes, when that which keeps one blind is seen for what it is, when illusion yields to reality, joy breaks forth. The sun shines anew, Winter becomes Spring. It is a beautiful thing to be disillusioned. Winslow617@... 7/12/18

Lightning Strikes As megavolt spark etches its questing zigzag on ink-black sky; As negative reaches for positive in its cloudy embrace, So, my spirit reaches out to You, the Infinite Positive. I desire the rest and resolution of that crashing, crackling encounter; That thunderous moment of earth and heaven; That infinite explosion of human and divine; That blessed neutralizing of aching desire within: That always and never satisfied longing for union with You. 1/24/10

The Adventures of Ewert Hamberlin in Her Majesty’s Secret Service Or An Inept Spy By Winslow Parker With gratitude to John Cronin, Mitch Lang, and Dawn Suvino for their contributions, all of their suggestions made this a better story. Ewert Hamberlin was awkward. Actually, he was more than awkward. He was clumsy. That’s not quite sufficient, either. Let’s settle on “inept.” Ewart Hamberlin was ineptitude itself, its very definition. He stumbled and fumbled his way through life. Shortly after birth, he buried his pacifier in his nasal passage. He crawled early, but backward. Later, he loved to play cricket, but often flung the bat into the crowd. An elderly Lord sued him after Ewert’s flying bat cracked his skull. He often tripped over even a quarter-inch crack in the sidewalk, leaving him with bloodied face, hands, and knees. Though he double-knotted his shoelaces, they untied themselves at least twice a day. His sister and her friends tried to remedy his clothing faux pas. All their efforts immediately degenerated into chaos when implemented. His buttons unbuttoned without assistance. His fly unzipped at the most inopportune moments. He scuffed his shoes on every curb and decorative flower box. Looking into the mirror, he could see nothing about which they complained. Everyone else saw a near-bum. He asked one of his sister’s friends on a date. Her smile was not a gentle but condescending rejection. Her laugh was not a delicate feminine ––titter. It wasn’t a giggle. It wasn’t a Santa Ho-ho laugh. It was a full-blown, side- splitting, bent-over-double, snot-dripping, tears-in-the-eyes guffaw. He never asked again. All this is to say that he entered Her Majesty’s Secret Service with nine out of ten strikes against him. “At least,” he thought when he applied, “I can die nobly in the service of her majesty.” Much to his surprise, he was accepted. He met R, head of service. M, the previous Head, was many years retired. The most famous authorized-to-kill spy, the suave, debonair, handsome, clever J was long gone, victim of his Alzheimer’s. He neglected to check his Walther PPK’s safety and pulled the trigger at the wrong time and target. Miss Dollarbill replaced Miss Moneypenney, a dour Scottish woman liked by few. Ewert liked her because, though she never smiled, she also never commented on his ineptitude or slovenliness. Ewert was grateful. He was an enthusiastic student. “Your first task,” R directed, “is to retrieve a communication from a double agent.” He gave Ewert directions. Though it was probably just a test,, he took it seriously. The drop was a hole in a large tree trunk, just above head height. Ewert reached into the bowels of the tree just as his legs gave way. Caught between the front lip of the hole and its ceiling, both His ulna and radius snapped. In spite of the pain, he clutched the note between rapidly-bluing fingers. He passed the test. This accident set the pattern for the rest of his time in the service. One day, chasing a suspected Dutch spy, he noticed his shoelaces were untied. He stopped abruptly, bending over to remedy the situation. A would-be attacker, arm raised to stab him in the back, tripped over Ewert. Limbs flailing, the attacker landed on his own head, rendering him unconscious. He was the real spy, the pursued Dutchman a decoy. Jealous colleagues spread the rumor that Ewert’s ineptitude was all an act, designed to draw attention to himself and promote his own promotion. They never proved it. Based on this incident, his service number was decremented from 259 to 130, a long jump toward the coveted double-zero designation. On another chase, He caught his coat sleeve in the iron railing of a school yard. The abrupt stop swung him sideways into the fence, smashing his nose into a picket. Though pain roared through his skull, it was a lucky break for him. The bullet, aimed at him, lodged in the back of the one he was pursuing, a notorious Tongan spy named Oohanu. When Oohanu recovered from the bullet wound, he spilled the beans, outlining a plot to subvert the British monetary system. Ewert’s

Three Mothers They stood a scant few feet from each other, these three women. They did not notice each other. Mary looked up at her Son, seeing the wounds, inflicted by cruel men, etched in his flesh. The other women, too, gazed up at their sons. Their names were not recorded. Neither left us their history. They are unknown. But, we can know this, that, if they knew of his execution, if they could journey to Jerusalem in time, they would be there, standing near Mary, looking into the faces of their own beloved, dying sons. We know this because we know our own mothers. We know their love and dedication and love for those they carry for three-quarters of a year. We know because, no matter what the deed, no matter the opinions of others, no matter the condemnation heaped upon them, that a mother’s love is forever. We know that, even convinced of the guilt of their child, they never stop loving. There is nothing the child can do that will cause her to love more, because she loves, already, to the height and depth of the universe, to the breadth of human experience, to the whole of the human heart. There is nothing that can make her love less because she has carried them next to her heart, nurtured and cared for them, kissed away their tears, soothed their wakeful dreams, carried their lives with them as long as they, themselves, live and breathe. These three mothers in some small measure, open a window on our heavenly Father’s (dare we say, Mother’s?) love for us. For we can do nothing that will make Him love us more and we can do nothing that will make Him love us less.1 4/18/00