Monday, January 16, 2023

A Renewed Perspective - Butterfly or Beetle?

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A Renewed Perspective

Butterfly or Beetle?

An Unexpected 'Answer' to Prayer

It was Saturday morning. I had eaten, and then knelt to pray in the front room, head resting on an ottoman, trying to be still enough to not wake April or Daniel. I could feel the warmth of the sun already heating the walls at my back. I had awakened that morning to a warm, brightly lit California dawn that seemed to go from sunrise to full bronze furnace in just moments. The heat stirred up a slight breeze of air already warm, quickly sucking the moisture out of the night’s dewy grass of the front lawn even though it was in the shade. I glanced over my shoulder at the lawn through the front room window.

Although each blade was drooping slightly, it would last. I would water it heavily after sunset. I knew the tiny garden of corn, squash and tomatoes in the back would soon be parched by the hot sun. It was barely a month old, and the tiny leaflets of freshly sprouted seeds would need a good soaking to make it through the day. I sighed, gave thanks to God, and rose from the ottoman to go to the kitchen and get a drink of water. As I gulped down the cool liquid, I eyed the tiny blades of corn that were a little over ankle-high. They were already drooping.

With another sigh, I placed the remaining points to be prayed over firmly in my mind, and stepped outside to soak the garden. Once the hose was through erupting burps of air and water, a steady gush of cool water flowed strongly out along the trenches that I had created alongside each row of the garden. The seeds would be soaked from all sides. While the water gushed and flowed, I watched the butterflies and beetles escaping the man-created flood - butterflies easily fluttering away, while beetles occasionally had to swim for it. “Perspective”, I thought to myself. “That’s what we all need to stay out of the sudden floods that trouble life. "Perspective”. I felt more like the beetles than the butterflies. It seemed I often ran from an onrushing torrent of problems, only to trip and fall headlong into another torrent. Then I must swim, like the beetles, and hope to stumble up on a dry shore soon.

I had run from the flood of problems at Western Washington University to start my own business in Santa Rosa. Many good things had happened while I was racing across the long dry stretch between troubles. We had a child now, Daniel, just a few months old. April was more beautiful than ever, and seemed the perfect mother. Our home was calm, quiet, large and comfortable - cool in the summer, thanks to the large walnut tree that shaded it. Snugly built, it was warmed in the winter by a gas furnace that poured hot air through metal grates into the center of the house - I supposed that was why it was called “central heating”.

I had thought I would find a steady job quickly, but weeks had turned to months, and months into almost a year. Somehow we always got by financially. I was a programmer at a time when programmers were rare, and heavily in demand. I had been trained by IBM, and had an aptitude for it. I did well on every contract, so the contracts trickled in, one at a time, and we hung on. I wasn’t overly concerned, but was beginning to wonder if this string of good fortune could keep up forever. All it would take is for one contract to end without another to take its place, and in just a month or two we could be in serious trouble.

The garden was soaked. With a few rusty squeaks of protest, I twisted the spigot and turned off the water. The water level trapped in the trenches surrounding my rows of seeds was going down, but so slowly that it was hardly noticeable. The ground was soaked enough to last until evening. I stood up, looked at the bright blue sky with joy and appreciation, and returned to the house, poured a cup of coffee and found my way to the ottoman. Soon my forehead was firmly applied to it, a towel thrown over my head to prevent the shadows of the shrubs and the trees, blown about by the gentle breeze outside from distracting me. When I prayed I liked to focus on praying, and often prayed for an hour or more. My prayers were more like a long, slow mental journey through the Bible, searching for scriptures from memory that would serve as the basis for hope that my needs as presented before the Lord, might be heard and answered with some direction or help. Usually, I prayed for direction. I prayed for direction about large decisions and little ones. I tried to use all the information that I could glean from myself, others, books - even TV sometimes - to help me make a rational decision. But then, I would present my arguments and case before the Lord, asking for his additional enlightenment. I had learned long ago that I could often take all the facts and arrange them improperly, to make a very nice case for the wrong conclusion. Only God never made such a mistake, I reasoned.

He had the perspective of the Butterfly, lifting higher and higher above the flood of little troubles down on earth. He didn’t have to try to piece together the big picture from small bits and pieces of information, like the poor beetles, surrounded unknowingly by my trenches. All a beetle had to do to stay dry would be to climb up anything, even one of the little garden leaflets and try to get to higher ground. Running off in any direction would end up the same for the beetles unknowingly trapped on a suddenly created island. Any direction they chose to run in, would take them straight into the gushing flood created by my garden hose that ran around all of the little garden. How often I felt like one of those beetles - seeing a little danger in the economy in one direction, running in the other, and eventually finding that there was trouble all around!

Santa Rosa was my little island of unemployment, but every direction that I ran in, no matter where I sent my resume, no matter how many interviews I had - I always failed to cross the flood of other applicants and make it to the shore of a new job. Still, my little island had clients, and I had my own little company, so we hadn’t starved. I was praying for the perspective of the butterfly - I wanted to flutter high up over my current situation, and get the required perspective to apply for the right job at the right time.

Then there was church. We were new members of CLC, Christian Life Center, a church with about 3500 families. That’s a large church, and it was dynamic. Speakers came from all over the world every week, and sometimes more than one a week. Bible studies were every morning. I was a new Christian, and although it was easy to know that it was a top priority to provide for my family, it was not so easy to know what to do with the small amounts of money that we earned through my freelance programming efforts.

“Tithe a lot, get a lot” was a favorite slogan of the Assembly of God leadership. “Tithe a little, get a little” was another. The tithe was supposed to be 10%. But was that supposed to be 10% of the gross, or 10% of the net - before taxes or after taxes? Obviously, “Tithe a lot, get a lot” meant to give 10% of the gross. It was exciting and troubling at the same time to give 10% of the gross, which we had been doing for almost a year. Exciting, because we were giving all that we could. Troubling, because we were hoping that we weren’t doing it out of greed (to get a lot) but out of faithfulness, to be obedient to God. It was also troubling, because by now I was concerned that God’s definition of a ‘lot’ for us, was to continue living from contract to contract, with no health insurance, no savings, barely enough food, no new clothes (except hand-me-downs from those with better tithing techniques) and no security from one day to the next.

I was thankful that we hadn’t sunk - there had, after all, always been that next contract, just in time that kept us afloat. Our ’62 Lincoln, the 6 miles to the gallon wonder, would go to church on back with an empty tank, sometimes for weeks. I was afraid to try taking it anywhere else, though. Sometimes, when my faith would falter and I would find myself saying, “I just can’t chance taking that car out to church this weekend - it’s been bone dry for weeks now. It can’t possibly make it” - something would happen - like the time a complete stranger walking toward me on the sidewalk stopped, said “Wait - here, take this. I just feel the Lord wanted me to give you this for gas!” There it was. Five dollars. For gas. 15 gallons, almost enough to fill the tank. 90 miles, about two weeks worth of trips to church, and a few to the store. We would quickly go shopping first, while the gauge showed some gas in the tank. We would only drive to church with the gauge on empty. Don’t ask me why we did it. We just did. Somehow, it seemed like it was at least partly God’s business to keep our car going if we were driving it to church and back. A ‘shared burden’. Wouldn’t God partner with you on a goal like that? Going to the grocery store for goodies and sweets seemed to be an entirely different category. You couldn’t expect God to keep the engine running on nothing but faith (and maybe some burly angels, cranking away) for a trip to the grocery store, or a picnic!!

So, when my forehead hit the ottoman, there was always a lot to talk to God about. It varied from questions about the gas tank to how to raise our new baby, Daniel. My prayers always touched on long-term concepts, like what is the right way to view tithing? I always cringed inwardly from the “Give a lot, get a lot” implication - like investing in stocks, only you had a sure thing. That, I knew wasn’t right. But in faith, to give God what was His, where did you draw the line? It was all His, anyway!! So where did ‘common’ sense come in? How could you divide this little pile of beans for food, and this little pile of beans for God and others, and do it just right? (As you may have guessed, gas was often overlooked and forgotten as a topic of prayer - hence the continual surprise that the gas tank was near empty, or empty, or way past empty.)

Today I really wanted the perspective of the butterfly. I needed to see things from a distance. I was tired of reacting. I’d hear of a local business that might need a program written, and run off and give it my all to get the business. I’d fail, then get home to a phone call that a completely different client had heard that I did programming, and could I come in the next day to talk about it? It seemed I was always trying, always failing to do the right things, and that God was always having to step in to bail me out. I just wanted the self-sufficiency of that butterfly so badly!! To be able to go directly to the flower of my choice without swimming across all those gushing streams that upended me and put me down on the wrong shore was a desire that burned in me hotter and hotter!

So I would pray to be a butterfly and not a beetle. Metaphorically speaking, of course. If the change was to be permanent and physical, I would still take the fragile life of a butterfly that knows where it’s going over the life of a sturdy beetle that can’t see more than two centimeters in front of its antennae. I just wanted some wisdom. I wanted wisdom about getting money, giving money - how to organize my time, and how to ‘spend’ it. A client had demanded that I work on Sunday, and I had refused. Unfortunately, he was the head of the local Data Processing Manager’s Association, and I had been blackballed. Despite that setback, I still stumbled from contract to contract, just as before - but suspected that this might be part of why I could not be hired - so perhaps there was an escape clause in New Testament times for freelance programmers in a modern world - a way to work on Sunday without angering God.

Because I wouldn't work on Sunday, I had angered the DP Manager of the largest winery in the entire Sonoma County area - simultaneously closing the door on a large number of winery accounts, plus a random smattering of other accounts that I couldn’t even dream of. A butterfly would know whether or not it might have been OK to work on that particular Sunday, with all of its pressures on the DP Manager and myself. A butterfly would probably have flown over, landed on his shoulder, and asked him to talk about it - to see his side of things. As a beetle, I had simply dug into the ground and pulled a clod in over my head. I left him a note saying “I don’t work on Sundays” in response to his lengthy set of demands to be running by Monday. A phone call to his office the next day might have been nice. Instead, I stayed hidden under my clod, safe and sound, never dreaming that my shortsightedness would cause such a huge problem. A few weeks later I found out I had been blackballed. Fortunately, a newly promoted DB Manager didn’t know about this, and gave me my next contract. But it was all becoming confusing. While praying, I pounded my head on the ottoman a few times for emphasis, hoping God would feel the concussive blows of my concern, and respond more quickly.

“Go find Merle Bartel, and tell him that I want him to be the next head of FGBMFI (God actually said the “Full Gospel Business Men’s Fellowship”, which I will hereafter refer to as FGBMFI, because I used to work for IBM, and because it’s just too long a name to be repeated.) It was a very clear thought, kind of like tuning into a radio station with a clear signal - of course, it was a thought, so it was silent, even to me. But it was clear, it was emphatic, it was cheerful, it made me feel peaceful. I had come to recognize these as indicators that it really was God (or one of his angels) speaking when I felt so upbeat about while receiving a message.

Nonetheless, I had two problems with this direct request from God. One was, that I had been asking for perspective about my business, my finances and my gas tank. The other was that I didn’t even know who Merle Bartel was for sure. I knew I had heard his name at church, so that was another clue that the message was from God. The other was this little ‘tag’ that was invisible, but nonetheless was attached to the message and clearly said “URGENT” in big red, invisible letters. So, great! I had an urgent message to go find a guy that I didn’t know and tell him that he was supposed to head up an organization that he might not know!! I tried to remember if I had any gas. Then I decided it didn’t matter. I was driving for God.

Sure enough, the gas tank was empty. I tried turning the key on two or three times, hoping for a slight rise or fall of the needle. It just stayed flat, silently declaring “I’m resting on the bottom of a dry gas tank. Go away!”.

I turned the key all the way over, and the engine started up instantly. I had yelled to April as I rose from the Ottoman that I was going to church for awhile on urgent business, and that I would be back soon. “OK!” came back to me cheerily from the kitchen, where many things were being done that were mysterious mother things, a part of the ritual of feeding and caring for a tiny baby. At the front door, I had turned around, ran to the kitchen for a quick kiss and a hug. That filled up my tank, so I ran back to the car to face the inevitable, and hurry off to church.

CLC was still in its old building at this time, though the acreage for the new building had been purchased. The little church was far too small for 3500 families, even if they doled themselves out evenly over the many services on Sunday and throughout the week. I knew the office staff was there every day from about 8 to 6, so was confident that I would find somebody that could help me locate Merle Bartel - maybe I could get a phone number, or something. Anything but an address. I cast a skeptical look at my car, hoping I wouldn’t have to ask it to drive to Sebastopol or Petaluma to deliver this message.

As is often the case with beetles, I was wrong about what I was going to find. Although the doors to the church, and the office building were all open, a note neatly typed an taped to the office door said, “The Office is closed from 11AM to 2PM today in order to tour the new Church grounds. Please leave a note, and we will call you back. A pad and pencil lay on a desk next to the door, and a few notes had already been left. My one-liner said, “Leo Dauenhauer | 11:30AM | Looking for Merle Bartel. Please call 707-802-1964 | Urgent. |” It looked much like the others, all obediently filling in the appropriate data under each column in the space provided. I sighed a huge sigh of relief, that was taken care of, and started walking off to the car. Before my foot hit the ground, the thought “Tell Merle, now!” came to me. Apparently, I wasn’t going to get away with waiting for a return phone call. I glanced at my watch. It was almost 11:45. I stopped, just as a shadow fell on my watch. The shadow was caused by a gardener, or a volunteer hoeing some weeds. “Can I help you?” he said pleasantly. Where had this guy come from? The place was deserted when I drove up!

“Do you know where Merle Bartel is?” I asked. “He’s in a prayer meeting, in one of those classrooms over there” he said, pointing at a long, low building that doubled as Sunday school and Pre-school through Kindergarten for the church. “Do you know which one?” I asked. “That one with the window open, I expect” the man said, leaning over, and beginning to hoe. I hadn’t noticed any of the windows being open before. Now I heard the muted sound of men’s voices coming from that direction. I looked back to the Gardener to say “Thanks” but he had already moved around the building and was out of sight.

The sense of urgency grew in me until I broke into a half-trot, and galloped half-heartedly up to the outside door of the school. It would probably be locked, I thought. I’d probably have to shout at them through the window to let me in. The door swung open easily as I pushed on it, and I half-trotted down the hall to the door that seemed to be in the right place for the room with the window open. There I hesitated. Even though it was urgent, it didn’t seem polite to burst in. I knocked. Nothing happened, but again I heard the muted sound of men’s voices. I must have the wrong door. Impulsively, I pushed it open.

It appeared to be a library. Three men were seated around a large library table near the window, heads down, praying. They all stopped and looked up as I threw open the door. Nobody said anything. They just looked at me

“Does anybody here know Merle Bartel?” I asked. They all laughed, and the shortest man, slightly balding, at the end of the table asked “Why do you want to know?” It was more of an amused question than a challenge. A larger man, facing me from the other side of the table pointed at the man that had spoken, and said “That’s him”. The man in the center just sat, looking at me, with his mouth open.

“I looked at Merle and said, “You’re supposed to be the head of FGBMFI” (I used the long name for FGBMFI). “Why do you think that?” he asked slowly, eyebrows arched. I shrugged. They were all Christians, at least they’d been praying. I had to make this sense of urgency go away. I had to give the complete message.

“I was praying this morning, and just a few minutes ago God said that I should find Merle Bartel, and tell him that he should be the new head of FGBMFI. It was urgent. I got in my car, which happened to be empty of gas, drove here anyway, found the office locked up but a gardener told me where you were, and so here I am. If you’re Merle Bartel, you’re supposed to be the head of FGBMFI. That’s all I have to say.” I hadn’t even stepped inside the room. The short man, the one that was supposed to be Merle was now silent, and looking at the others. I needed to make sure. “You ARE Merle Bartel, right?” I asked, looking at him. He nodded. “And you know about the Full Gospel Business Men’s Fellowship, right?” I asked this because although I had heard about it, I knew nothing about it, and thought maybe he was in the same boat. He nodded again, then he smiled.

“Well, I guess that settles it” he said to the other two. “Yes” the man in the middle said, after first closing his mouth. “I told you, Merle!” the large man on the right said. “OK, I’ll do it.” Merle said. “I don’t know where I’ll find the time. I still think Tom here is much more qualified than I am” he added, a bit weakly, looking at Tom, the man in the middle. I just stood there, considering this interesting exchange.

The large man laughed again and said, “My name’s Wayne Bass, this is Tom Christiansen (pointing to the man in the middle) and you have already met Merle Bartel.” I was starting to get a little red in the face. It was time for me to go. They were all smiling and laughing again. I didn’t mind being the butt of a joke. I had delivered my message. The sense of urgency was gone. “I’ll be going then, as long as this is Merle and he knows he’s supposed to be the head of FGBMFI” I said gruffly, turning to leave.

“Wait! Don’t leave! You don’t understand!!” Wayne said. He must have noticed my red face. “We’re laughing because we have been praying for over an hour for God to give us a sign about who should be the new head of FGBMFI. Tom here has been the leader, but feels it is his time to resign. Neither Merle nor I agreed with him, and we were both praying and trying to talk him into staying on until we could get some kind of a sign from God about what we should do. Now here you come in, and tell us God wants Merle to be the new head of FGBMFI, but you don’t know Merle, and you don’t know anything about FGBMFI. We were laughing with relief, because, if you think about it, that’s really a pretty good sign. Don’t you think?”

Wayne had a nice smile, and I liked him right away. I was a little relieved that they weren’t laughing at me, but I had become used to that in High School, so it wasn’t a big deal either way. I stood there with my hand on the door, about to say “Thanks” and leave.

“Would you like to stay and pray with us? We usually pray from 11:30 to 12:30, and it’s only about noon. Would you like part of my sandwich?” Wayne held up a delicious looking Corned Beef on Whole Wheat sandwich, and he offered me half of it. It looked like it might have Gray Poupon mustard, which I loved. “We usually have a snack about now. Want some coffee?” It was too tempting. I quickly stepped up to the empty chair by Wayne and sat down. My stomach growled with anticipation. I could smell the Gray Poupon. Everybody pulled a paper bag out from under the table. Merle said, “Let’s go ahead and eat early. We can pray later. While we’re eating, tell us a little about yourself. Where do you live? What do you do?”

We ate and talked for a few minutes, then prayed till 12:30. After that, nobody was in a hurry to leave, so we lingered for a few minutes more and just talked. By the time I left, I had been invited to be a part of their regular prayer group on Tuesday and Saturday mornings, and had agreed. It felt good to be part of a group. I wasn’t too surprised that, despite my flatlined gas gauge, the old Lincoln made it home without a hiccup. I had been on a mission for God.

By the time I got home, I realized that somehow with all the praying and talking, the fellowship and the hugs as we parted, that somewhere inside I felt a little more like a butterfly than a beetle. As Wayne, Tom, Merle and I had prayed together, I had started to see the world from a wider, higher perspective. They had mentioned some opportunities I had never thought of before. When they spoke of the Love of God, it didn’t seem conditional on tithing. I had a lot to think about as I drove home that day. After parking in the driveway, I stared at the gas gauge carefully while turning off the car. Sure enough, it was still on Empty, right where it had started, with no movement either way.

When I went in the house, April was rocking Daniel, and looked worried. “Where were you?” she asked. “I thought you said you’d be right back!” I cringed inside. I had forgotten to call her when I decided to stay and pray. I was definitely still part beetle!! I apologized and told her about my strange experience. April just smiled in a way that made me feel good all over. By the time I was done, Daniel was in his crib, and April was in my arms. Now I felt a little like a butterfly again. I was soaring high, all the problems far below me. I hoped I could get better at hanging on to the butterfly perspective and remembering priorities. Time would tell.

Our Daughter Ruth, Merle Bartel and our son Daniel-about 1978-9.

Sunday, January 15, 2023

Manna From Heaven

Soon after becoming a Christian in my mid-thirties we moved back to my home town, Santa Rosa, to mend/renew relationships with family and old friends. I had been looking for steady work for almost a year and we had become regular members in a very large church (2,000-3,000 families) and we were very active in it, almost never missing a service or an activity. We joined the Young Marrieds group in the church and met weekly with a small group of other young families for prayer and worship.

CLC Main Sanctuary in Santa Rosa, CA about 1975

About a year after returning to Santa Rosa, we had our first child, Daniel, our very active little boy. Although Software Development contracts were very rare, the network of new friends that we made was considerable, and since I was willing to do yard work, carpentry and construction, I was often asked if I would like to help nail down some shingles, wash some windows or weed some gardens. This helped keep me in a variety of little jobs from a day or two to a week or two, usually banging nails. My mom had a rental that had been badly mistreated by the previous renters. Almost every window was broken, rugs and linoleum torn and the wooden floor scratched and stained.

We needed a place to live, so I provided the labor while my mom's Sears credit card provided the parts and materials. This way, we got 'free' rent in a large, old but nice home as I fixed it up. One problem that the credit card wasn't big enough to handle was the old garage, especially the roof, which was completely gone in many places. Thankfully, the house itself was completely finished before mom's credit card was maxed out and like new inside. Plus, we had a new baby, Daniel, to share it with! We were very contented - but the garage bothered me. I wanted to finish what we had started.

April and Daniel in front of 419 Bosley Street, Santa Rosa, about 1975

Now that I had finished the house - sanded and refinished the hardwood floors, painted from top to bottom, and replaced all the broken windows - and maxed out the credit card for materials, we were stuck. I had barely gotten word back from mom that her credit card couldn't handle the shingles for a roof, even one as small as the little garage when Wayne Bass, a close friend that I prayed with 2 or 3 times a week, called from the church. Would I help with tearing down an old barn to help make way for the new church? I was in between the tattered pieces of little jobs here and there banging nails and hoeing weeds, so I said "sure!".

I was less sure the next day at 7AM when he picked me up, but thought the day would go fast. Unfortunately, it was a scorcher. April made a small sandwich for me, and apologized for not making more as I hugged and kissed her and jumped in the truck. I'd be fine - it was just one day. Thankfully, the foreman of the 'crew' kept jugs of water coming, so we all had plenty to drink as we tore apart the old, musty barn. It was huge, and the sunshine pouring in through the big holes in the roof reminded me all day long of our little garage. It was like they were related. I kept trying to think of ways that I could fix mom's garage roof every time I was grateful for the sunlight pouring in so that I could see what I was doing.

I was so hungry at lunchtime that the sandwich only took two bites, and I realized once again that April knew me better than I knew myself. I wished I had two sandwiches - or three! I filled up with water and went back to work. Finally, the sun was setting and people starting driving off in twos and threes, just as they had arrived. I had arrived in a pickup with Wayne, sitting in the back on a pile of tools, and kept waiting for a signal to jump into it. No signal. Finally, my nerve broke and I asked Wayne when, if ever, we were going to leave. "Oh, that's a surprise!" he said, and just smiled at me. Wayne was very good looking, and he had great teeth and a perfect smile. I was just charmed enough that I dropped it and went back to work. Finally, Wayne said, "Let's go - we've got one more job to do, but it won't take long - then we can go home". My stomach growled at him, so I didn't say anything more. That was enough.

We hopped in the bed of the pickup and the driver roared off around behind the back of the big barn. Stacks of big sheets of corrugated tin were lined up behind the back of the building. "That was the roof of the old barn - we took it off last week" Wayne said. "We need go get rid of it somehow - could you use it for any repairs at your mom's house?" I was overjoyed, jumped out of the pickup, pulled on my gloves and started sorting through the sheets of tin. Every 4th or 5th one was perfect, no rust - just a few previous nail holes that could be easily puttied over, if need be. Wayne helped me and before long we had more than enough sheets of tin stacked up in the pickup to cover the whole roof, the back doors, and one side that was particularly shot. That old garage was going to be watertight!!!

The driver was patient, and said nothing till we had finished loading the pickup. Off we drove to our house. I held on to that big, high stack of tin all the way home to steady it at every turn. Wayne helped me stack it all inside the garage when we got there, and drove off. By the time I went in the house, I was both exhausted, famished, and very happy. April was busy with the kids (Daniel 3 and Ruthie 1) in their little bedroom, so I rummaged around in the kitchen for something to eat. This was usually April's domain, so I didn't know where to look, but I didn't want to bother her.

I heard giggles and laughter and other signs of one of those good moments, too precious to interrupt over just food. I started with the refrigerator, but it just had water and some baby food. Then I opened cupboard after cupboard in the kitchen. To my amazement, not one of the food cupboards had anything in it, except for one near empty bag of oatmeal. It looked like there was just enough for one bowl, maybe two. I rechecked everything, had a drink of water, and sat down in the setting sun by the window, where I could look out over our garden and see the garage roof, filled with holes that I would plug tomorrow. I could just barely see part of the stacks of corrugated tin that we had unloaded through the side of the garage facing the house. It was comforting to know that I would have all the garage problems fixed soon, and all the work on Mom's house would be done. But what about dinner? Did I want to eat the oatmeal? I stared at the garage, feeling more and more contented.

Finally, I closed my eyes and prayed a silent prayer. "Lord, please don't take this wrong. I'm really grateful for the oatmeal, but if you don't mind, I'd rather just not eat anything for dinner tonight." I opened my eyes and the doorbell went "Grrrringgg! Grrringg!" It must be the neighbors across the street. The doorbell was an old one that you had to rotate clockwise to make it ring. It was all mechanical. Most people on the first try just made funny clicks, but with practice, you could make it sound really great. People loved that old doorbell, once they got the hang of it. I ran to the door, since the ring had kind of an urgent sound, and threw it open.

A nice looking fellow in a brown business suit stood there, holding two large brown shopping bags, one in each arm. He had sandy brown hair, brown eyes, a new brown suit that looked new and well tailored - and all in all, looked like a nice fellow. In fact, he was so nice looking, clean and well dressed that he could almost be a movie star or celebrity - but he seemed in a hurry. "Can I come in" he asked, looking a little rushed. "Sure", I said, and threw the door open wide so he could come in with both bags in his arms. He stepped right by me, right up to the couch, and put both bags down on it. Then he stepped to one side and looked down into one of the bags. I stepped up to the couch and looked down into the bags too. One had a huge chunk of meat in it, and the other had one big can of grapefruit juice, the size can that holds about two quarts.

I said "What?" and looked up to ask the man what was going on, but he wasn't there. I looked around the room, then jumped outside the door (in my youth I did everything instantly, without thinking). I looked up and down the street. No cars moving, no screech of tires, nothing. I looked at the grass, that was long and still a little wet. No shoe marks, no trail going through the lawn one way or the other. The gravel driveway was so scrunchy that he couldn't be running down it. Where had he gone? I ran up and down the block, trying to find him crouched behind a shrub or car or something, then gave up and went back to the house.

April roasted the meat, and it was delicious. I drank almost the whole can of grapefruit juice in one long series of gulps. I was so happy that if I was a puppy, I would have run around in circles chasing my tail. I was full, in every possible meaning of the word. April was full, too, there was plenty for both of us. "Who was it?" she finally asked. "Who brought the food to us, and why?" "I don't know" I said. "I never saw him before. Besides, I didn't even know we were out of food until tonight. How did we get so low without me knowing it?" "Well, you were always working, and I kept figuring you'd either get paid or something would come up at the right time if we needed it. I guess I was right!" she added with a smile.

In those days, I went to prayer meetings almost every day. For about a month or two, at every prayer meeting, I would describe the nice looking man in the brown suit with brown hair and brown eyes. About 5'10" or so, regular build, looked athletic. Did anybody know such a person that might have brought me the food that day? I wanted to thank him for it, that was all.

Wayne was at every meeting with me, so I guess he got tired of it. After one prayer meeting, when I started describing the nice fellow that had brought the food to us that night, he just started laughing, from deep down in his gut, really loud. He kept laughing and laughing. I started getting a little embarrassed, because I didn't know what he was laughing about. He was usually really reserved. Finally I made him stop enough to look at me, and I said "Wayne, what's wrong with you? Why are you laughing so hard? What's so funny?"

He just smiled at me with a kindly, grandfatherly smile (but he was only about 2 or 3 years older than me). "Leo", he said, "Everybody knows that it was an angel that brought you that food. We just wanted you to figure it out for yourself. Why can't you see it? You told us yourself that he 'just wasn't there' when you looked up - but there were no sounds of running, no footsteps, no car squealing away! No footsteps on the grass - nothing!! You've told the story so many times that we all figured out what happened. We've all tried to find him, and looked for him, but none of us could find him for you. Anybody that might come close to matching that description was miles away doing something else, believe me. I've looked, and had Merle and others looking, and we are all convinced your visitor was an angel - so face it and stop looking for him. If he want's to be thanked, I suppose he'll show up again. Until then, I think you should try thanking the Lord!!

Wayne went back to laughing, but a little more calmly, while I thought about it. In the end, I figured it was at least as plausible as jumping into a hot air balloon tied to the top of the porch, or any of the other wild things I'd tried to figure out (hot air balloons went over our house sometimes. I knew the 'whoosh' they made when they took off, and I hadn't heard anything at all, so that was out, too). I decided to just accept it. Imagine that. God sent me an angel to deliver meat and grapefruit juice for dinner - the two things that I had been craving deep down in my bones, but that I hadn't even mentioned to April. There was just exactly enough for April and I that night. We finished it all, and we were both perfectly satisfied.

For me, the real point of this story isn't that God sent an angel to bring food to me - and it's certainly not that I'm so dense that everybody was laughing at how slow I was to get it. The real point is that if God did that for me, as totally undeserving as I am, then I know that He does it for others, as regular as clockwork. The point is, you see, that the angels come, but (just like me) we don't see them. As the scripture says, we sometimes "entertain angels, unaware". We don't see them as angels - we see them as common, ordinary, nice people. We might even see them as somebody likable that we want to find, so we can thank them for helping us in a time of need. I was just lucky I had some help getting my eyes opened!!

At that point, it occurred to me - How many angels have I been around, helped by, or entertained - but, not noticed, and "not seen"?

Thursday, January 12, 2023

Light Water

The End or the Beginning?

Leo Dauenhauer

DEDICATION

This recounting of a dream is dedicated to all whose lives are stressful or changing for reasons out of their control. It illustrates the care and guidance of a loving God for His people in time of crises. Because it was so unusual, I wrote it as soon as I woke up, and this is all written exactly as I remembered it. I hope that the Peace I had in the dream will be yours as you climb your mountains of difficulty.

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Chapter 1 - Gravity is changing

Chapter 2 - A Ship is Sinking

Chapter 3 - There's A Hole in the Sky

Chapter 4 - We Take Off Our Packs

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to my wife, April, for encouraging me to keep writing. Her insistence that my stories have value has persuaded me to publish them, first in a blog, then in a book.

Chapter 1 - Gravity is changing

Gravity is changing, and the oceans are becoming lighter. Scientists are divided - is it really that gravity is changing, or that the strong force holding nuclei together is weakening - causing water and everything else to expand. It is hard to tell, since in that case all gauges and measuring rods would expand.

The question is quickly resolved, since objects that used to be used as the government's standards for an ounce or a pound are slowly showing less weight in the scales. The moon is receding, and the tides are becoming less, but the water is relentlessly expanding like rising bread dough.

I live in a small coastal town on a small island. There is only one mountain, an extinct volcano. It is a little over 5,000 feet high. The ocean is expected to rise higher than that, in less than a month.

The world is occupied with mass migrations of people in densely populated areas like LA. We run into our huts after hearing the news on our radios, and viewing the rising tides that have already overtaken part of our town. We hastily pack bags, and begin calmly walking up the hill.

Somehow our friends are drifting toward us as we make our way up the steep and pathless brush covered side of the volcano. One by one, they silently join us, smiling, but saying nothing as we continue our hike. We don't rush, but we don't stop, except for meals. We always put up a tent for our meals, which become a time of quietly enjoying each other's company.

Although we hadn't planned anything, one of us brought a canvas tent in his pack - another brought stakes and ropes, another mallet to pound the stakes into the ground. One brought a huge tarp that is folded several times to make the floor, with little extra mounds for resting on. The inside of the tent is always different, but just the right size and shape to be comfortable for everyone. I am a little surprised that no one talks, but it doesn't seem necessary. We understand the intentions of each person as soon as they come into being, and we all cooperate. Perhaps we have come together because we are all in agreement and harmony with each other. Words seem an impediment to understanding and communication, not an asset.

Each of us has brought a tiny portion of food, just enough for one meal. Each one has brought something different - one a type of meat, another vegetables, another grain or meal, and so on. For the first meal, we all joyfully contribute all that we have, holding back nothing. We all eat well, not too much and not too little, and take a small nap after our first meal.

Then, one rises and the others follow, taking down the tent and packing it up as if we had done it hundreds of times before. We even anticipate what another might do - clearing a rock of our cups, just before it is needed for the folding of the large tarp, for instance. We are all smiling and happy, but still no one has said a word. No one has a name, as such, but each has a distinctive set of habits and a personality. This is their name. "Quick to Help" will stride over to "broad smiles" to ensure that her pack is fastened properly, for instance. For this, he gets a broad smile, which warms his heart, and is more than just a reward.

In this way, we continue. In a few hours, it is time for another meal. No one hesitates to reach for the bag which had contained their food at the last stop. Though they had emptied it, no one is surprised that it is now refilled with exactly what it had before. In some cases, there is a bit more, or a bit less. Very rarely, the contents might have changed slightly. Somehow, this always makes again for a perfect meal, though slightly different than the one before.

Heavy rains begin, slowing us down. Flood waters are streaming down the volcanoes side, funneled together in spots to become dangerous torrents that appear from nowhere. One, "the thinker", always staring off into space, pokes about in his bag and comes up with a large, soft, cotton rope - without taking his gaze off something far in the distance. He ties it to himself, and then passes it on. In a few minutes we are all tied together.

As soon as we are finished, we are hit by a wall of water, pouring down the mountain. A lip of the volcano has torn free, pushed out by the enormous weight of the lake that suddenly filled up the volcanoes interior. We are all swept off our feet and the very middle of our rope catches around the bare trunk of a tall, sturdy old tree. The bark is smooth, and the branches are few , but with a few short hops, those of us close to the tree pull ourselves up far above the water, and begin pulling our comrades in, carefully and slowly, so as not to hurt them.

In less time than it takes to tell, all of our party, nine in all, are far above the slowly receding flood below us as the volcano empties out its new lake. The temperature drops suddenly, and we are all cold. Finally, the lake has emptied itself, and we are now above muddy ground. Several other groups of hikers that had been behind us are no longer in sight. We gather in a circle, taking hands, and bow our heads. There is no need to speak. Our hearts cry out for our brothers, and our love hopes for their safety and life. A warm peace slowly seeps into each of us as we realize that everyone behind us is alive and well, though many have been swept back to the edge of the ever-rising sea. It is all OK. We are all going to the same place, and there is no such thing as being early or late where we are going. Everything is always right on time. Though we may get there before them, we will not be early and they will not be late. It is comforting, but we are still wet and cold.

One of our members trots off to the side, and comes back with an armful of dry wood, beckoning us to follow him. We trot behind him, and soon spy a huge tree that was knocked over by the flood. The upper side of its trunk is dry, and its branches are easily broken free. Best of all, there is a large bole where lightning struck long ago. It is a hole drilled into the heart of the tree, and the trunk has splintered and the bark buckled, forming a chimney that can draw away the smoke from the flames. We all toss our sticks, twigs and branches into the large bole, taller and wider than a man in height. When it is partially filled, we stop. Now what?

The youngest of us all, barely more than a child, reaches into his pocket, and takes out a strange little plastic flashlight which opens up to show that it is filled with wooden matches. One is all it takes to get our fire going. While this is going on, "the thinker" is climbing up springy branches, snapping some off, and tying others together with twine from his kit. Eventually we see that this is forming a circular wall around us all, breaking the wind, and harboring the heat from the now glowing fire. "Quick to help" throws a few more logs on it, and stacks several more nearby, then makes a rake of twigs and sweeps the area around the low burning fire free of debris.

"Small but quick" is a young girl with a brilliant smile who runs back and forth depositing green springy twigs all around the edge of the bole, until it is like one big, springy mattress. Now the carrier of the tarp takes it out, and winds it around and around, forming a mattress that circles the fire as well. It appears to be a random set of bumps and lumps, but each of us finds a place where we can rest our head as if on a pillow, and we warm our backs and dry out our wet clothes as we wear them. The windbreak traps the gentle breeze, and circulates the warmth of the fire round and round and round as if it was a forced air furnace.

A few stomachs growl, and "One who eats a lot" acts startled, and then pulls on a wire that leads into the heart of the fire. He deftly pulls out a large chunk of meat, a deer that had been struck by the tree and died instantly. No one saw him butcher it or prepare it, but now it is more than enough to feed us all for several days. We eat our fill, as "One who eats a lot" cuts, pounds, salts and makes strips of jerky for our trail. He is assisted by all those around him, who seem to sense what he needs even before he needs it. We are now taking this for granted. We are all connected, as if we are one organism, all of our nervous systems interconnected. Somehow, we sense possible actions instantly for every occasion, and then act as one to select the best action and to do our part. It is almost effortless.

Each evening, just before we go to bed, "The Tinkerer" takes out his radio. Oddly, he has two names - the other one being "The Fixer". His name changes with his mood. Usually, in the evening, it is "The Tinkerer" who pulls out his tiny battery powered radio, and attaches it to a long piece of very thin wire, always aligned horizontally with a line drawn to the mainland. He does this with great care, placing it high overhead, or if that is not possible, tying many little pieces of white cotton yarn to it so that it is visible.

As he is preparing, we all gather up our dessert or the rest of our meal - or just a cup of soup or coffee - and gather around him. We try to form a near perfect circle around him, favoring those that are older to be the closest if that is not possible due to terrain. We are all very close, and strain to listen to the news on the little radio. He only plays it for 10-15 minutes a night, whether or not we have received any useful news. We started out our trek with innumerable channels yammering about the disastrous change to gravity. Each night it seemed that the number was fewer. All last week, just a few channels could be heard - two from New York, and one from Los Angeles, from high in the Hollywood hills. Tonight is a sad night. The little radio squeaks and yowls, occasionally going silent - but all the channels are silent. "The Tinkerer" tinkers, then "The fixer" takes the radio apart and puts it back again, stowing it away with a sad face. He has discovered that there is nothing wrong with the radio. We will try again tomorrow.

The first few days, fishing vessels and the occasional freighter hugging the freight lanes could be seen where the foliage was thin enough to see the ocean all around us. For a week, we have seen no boats, no ships. Our spirits are heavy, and we all walk a little slower than we had at first. Still, there is always a smile, a helping hand, a comforting pat, a little candy for a child offered by one of us or another, always the right thing at the right time. We are all still in harmony, but there seems to be less of the world to harmonize with. We wish we knew what was happening to the billions of others on our world. After a few more days we are very close to the top.

The water is always just a few hundred feet behind us. Even if we climb four or five hundred feet in a day, the water seems to rise about the same. It is always within a few hundred feet of us when we arise in the morning. There are only a few hundred more feet to go, but no one is concerned. We don't know what we will do in the morning, but we know it will be the right thing. Tomorrow we will climb to the top of the volcano, and perhaps the water will stop rising - or maybe we will be saved by a boat. No one is concerned. Tomorrow will take care of itself. We know we will be fine.

That night, we sit down to eat with the same thin candle giving light inside our tent that we have used for almost a month. It is the size of a child's finger, but it has not grown shorter. It actually seems to be brighter than when we first started using it. Warmed by the cook fire, we are all bundled up and curled up around the Tinkerer, who has just finished tying and aligning his antenna. He appears satisfied, dusts off his hands, and pulls two fresh batteries out of a little purse in his pack. We had never seen him do this before. He carefully removes the old batteries, puts them in the purse and installs the new batteries into his tiny radio. Then he turns it on.

Chapter 2 - A Ship is Sinking

A voice booms out, "Pray for us"! Screams are barely heard in the background of the voice, a man's voice, cultured and refined - and unafraid. "Our ship is overloaded and has capsized!" the voice continues.

We run toward each other, grab hands in a circle, and bow our heads. Each one prays silently in his heart. We have no one to lead us in prayer as a group. But we all know that each one is praying for the lives of those on the ship, especially the children, to be spared.

"A light!" the voice says, sounding in awe, perhaps a bit afraid. His voice seemed to carry a tremor, or some great emotion. "Look at the light" he says again, a sentence formed from a long sigh - a single exhaled breath, forming words. It could be utter amazement. It could be resignation. We continue praying. "We're…the boat… is righting itself!! The water is gushing back out the portholes and off the deck. My God, My God!" the main shouts, his voice filled with joy. Then nothing. The tinkerer seems to suspect that the radio has broken at a very inopportune time, and eventually takes it apart and puts it back together again. We get no more signals or stations that night. It is strange, but our hearts are filled with joy that our prayers were heard.

The next day Strong Legs runs far ahead of the rest of us. Trail Breaker follows behind, whacking limbs and branches that might trip with his machete. He also marks the side of trees in the language he has taught us all - the language of the trails, notated in slashes on the bark of trees, broken branches and twigs that point at odd angles. Our eyes have learned to read his notes as if they were written on the page of a book, so we are all comfortable with the trail. It winds steadily upward, twisting and turning to avoid gushing brooks of melted snow and ice. We have recently learned that icebergs all over the world have melted, as the expansion of their molecules has generated internal heat pushing them beyond the melting point. One fact about the reduce gravity that we are thankful for, is that even the heaviest of us now weighs only about 40 pounds.

We verified this with Bow Hunter, whose bow's pull is 45 pounds. Although it still feels the same to pull, Bow Hunter has had to re-sight his bow's sights every other day, at least. The reduced gravity has resulted in a flatter trajectory at the longer distances. He says it has been a very predictable amount each day. Apparently the gravity reduction is consistent for each day. At first, Bow Hunter would tie the hand grip of his bow to a tree with a rope, and then invite us to step on the string, to see if it would go down. When he started this, even a ten year old boy would push the string down with his weight. After just a few days, the string stayed flat, and Bow Hunter asked a larger child to get on the string, and it went down a bit. Now the largest of us, Cheerful Leader, who used to weigh over three hundred pounds, weighs less than forty five pounds. At least, when he steps on the string it remains almost perfectly flat - so the Thinker says he has lost over 250 pounds on our short hike!! It is a funny joke, but odd also, to think that we have all lost so much weight. Where will it end? What is happening?

One of us, the Thinker, pointed out that for us to perceive the reduction as changing in a linear fashion, it would actually have to be changing in an exponential manner at the nuclear level. None of us understood that, but of course we believed him. It was interesting, but not exciting. Where the water would be tomorrow morning was exciting. It should be over our heads by about two to three hundred feet, since we always climbed four or five hundred feet each day - and it always caught up to us the next morning. Today we would only climb about 200 feet, then stop at the top of the volcano. But we knew things will work out somehow, and are as cheerful as always as we help each other travel, holding bushes out of each other's way, and holding hands over the slippery spots.

One of us, Cheerful Mother, has to be very careful as she walks, because she is six months pregnant, and the change to her center of gravity is an added challenge. We all go out of our way to help her along. Nobody seems concerned, and our thoughts are turned toward the Light. How will the Light help us? We don’t have a ship that is overturned - but it is like we have a whole ocean that is gaining on us! It is exciting, and we wonder what the Light will do about the approaching water. We expect it will be greater than we can imagine, but still no one says anything. We are still journeying together, and the time for talking has not come.

I see a thatch of blond hair as we round a turn, and then we all behold Strong Legs, at the very top of a large old dead tree, growing up from the highest point of the lip of the volcano. He is standing, peering off to the left and the right, scouting the oceans for a boat, or even a raft. Now that we are on the lip of the volcano above the tree line, we can see water all around us, and how tiny our island has become.

All of us gather around the bottom of the tree, and Strong Legs comes down to be with us. He is weeping. He is sad and anxious. This is wrong. We are not to be anxious! I look around for Friend Jerry. He used to be a Baptist pastor - and still is - but his congregation is all gone, somewhere else. He doesn't know how he came to be with us, instead of with them. None of us know or remember how we got to this island either. Up until now, we hadn't worried about it, but now, one way or another, each of us begins to worry.

"We should probably pray" Pastor Jerry said, quietly. I almost fell off my rock, his voice felt so loud after so many days of absolute silence with no talking, no sound of a human voice. A human voice is louder than a bird, louder than a brook. It was really quite shocking. He clapped a hand to his mouth, but it was too late. The spell was broken, and now each of us was disconnected from all the others. Our confidence that the Light would save us was suddenly gone, and we all fell to the ground, weakened, alone and afraid.

"We really can't do anything else" Cheerful Leader said. "We are at the top of the volcano, and the water will be here in a few hours. Then we will have to swim."

The thinker came around a turn just as Cheerful Leader spoke, counting off paces as he rounded it. He stopped. "Thirty Four" he said. "That's just sixty-eight feet to the water from here. This volcano is about 2,000 feet high, and we have been traveling for four days - so the water is rising about 500 feet a day. That's a little over 20 vertical feet an hour. I'm sorry to say that the water will be here in about an hour - maybe a little less.

None of us followed his logic, but we knew he was right. The sun was starting to set, and a cold fog was rising from the sea all around us. The blue sky that we were used to was suddenly light gray, then dark gray, then very dark gray - like sunset. We all huddled around pastor Jerry, who used to be friend Jerry, and held hands. "Pray for us" we said to him. "Let's pray together" he said. "OK", we agreed. "I'll start" he said. "OK" we said. Everyone was very calm.

"Jesus, help us" he said. I had forgotten about Jesus. There was something about Light that I was trying to remember. "Jesus is.. Jesus is… I can't remember" I said. It was disappointing, but OK. "Do you remember?" I asked Pastor Jerry.

"Jesus is the Light of the World" pastor Jerry said. "Wow, that's right! I almost forgot!" I said. I was filled with joy, but it was very dark.

Pregnant lady said, "Can we pray some more?" "Sure" Pastor Jerry said. We all held hands. "Go ahead" Pastor Jerry said to the lady.

"Jesus, pastor Jerry is right. We need your help. Please help us, Lord Jesus." It was a good prayer. We all said "Amen" from our hearts, at once. All the voices were very loud. I jumped a little, but nobody noticed.

"Look! A hole in the sky!" someone said. He was Quiet Thinker. He just sat quietly and thought whenever he could. He never did anything else, but that was his job, so it was OK. He was doing his job by thinking. Now he was pointing at a little ray of light that was peeking through the fog.

"It's just a little stray beam of light. It will go away soon" someone said. We were all very still.

"No, Look! Look with your inside eyes at where I'm pointing" Quiet Thinker said. I looked up, looking with my outside eyes. I couldn't find anything with my inside eyes. Where were they? "Where are your inside eyes? I don't know how to find mine!" I said to Quiet Thinker. "Oh - your inside eyes are the ones that see what you know is there, but what you can't touch or see. You could say they are your eyes of Faith - of Believing". "Look up at where I'm pointing, but with eyes of Faith" he said.

I looked. The fog rolled away from that tiny little point of light, and it became a big patch of the purest, whitest, light that I had ever seen. I had once wondered how bright it was inside a nuclear reactor when we learned about such things at school. This light was brighter than anything that I had even imagined. It seemed so bright that everything it touched should go up in flames, but it was a cool, peaceful light, not one that burned and destroyed. The more I stared at that light, the brighter it became. It was so bright it was as much brighter than the sun than as if the sun was a glow-worm, and this light shining through a hole in the sky was the sun.

Chapter 3 - There's A Hole in the Sky

"There is a hole in the sky" I said. "And it's so bright - but it doesn't hurt to look at it". "Now you're seeing with your inside eyes, Pastor Jerry said. He was all excited, which was very rare for any of us. "Now tell me, what does the hole in the sky look like?"

I stared at the hole in the sky. It was so bright, but it filled me with peace, and it was cool not hot. It was enjoyable to stare at, and things started happening in my head and heart. It was like things were getting turned on, and I started knowing things. I saw new things that were always there, but were not in my sight, not in my knowledge.

"It's Jesus!" the pregnant lady said. She started getting bright, like the hole in the sky. Then she started going up toward it, like it was a magnet, and she was a little sliver of steel - but she didn't shoot up toward it, she just floated slowly. I stared at her feet as they left the ground. She didn't seem to notice. She was staring at the hole in the sky.

"I think we should all hold hands" pastor Jerry said, reaching up and grabbing one of her hands before she was out of range. She stopped floating up, and just bobbed around, not caring or noticing - just staring up at the hole in the sky. "It's Jesus" she would say every now and then.

We all ran up toward each other and held hands. We knew Pastor Jerry was right. We should all hold hands. When we were all one big long human chain of nine people, Pastor Jerry prayed, "Lord Jesus, give us faith, and give us eyes that see, for your Glory. Amen" All of us looked up at the hole in the sky, where the pregnant lady was staring. "See!" she shouted. "See the crown of thorns on his head!"

I looked, and sure enough, the hole in the sky had some really sharp edges at one end. If that was the crown of thorns, then Jesus was laying down, not standing up. Or maybe we were laying down, and he was standing up. It didn't matter, I started seeing the crown of thorns, and then his face, brighter than the sun. "We need to go now" pastor Jerry said. "Right Now". And with that, he gave a little jump and a hop and tugged at the hands on both sides of him. Cheerful leader started hopping, then all the rest of us started hopping. It was fun, and we all laughed. The only one that wasn't hopping was Pregnant Lady. She just floated up toward the hole in the sky, holding onto pastor Jerry's hand. Her feet slowly floated up till she was horizontal, not vertical. She floated over me for a moment, and then I could see Jesus in the sky - clearly, with his crown of thorns on his head, and a staff in one hand. He was the hole in the sky, and he was floating, too. We all kept hopping and laughing.

All our hopping was making my feet hurt, but I didn't want to complain. I seemed to be standing over some sharp rocks. I looked at Pregnant Lady, and her face shone brighter than the sun as she floated in the air, tugging at us to follow her up through the hole in the sky. I looked at the hole, and the bright light that shone through it gave me peace. I closed my eyes a little and looked hard with my inside eyes. Jesus was definitely resting, laying down just like Pregnant Lady. He was resting, not hopping! I remembered something about rest, but I couldn't place it.

"Pastor Jerry, didn't Jesus say something about rest?" I asked. Pastor Jerry looked at me for a moment, stared up at the hole in the sky and said, "Come to me, ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

He looked at the ground, then looked at the sky - then finally at me. "That's what Jesus said about rest." he answered.

I stopped hopping. Pregnant Lady never carried a pack. We all had packs on. "Pastor Jerry, I think we should take our packs off, and lay down to rest from all this hopping. If we take off our packs and stop hopping so hard and just rest and look with our inside eyes at the hole in the sky…" I stopped. Pastor Jerry looked concerned.

"If we let go, Pregnant Lady might float away without us" he said. He looked very worried at the prospect. I was warming to the idea of resting for a change. My feet still hurt a little.

"We can do it one at a time. Quiet Thinker can hold Pregnant Lady while the rest of us take our packs off. "Quiet Thinker had not been hopping very much, and he had a light pack with loose straps. "Maybe he could shrug it off while holding Pregnant Lady for us", I added.

Pastor Jerry looked thoughtful and stopped hopping. Everybody else stopped hopping, too. Some were still laughing, but some were huffing and puffing like me. I had hopped really hard. Everyone looked at Pastor Jerry - probably because he was taking in a big, deep breath like he does when he's ready to say something important. The laughing slowed down, stopped, and then it was silent. We were all a little embarrassed that all our hopping hadn't worked.

Pastor Jerry said in a soft voice that reminded me of a mother trying to talk a child into calming down and going to bed. "People, people, people. Hopping and jumping isn't working, and with these packs on, it's just hurting our feet. We all want to float up to the hole in the sky to be with Jesus, but we're stuck on the ground. Let's take off our packs, hold hands and lay down on our backs. Then we can rest and look up at the hole in the sky, enjoy the Light, and think about being with Jesus. Maybe that will work."

Chapter 4 - We Take Off Our Packs

He tugged at the straps of his pack, and I helped him take it off. Then I turned around and he helped me take my pack off. All the rest followed our example with smiles and a little quiet laughter, took their loads off and stacked them neatly on the ground.

We didn't know what would come next. Pastor Jerry walked over to Quiet Thinker and carefully helped him take his pack off while he still held tightly to Pregnant Lady, whose eyes were fastened on the hole in the sky, bobbing in the air from left to right like a kite. Her hand tightly gripped Quiet Thinker's hand, tugging him toward the hole in the sky.

Pastor Jerry finished taking Quiet Thinker's pack off. We all held hands again, and kneeled down, then rolled over on our backs. Time seemed to stop after awhile, as we stared at the wonderful hole in the sky shaped like Jesus. I forgot about weight, distance and time as I stared at the wonderful bright light. A sudden breeze came up, lifting Pregnant Lady higher. Quiet Thinker rose up, floating in the air beside her, then pastor Jerry, then me - and one by one all the others . The breeze died down, and the air was warm, and completely still. A sweet perfume from the flowers surrounding us enveloped us. We all started floating up, ever so slowly. It was so slow. As we drifted, our feet floated up so that we were all laying down in the sky, just like Jesus. Only he was a hole in the sky, and we were drawn to him like he was a magnet.

The thinker said, "I'll bet the waters pretty close right now" He said it with a sound of relief, because we weren't trapped on the mountain anymore, and he could say it without scaring us. "My shoe got a little wet with the last hop" Strong Legs said. He had ended up at the bottom of the chain. I barely remembered somebody saying once that Jesus is always on time when we stopped floating and started rising faster and faster toward Jesus. It was like I had eyes in the back of my head as I got closer to Jesus. I could see all around me with my mind, just as if I had eyes all around my head.

I was looking up, but my mind looked down - and I could see the top of our mountain where we had been hopping a moment before - and just a branch of the tall, brave old tree could be seen sticking out of the waves of the rising water. The hole in the sky got warmer and warmer, brighter and brighter, but it was warm like a mother's love, and bright like a flash of knowledge. We all shot through the hole in the sky, one at a time, still holding hands - each one of us fitting perfectly into the image of Jesus - except for the crown of thorns and the staff.

The last thing I saw below me was waters - waves covering everything, all over the face of the whole earth. The tip of the branch of the tree disappeared under the waves and I stopped looking down through my mind's eye. I was filled with Light and was in the Light, and the Light was in me.

I didn't look back after going through the hole in the sky. None of the others did either. Our journey was ended, and our Life had begun.