Hazel Clem and Hope

It's Christmas day.

A few days ago, on December 22, a very good friend, Hazel Clem, died. She had struggled with cancer, struggled valiantly, but now the struggle is over. We are all poorer now.

Hazel was the mother of Keith, one of the best friends I have ever had and the best man at our wedding. The lives of Keith and I have diverged over the years. He is hundreds of miles away now, and I haven't seen Hazel in years. But Keith and Hazel (and Keith's dad Eddie Wayne) are still very much part of my life because when we were closer, they worked their way into who I am. I am much better since I know them.

Hazel enjoyed life. She lived fearlessly. She lived on the New Madrid fault, and had a collection of crystal platters and china plates. 

She loved the color red. I don't mind just liked the color red. She loved red. Everything in her life which could be red was, in fact, red.

I used to visit the Clems pretty regularly when I was in college and graduate school. It was more than worth the short drive out to Arkansas. She was never anything but hospitable. No, "hospitable" is too bland a word these days. Hazel gave of herself, made room in her world for me, and never let me imagine that it was anything but her pleasure. Even when I felt that there were few places where I really belonged, I knew I belonged with the Clems.

Now, all Advent season, I've been struggling with something. Advent, in the Christian church, is a time of looking forward, a time of hope.

What's been playing through my head as I read and tried to discuss the Advent scriptures in the Sunday school class I lead is that there are plenty of people ready to claim that there is no hope in the world. Sandy and Sandy Hook are what the world is, and where it's headed, they claim. To believe otherwise is to be foolish and naive, they say. And I don't say that they're entirely wrong.

There are others, including many Christians, who believe that every day, in every way, we're getting better and better. Sandy and Sandy Hook are just mysteries, they say, and if we knew all that Jesus knows, we'd find out that they happened to draw more believers to Christ. To believe otherwise is to be faithless or even blasphemous. I can't believe that either.
 

I can't close my eyes to the horror that is the world, but I can't close my heart to hope either.

 

It's hard to hope. I know it's not supposed to be easy, but it's hard to look at roughly TWO THOUSAND TWELVE YEARS of people saying and living into the promise of God, the belief that God has defeated sin and that we see a "great light." Sometimes, it seems like it's all like a dream that is so good, so fantastic, that waking up feels bitter and depressing.

And then, I think of blessings like Hazel Clem. And I can't do anything but hope. Hazel made the world better, made my world better anyway. So, while I can't say how things will change, and I can't even say precisely what the changes will be, I hope. For Hazel, Hazel's family, and for all of us.

Merry Christmas.

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

69: Safe Parenting

The prompt is to write about a quote from Erica Jong: "If you don't risk anything, you risk more."

A while back, a friend of mine explained to me why, after years of being an almost atheist, he returned to the Roman Catholic church. It had little to do with a sense of religious conviction, or a sense of penitence, or even a desire to have something to do on a Sunday morning. He returned to Christianity because of his kids. He'd been raised Catholic, and his wife was raised Catholic, and they both turned out OK. When he had kids, he had to raise them Catholic too, because, and this is a quote: "You can't take chances with your kids."

I believe he was wrong. I care for my kids so much that I have to push myself to take risks with them.

I'm not talking recklessness. I don't dangle my kids over cliffs, and I didn't let them drive when they were six. We put caps on the electric outlets and a gate on the stairs when the kids were small enough to accidentally fall down the stairs. However, there are a lot of people who don't seem to see the difference between letting a five-year-old play with a loaded nail gun and letting a teenager surf the internet without sitting over their shoulder.

Now, this is not cut and dried. Each kid is different, and for some, walking to the park really is risky. And each parent is different. I'm sure the kids think their mom and I didn't let them do enough when they were little. (They certainly thought so at the time!)

You do the best you can, and trust God. For some parents, it takes all their will to let the kids do their homework without constant supervision. Maybe they're right.  I'm not interested in being the best dad. I'm interested in being the best dad I can be.

I do the best I can, and trust God. I refrain from comparing myself to others, but I stay open to learn from them. I love each kid as if he or she were my only kid. I take risks with them, partly so that they realize that I believe in them, partly so that they get to learn how to succeed and fail at something that matters, and partly because it makes me a better man, even when it's scary or painful. I fail at all of those things to some degree, but I trust in forgiveness from God, and I hope in forgiveness from them.

I love my kids too much to play safe. I think God loves me (and them) that way too.

It's been a while since I did one of these creative writing prompts. Part of the reason for this was that my daughter was participating in National Novel Writing Month, and I didn't want to "run up the score" while she was doing that. It's also true that I had a great number of other responsibilities and claims on my time.

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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The Widow's Might

This is not from a prompt, but from some thoughts I had after Sunday school and worship last week. I stole the title from our pastor, Dr. Bob Ledbetter, but I have a different take on it.

The story is pretty familiar, especially when churches talk about money. In Mark 12, Jesus watches rich people donate vast sums to the temple treasury. Then, he sees a widow donate two small coins (the King James version calls them "mites"), and Jesus says that the widow donated more than all the others, because those were her last two coins, all she had to live on.

Often, this story is used to illustrate the wisdom in trusting God with everything. That was the might (not just "mite") of the widow, Dr. Ledbetter referred to in his sermon this week.

I think trusting God is a good thing, and this passage seems a pretty good fit for that message.

Still, I think there's something more here, another way to look at the story.

 

In Mark's Gospel, just before Jesus and the apostles sit watching people donating to the treasury, Jesus strongly condemns the scribes and Pharisees who love to be greeted with respect but "devour widow's houses." And then they sit outside the temple and watch a widow give everything she had, and then walk away.

How did she manage to leave the temple without someone helping her? It's like she's invisible to everyone but Jesus. In a way, she was.

What MIGHT have happened is one of the rich people dropping money in the treasury gave the widow a little money to help her get through the week, or maybe found a way to help her more permanently

What MIGHT have happened is that someone in charge of the treasury would see the widow, reach into the coffers, and give her some help.

What MIGHT have happened is that the people might have been more interested in helping someone who needed help rather than try to impress God and everyone else with their holiness.

And I wonder if Jesus's condemnation of the scribes and Jesus's praise of the widow aren't related.

I wonder if Jesus is saying that God really doesn't pay much attention to how well-respected and well-liked and affluent you are, so don't waste your time trying to impress God with your virtues or morals. God is too busy paying attention to the people that everyone else ignores.

And maybe Jesus is saying we should put our attention where God does.

A week ago Saturday, we had a tutoring session at our church. A young lady needed help in college algebra, and, me having a doctorate in physics, it seemed like I was a good candidate to help her. As it turns out, she needed help with a technique called "synthetic division," which I don't think I've ever seen before.(*)

To be honest, I was a little resentful at first. I mean, I like being the guy who knows stuff. I like being SEEN as the guy who knows stuff.

But I forced myself to let it go. It didn't take much time, but it did take some effort. I asked the others if anyone knew what synthetic division was.

My daughter knew just what synthetic division is and jumped right in, helping the young lady understand it.

By my stepping back, my daughter got a nice boost of confidence and the young lady got the help she needed.

Actually, I got rewarded as well. I learned something new, some very clever math, and that is like chocolate to me.

It would have been a shame if we all left the church with no one getting the help they needed.

It would be a shame if that happened any time.

(*) If you're a math type my age or older, synthetic division is a shortcut for long division of polynomials. It's useful in factoring polynomials. It's actually very clever.

 
Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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56: Jason's Pictures

Prompt #56 (out of order, I know) is to write about something good that becomes something bad.

Jason thought the happiest day of his life was when Shirley's agent agreed to let him photograph her. She was a professional model and also a contortionist. The first time Jason saw her portfolio on an online listing, his imagination filled with the possibilities.

Two weeks later, Jason thought the happiest day of his life was when Shirley and her boyfriend Jack came to his studio. She was a wonderful model. Her features could weave light and shadow. He had bought a dress for the shoot, and it folded and draped in just the way he envisioned it.

Shirley wasn't amazingly beautiful, but she could shape her body into the bizarre forms that filled Jason's imagination. Jason had waited all his life for the opportunity to capture on film some of his darkest, and, to Jason, most beautiful ideas, and now they were here, in his camera, on his disk, backed up four times so that he wouldn't lose them. He paid Shirley twice what they agreed on.

Jason thought the next day was the happiest day of his life when he went through the image files. He didn't know which one to work on first. They were all so wonderful. They looked like someone else had taken them, someone infinitely more capable and visionary than he. He worked on the images, cropping them and adjusting the color balance, fading some to gray, enhancing the color in others.

The happiest day of Jason's life (at least so far) was when he talked to his friend's aunt Carla and got her to agree to let him hang some of his photos in her restaurant for a share of any sales that resulted.

The next day, Jason arrived with his photos, each one carefully printed and lovingly framed.

Carla was the first person aside from Jason to see his masterworks in their finished form.

"Good Lord," Carla shouted, "get that ugly mess out of my business! I think I'm going to be sick!"

Jason saw the images as Carla saw them, and that was the saddest day of Jason's life.
 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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68: What Gretel Saw

You remember Hansel and Gretel? The prompt is to start with the four words:

I thought I saw something in the old woman's eyes, heard something in her voice. It started to frighten me, but I fight fear these days. Maybe it worried me more.

She smiled at me. "You like candy, don't you, little girl?"

My brother was busy eating.

I was very hungry, but I didn't like what I saw.

She was still smiling. She was old, and she was offering us food.

To be honest, this was one of the only places we'd ever been where we've been welcome. At least since Mom died. I really hope Dad didn't know about Stella's repeated attempts to lose us in the woods, but I wasn't sure. Home wasn't for us now. We didn't fit in, Hansel and I.

And here this woman was asking us to join her, giving us sweet things to eat. I thought I was being too cautious.

I ate some candy. It was a big mistake.

When I awoke, Hansel was a prisoner, and I was a slave. 

What in the distant past broke this woman, this witch? What horrible thing made her this horrible thing?

I swore I'd fight anything like that trying to damage me. 

I did my work.

Hansel was under a spell to eat and eat, but he was smart enough to trick the old woman. For a while, anyway.

I don't want to talk about what happened at the oven. I can't stop hearing her screams.

I am a murderer. She was hurting us, would have killed us, and I'm not at all sorry. But still...

When I looked in a mirror just now, I think I saw something in my eyes.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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67: Thou Art a Hypocrite

It's October, and today's prompt is to write 300 words about deceit. I love Halloween.

Sincerity, I have learned, is difficult. It is also greatly unappreciated. It matters not if you are a small child, an awkward adolescent, a young theologian, and old professor, or a man on a pension. Sincerity is difficult.

Do you really believe in your garden, or are you deceiving yourself and others? As you work the soil with your hands, water them, clear out weeds, are you committed to the act, honest to your core, or does insincerity fold itself into the dirt, trickle into the roots, feed like a fungus upon the stems?

Truth can be hard to grasp. When someone who idolizes you joins you as you wait, are you waiting for Him, or for her? Do you believe, or do you want to look like you believe?

I used to think that once belief was easy, when we, like little girls, always believed everything we were told,  innocent and trusting. Ah, well, as I've been told, "Welcome to the twentieth century!"

I stood firm while my friends mocked me. I sacrificed the rewards of the materialism and appetites of today. All that courage and loss has taught me is that it is not enough. That before the judgement of the Impartial, I am not sincere. I am a duplicitous fraud.

Yet, I keep trying, and this year, as every other year before, I sit in this pumpkin patch, now an old man, and await the One who rises out of the pumpkin patch that He thinks is the most sincere. Even though I should know better, I don't see how a pumpkin patch can be more sincere than this one. You can look around and there's not a sign of hypocrisy. Nothing but sincerity as far as the eye can see.

Oh, Great Pumpkin, where are you?

If you don't get the reference, I'm not advocating worship of gourds. The story is told from the point of view of an aging Linus van Pelt in the context of the television show It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown .

If you'd like a different, darker take on the same subject, check out Escape Pod Episode 25: The Great Old Pumpkin by John Aegard. It's rated PG, for "dark imagery and terrifying fruit."

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

66: Really, What WAS I Thinking?

I am to write about the worst meal I've had as if it's happening now. What follows is not entirely factual, but it is true.

I still like to look at her, and I still wonder at the marvelous things that happen in her mind. She is really beautiful, even though this dinner is more than awkward.

We broke up a few days ago. I can almost hear the older me telling the me today that this is a really bad idea.

Still, we made the reservations for dinner, and I had the tickets to the Homecoming dance, and we were still friends, so why not have one last after-breakup date?

At least, that's what I was thinking. 

In case you were wondering. 

You know, like "What was he thinking?"

I love her smile, but I hate that smile. I wish she'd just frown and tell me she thinks this is a bad idea too. Instead, she puts on that smile, that pity smile, that smile that says that she's having a rotten time, but she's sure that I must be having a pretty good time because I'm with her, so she'll do me a huge favor.

I should just take her home now. Still, we've ordered and leaving now would be rude to the waitress and the restaurant.

This is really uncomfortable, but not just because there's not much to say. I mean, there really isn't much to say, and when I try to make small talk, she puts on that smile again. It is uncomfortable because of that, but it's not just that.

The thing is, I see here again, as I saw a few days ago when we agreed to stop dating, that something inside me was dying. No, that something was dead.

Inside me, there used to be a growing a kind of hope, a kind of vision of myself, a concept of my life that had her in it. I remember what it felt like to have her head rest against my chest. I thought how much I loved her artist's mind, her way of seeing shadows or lines in a way I had never imagined. I thought how much I delighted even in how she sat, with her hands on her lap, palms up as if meditating.

And now, I realized it was gone. There are plenty of reasons for us to break up (we can start with the smile), and I'm not sorry we broke up. I still like her, and it bothers me that we can't even make small talk now.

I tell her that I think this is kind of a bad idea. She admits that she came only because she kind of felt sorry for me. I tell her not to be, that I'll be OK.

And I will be.

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

65: More Than Illusion

The prompt is to write about Valentine's Day without using these words/phrases: Valentine's Day, Cupid, love, roses, flowers, hearts, or February.

There's the illusion:

  the boxes of candy, 

  the flirty glances, 

  the giant stuffed teddy bears,

  the greeting cards, 

  the idea that the first kiss is the best,

  the fear that it all dies when it gets old.

And then there's the reality,

  and the reality is so much better

  that it's worth skipping the fantasy

  and searching for it.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

64: Making a Difference

The prompt is to write about something worth saving.

There was a small church in a small village in the African country of Ghana.

In the village and the region around, people were dying from disease and accidents. The church invited doctors from a nearby clinic to speak with them about what they could do to stop the needless deaths.

This might be a good time to point out that this particular church in Ghana pities the churches in America. We have so much, they say, that it gets in the way of being faithful disciples.

They might have a point. An American church, if it noticed a large number of deaths in their community, might not call doctors in to talk about the problem, might not look for something to do. The members of the American church would probably have the means to write a check to the Red Cross or to a local hospital. And when they wrote those checks, they'd miss out on something electrifying.

The church in Ghana didn't have the option of philanthropy. They had to deal with the deaths seemingly without all the tools they needed. All they had was the love of Christ and a commitment to the service of God.

When they talked with the doctors for the clinic, they couldn't ask how much money the doctors needed. They could only ask what they could do.

The doctors talked with them about hygiene, but they added that one thing that would probably be a big help would be if they church members would commit to giving blood if they are able. A blood bank nearby would save lives.

The elders of the church reacted with wild enthusiasm, so much so that the doctors wondered if they misunderstood.

There was no misunderstanding. The elders said this would be a wonderful opportunity for discipleship. They could give their blood for each other JUST AS CHRIST DID.

Just after I heard that story many years ago, I started giving blood.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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63: Words in Christian Worship

The prompt is to do a free write starting with a phrase from a Sylvia Plath's poem "Metaphors": "a melon strolling on two tendrils". This isn't a free write. The prompt gives me an excuse to write about something I've been thinking about recently.

I haven't read Sylvia Plath, so the phrase "a melon strolling on two tendrils" really doesn't mean anything to me. It sounds like nonsense. Now, I know that for a reader of Sylvia Plath, and in the context of the poem "Metaphors," the phrase probably means a lot. If I were to read the poem, or more from the poet, it would mean a lot for me too. But as it stands, it doesn't mean anything.

In fact, the phrase can make me angry. I can imagine having a conversation with Sylvia Plath fans where one of them says that something is like a melon strolling on two tendrils. The others would laugh, or nod, or quote the next line from the poem, and I would feel excluded, and stupid, and angry.

I was at a wedding once, and one of my friends, who felt he was being peppered with questions, said that he "didn't expect a sort of Spanish Inquisition." A number of others, including me, shouted out the next line from the Monty Python sketch: "NO ONE EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION!"

Another of my friends (not a Python fan) shouted out even louder, "NO NO NO! NOT HERE!"

She was having fun before, and then, suddenly, she was on the outside, looking in. With just two sentences.

Language can do that. In just a sentence, a phrase, even a word, it can separate the insiders from the outsiders. It can make some people feel really good about themselves, while at the same time making other people feel awful, outside, angry.

I've been thinking about this in the context of Christian worship.

We go out of our way to make worship a place where everyone can feel welcomed. Certainly we wouldn't call someone in the congregation "fatso" or even "hot stuff" during worship. We wouldn't walk through the congregation and tell people to get out.

And yet, a lot of our language in worship can have this same effect. I'm not talking about the usual "inclusive language" paradigm. I'm saying that we often use language in worship that means as much to an outsider as a melon strolling on two tendrils.

Outside of church, imagine two people talking about a work assignment: "I just want to lift up the contract proposal to thou, so that thou mayest place thy greatest effort toward its completion."

Is worship for making those of us who know the lingo feel included (like Sylvia Plath or Monty Python fans in the examples above), even if others feel excluded and even belittled?

I'm not saying anyone intends to insult the church's visitors. My Monty-Python-fan friends didn't intend to exclude anyone either.

If you get hit hard in the face, though, does it hurt less if the person who hit you didn't intend to do it?

We as Christians are called to sacrifice. It would not sacrifice our ideals or even our theology to work toward using language, in prayers, responses, and hymns as well as sermons, that use regular, ordinary language whenever possible. 

It would be a sacrifice, however. We would have to think more about what we say, and be more attentive to people who are different from us. We might also feel a little less sure of our place on the church "insider track." 

Oh, and we'd also have to give up a lot of the way we've always done it.

When I shouted that line from Monty Python, I didn't realize that it would divide my friends. I don't want to do that in church.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

62: Relative Silliness

Prompt #62 is to start with the eight words...

A funny thing happened on my way to a parade last Carnival. Actually, several funny things happened.

The whole family went to downtown New Orleans after church to see what we could of the parades. There were several that day. We parked near the Superdome, walked through the Hyatt Regency and then headed down to see where we could find a place to watch.

So there we were, many blocks away from St. Charles Avenue or Canal Street, and there's a guy walking down the street carrying a trombone. That's not the kind of thing you see in most major cities.

I mentioned the trombone player to my oldest, and he said he didn't notice.

I don't think there are many places where you'll see a trombone player walking down the street and not notice.

But that wasn't the funny part.

We walked down to St. Charles Avenue, but it was just too crowded. There might have been room for one or two people, but not five, at least not together. So, we headed toward Canal. Canal is a much wider street than St. Charles, and the parade does a loop, so there's a lot more space for spectators.

We walked back a block or two, and then walked parallel to St. Charles toward Canal. We were not in a real hurry since it was between parades.

Along the street, walking the other way, comes a guy dressed like a clown. Not just a clown, but more like a court jester. No, more like the joker from a deck of cards. He is in costume from the top of his pointy hat the the ends of his pointy shoes, and he was wearing white face makeup.

"You know," he said to his normally-dressed friend as he walked by, "the farther we get from the parade route, the sillier I look."

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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61: A Few Relatives

 This prompt is to write 50-word-or-less profiles of 5 to 8 relatives. Here are a few folks my kids never got the chance to meet.
 

Dad: I never asked him, but I think the kids would've called him Papa Ruppe'. Once he was offered a very high-paying job, but it meant traveling too much. He wanted to be there for us. His whole life, I don't think he ever talked down to me.

Uncle James: He played trumpet, professionally when he was younger. When we were little, we believed he decorated every house in town except ours. I don't know where that came from. He was almost deaf by then time I knew him. When he watched the Three Stooges, it sounded like a gunfight.

Pardner: That was my grandfather. He called everyone Pardner, and everyone called him Pardner. He bet on the horses, and taught us kids to play poker. "Don't tell your mother," was his favorite line. He went nearly blind. He laughed all the time. He loved Johnny Bench and the Cincinnati Reds.

Baby: My Aunt Ruby (who we called "Baby") loved to cook. She made the best jumbalaya ever. Sometimes, she would to our house to make some. She'd constantly be thinking she screwed up. She never did. When I went to college, she asked what kind of slop they had there.

Nana: My grandmother wanted to be a Southern Ladies. She even married Rhett Butler (see Pardner above). Only it wasn't 1860. She got every doctor in town to prescribe her Valium for her nerves. She liked it when I played "You Light Up My LIfe" on the piano.

Uncle Wade: He was Dad's brother. Uncle Wade was a fireman. We went camping once, and it rained buckets. We used to have fun with him, and say he brought the rain. One time we were driving by his house, and I swear there was a little black cloud hovering over it.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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60: Howard Cosell's Kangaroo

Prompt #60 is to write about a big lie. Actually, it says to write about the biggest lie I've ever told. That'll be this one.

It all started one fine spring day when I happened upon legendary sports announcer Howard Cosell, taking a stroll by the West Napoleon drainage canal.

I asked him what he was doing, and he said that he lost his pet kangaroo and didn't know where it went. I told him that kangaroos come from Australia. I asked him if he looked there.

So, we got on a plane and flew to Australia.

Or, we would have if the pilot hadn't gotten an inner ear infection from waltzing with a woman named Matilda. He lost his sense of direction and we ended up in Canada.

Now, it turns out that there was a Canadian at the airport who had a kangaroo that looked just like Howard's. She found the kangaroo piloting a gondola on a canal in Venice and wondered whose it was.

Since Howard was looking for his kangaroo near a canal, we decided it must be his.

So, I got back in the plane to go home.

This time, I gave the pilot directions so that we'd go home to New Orleans.

When we landed in London, I talked to a young man who was walking around Hyde Park, looking for a  swimming pool.

I told him that he should probably go back to America where there are lots of pools.

He took my advice and returned across the ocean, only to return many years later, to win several gold medals. 

That man was Michael Phelps.

And this was a HUGE lie.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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59: Bundle of Joy

Prompt 59 is to write about a joyous moment. It's been a while since I wrote a poem.

It's being who you are,

And forgetting who you are.

It's watching someone happy,

And being happier than them.

It's worth looking for,

And really hard to find.

Sometimes, it's impossible to understand.

Sometimes, it's incredibly simple.

It's a gift from God,

Where you might not think of "God" at all.

It's making a difference,

Even when it doesn't look like much of a change.

It's over too soon.

It never ends.

When I seek it,

Often enough

I find it.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

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58: The Truth, as Told by a Drunk Man

The prompt is to write about what a drunk guy at a bar says when he takes a liking to me and tries to tell me "the truth."

I like you, fella'. I like you a lot. You're what they call... what they call... what do they call you?

Look, buddy, maybe I can call you a cab or something. It looks like you've had enough.

A good guy! You're what they call a Good Guy!

Well, thanks, man, but I...

No no no. You're a Good... Guy. So I'm gonna tell you something you should know.

I...

No, you should know this! You should know the Truth! Can you handle the Truth?

I've already got a church.

Of course you do! You're a Good Guy! The Truth I'm talkin' about isn't what they teach in church.

Let me call you that cab.

The Truth is that you've got to know what you want, 'cos nobody else... nobody else... (Hand me a napkin, will you buddy?) You gotta know what you want, 'cos nobody else is gonna care as much as you. Nobody else is gonna be as disappointed if you don't get it. That's the Truth. ... Nobody ... nobo-- ...

Fella? Mister? Damn it, he's passed out.

What a jerk! Maybe if he stopped playing like whatever he wants is The Truth, he'd be able to buy a clue.

Anybody here know this guy, and how to get him home?

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

57: Olympic Dreams

The prompt this time is to write a story using a few phrases: plastic bottle, hockey puck, crumpled note, dirty handkerchief, unhinged door.

The Olympics just ended. I love watching them, especially the games we Americans don't get to see much. But my friend Merrill at Sunday school this week helped me to remember a lot of other people...

Coach Janice had been expecting this conversation.

Kelly walked into Janice's office and closed the door.

No one ever closed the door unless their world was becoming unglued. The girls left the door open to complain, to celebrate, to thank her, to curse her, to give her news and to give her grief.

They only closed the door when everything was falling apart.

Janice nicknamed it the Unhinged Door. It only closed when someone was unhinged.

Kelly threw a crumpled note onto Janice's desk and barked out her indignation.

Janice didn't read the note. She knew what it said. Kelly didn't get the scholarship, or Kelly wasn't accepted, or Kelly didn't qualify. Kelly didn't make it.

The note politely said that Kelly's gymnastics career was over. Kelly's dream was dead. Kelly would never hold a gold medal in her hand while they played her national anthem.

Kelly was angry, but it wasn't real anger. It was a fake anger, and anger she'd been taught. It was the anger she'd been told to feel when she fell off the beam. It was the competitive anger her teammates, her parents, her coaches had taught so that she could face failures, big and small, and put it behind her.

Kelly had been taught an anger that could effectively cover her pain, and hide the little thing that died inside her 

every 

   single

      time.

Coach Janice let Kelly talk. She didn't ask questions, she didn't try to tell her how to feel or what to do. Kelly had a lot to say, and Janice fully intended to listen to every word. There was not much more she could do for Kelly now.

Kelly was a very good gymnast. She loved the sport and she loved the competition and it showed. She loved winning, but she also loved flying over the vault or tumbling across the mat. She was very, very good.

But there are thousands of girls in the world who are very, very good. Only three of them every four years get to stand on a medal platform in front of the world. Kelly would not ever be one of them.

Kelly stopped to take a sip from the plastic bottle of water she had in her bag. Janice did not fill the silence.

When Kelly asked Janice if she was listening, Janice assured her that she was. When Kelly asked if Janice understood, Janice would say she did or she would say she didn't, whichever Janice thought Kelly wanted to hear.

Janice did understand. She didn't understand everything, each moment like this was different, but she knew the contours and curves.

After a half-hour of Kelly yelling and cursing and blaming her parents and blaming her teammates and blaming her friends and blaming Janice and blaming the people who wrote the crumpled note, after all that, Kelly started to cry.

Janice had Kleenex, but Kelly pulled a dirty handkerchief from her bag, stained with make-up and the tears she cried earlier, before she saw Janice, before she remembered to be angry.

Kelly told Janice that all she ever wanted was to win gold at the Olympics. She'd tried as hard as she could, she'd wanted it as much as she could. She'd gone from sleep to practice to school to practice to homework to sleep every day, knocked around her life like a hockey puck, always at full speed. Smack smack smack.

She'd go to a movie once a year or so. She'd get to sleep late maybe once a year. She didn't read what she didn't have to for school. 

Kelly worried about her parents. They'd sacrificed so much. She'd run them nearly as much as she'd run herself. They had so much faith in her. They'd spent so much money on her. They'd believed in her even when no one else did. What was she going to say to them? What was she going to say?

Then, Kelly started apologizing to Janice, telling her she was sorry for not being the gymnast Janice deserved, for taking up her time and being such a downer.

Janice finally spoke, silencing Kelly's continued pleas.

"Don't you ever apologize for the time you spent on my team or with me!" Janice said in a voice that was calm and firm. "You've been nothing but a gift and a blessing to me and this team. Your parents are lucky to have a girl like you, and they know it."

"Gold, silver, bronze," Janice continued. "What are they? They show accomplishment, yes. They show excellence, yes. But their glittering blinds people to all the excellence, all the accomplishment there is that doesn't glitter like some tawdry showgirl."

"You have given your best every day," Janice said. "You've proven to yourself and to the world that you are an amazing girl and you are becoming an amazing woman."

"Gold, bronze, silver," Janice said, allowing her voice to rise just a bit. "Forget them. They aren't for you, but there is so much more that is. You've flown through the air and made people gasp in amazement."

"Now go!" Janice said. "We're all watching to see what wonders you do next!"

Kelly got up, walked around the desk and hugged Janice. Then she opened the Unhinged Door and left with a thank you.

Janice had given something like that speech dozens of times. She believed it every time. The girls were all different, of course. Some were headstrong, some were meek. Some had been injured, many more were just not as good as they'd dreamed they were. They all ended up apologizing. None of them needed to.

Just as Janice didn't need to apologize all those years ago when Coach Flannery gave her that same speech.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.
This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

55: Not the Author

I confess to be somewhat puzzled about Prompt #55. It is to write a 150-character character sketch of someone named "Margaret Mallory". What's puzzling is that there is a published author named Margaret Mallory. She writes romance fiction.

I hope that it is obvious that this profile of a fictional woman is not of THAT Margaret Mallory. It should be even more obvious that my daughter's version of this profile is also not THAT Margaret Mallory, unless she's also a particularly cool superhero.

Dr. Margaret Mallory, Ph.D. is not that Margaret Mallory. She's a marriage counselor in Memphis, Tennessee.  To be honest, she's a bit ambivalent about having the same name as a successful romance novelist. It gets her business, but she's tired of explaining.

Ironically, she's married to Rev. Ben Bova, a Congregationalist minster who is not the famous science fiction author. They've been married five years and have no children, at least not yet.

Maggie and Ben really like movies. They often spend entire weekends watching one movie after another on DVD or online. Sometimes, they go to the theater, but they prefer staying home and cuddling. They like almost any kind of movie, except that Maggie doesn't like westerns at all, and Ben can't stand Eddie Murphy.

Maggie's family is from Chicago. She loves her mother and father, and she looks forward to talking with them each week after the Bears game.

[Dear Ms. Mallory the author: Since you happened by this page, I want to wish you the best, and give my my hopes and prayer that you are still having fun writing.]

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

54: Freewrite on Pride

The prompt is to do a 5 minute freewrite on a human attribute for "pride". I'm going to start with the word. (A freewrite is where I just write for 5 minutes, just keep typing. I don't correct grammar or spelling or even make sure it makes sense. To be nice to the reader, I went back after I was finished and cleaned up the spelling and punctuation, but I didn't edit for content, so it still might not make much sense.)

"Pride goeth before a fall," it says somewhere in the Bible. Mom always used to tell me that, over over again. Mom really didn't want me to be a proud person, someone who was so stuck on himself that no one ever liked him and people always thought he was a jerk. Pride was always wrong.

I don't think that way anymore. I think pride is wrong a lot of times, and certainly something to be careful about, but it's not bad in and of itself and sometimes it's a good thing. I'm proud of what I've done in many situations. Not  that only I could do it or that I'm better than everyone else, but I just think I did something good or pretty or whatever and I think it's good for me to be proud of it.

I wrote a story yesterday that was sort of meant to be kind of silly, but one character, Practical Guy, was a kind of voice of reason that no one listens to. He actually says what I think in the story.  I wonder if that's not a kind of pride. I didn't invent him to be my voice, just kind of a foil to the silliness of the situation, a straight man of sorts, and a guy who could bring attention to some of the more subtle gags. Still, I wonder if that's how I see myself: a guy who speaks sense when everything's silly, and who is roundly ignored.

If so, that's not a really good kind of pride.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

53: Crisis at Heroes' Hall

The prompt today is to write about what I'd cook for an enemy.

"HEROES, ASSEMBLE!"

In the council chambers of the Hall of Heroes, the Defenders of Good gathered. They flew, ran, dug, and teleported in to their places around the Table of Justice.

"Thank you for coming, men and women of power and truth," said Radio Voice, the leader of the group. "The Metropolitan Ensemble of Heroes has urgent business."

"Is this about the changing the name?" asked Practical Guy. "You know, the acronym MEH is not really the best..."

"No," interrupted Radio Voice, his golden tones filling the room. "We are here to discuss... finances!"

"Oh, man!" said Practical Guy.

"Yes?" said O Man, rising to his feet. "You called?"

"No," Practical Guy said, "I didn't mean..."

"Perhaps I can assist you with surprise," said O Man. "Oh!"

"No," Practical Guy said, "it's just..."

"Or disappointment," O Man said. "Oh."

"No," Practical Guy said.

"Or amazement," O Man said. "Ooooh!"

"NO," Practical Guy shouted. "I don't need you, O Man! I'm just disappointed that we're going to talk about finances again."

"Oh," said O Man, and he sat down.

"But we must discuss the financial situation," said Pencil Pusher. "There are serious concerns about our debt burden and the lack of fluidity in our stock portfolio."

"Where's Red Hot Chili Chick?" shouted Miss Direction.

"She's tied up in Legal," said Pencil Pusher. "Some kind of trademark problem."

"Everyone calm down," said Radio Voice, and his dulcet tones soothed the gathered Heroes. 

Radio Voice continued. "You all know that we are in deep financial trouble. People are not calling us for help anymore."

"Calling ourselves MEH doesn't help," said Practical Guy under his breath.

"We need to find some way to make ends meet," Radio Voice continued, "and some of the other hero societies have made things work by reaching out and breaking down walls to other societies of super-humans."

"Wait," said Captain Oblivious, "what are we talking about?"

Radio Voice continued, "I think we should reach out to the World Team of Fiends."

"Another group that didn't think about their acronym," Practical Guy said.

 

"Ingenious!" cried Pencil Pusher. "The WTF could help us with our maintenance costs by sharing our janitorial staff. We could get by with half as many people!"

"What???" cried Underpaid Woman.

"The question is," continued Radio Voice, "how do we reach out to them?"

"Maybe we can do something good with them," said Practical Guy. "Maybe work with Freeze Pop to put out people's burning houses."

"But first, we should council the homeowners on paying down their mortgages," said Pencil Pusher.

"I think," said Radio Voice, in his deepest, most sonorous intonations, "that we should send a team to discuss the matter with the villains and see what they would be comfortable doing."

With the tone of command, Radio Voice announced, "The team members will be: Well-Endowed Horror Babe, Red Shirt, and Mr. Forgettable."

"You are kidding, aren't you?" asked Practical Guy.

***

 

Two hours later, Radio Voice addressed the MEH again.

"I am sorry to announce the demise of the team of emissaries sent to the Lair of Evil," he said in somber tones. "Well-Endowed Horror Babe was killed by Axe Murderer and the Scary Mask, and Red Shirt was disintegrated by Kill Phaser."

"Wasn't there someone else?" asked Practical Guy.

"So," Underpaid Woman asked, "we get to keep our jobs?"

"I think we should, like, get them all to, like, come over for a, like, party or something," Party Girl said, ending the sentence as if she were asking a question.

"Yes indeed!" sang Flaming Gay. "That's a great idea! I'll go get us some chicken sandwiches!"

"You better let Party Girl do that," said Radio Voice. "How about we get some potatoes too?"

"HULK SMASH!" cried a large green muscular hero.

"That's enough from you," said Pencil Pusher. "Legal says we can't afford to license anything."

"Wait," said Practical Guy, "isn't the location of our headquarters a secret?"

***

A week later, the superheroes gathered yet again in the Hall of Heroes. There were significantly fewer of them.

"Thank you for once again assembling," said Radio Voice. "In hindsight, it was a pretty bad idea letting the World Team of Fiends know the location of MEH Headquarters."

There was grumbling around the room.

Radio Voice continued, "I want to formally thank Flaming Gay for making Testosterone Skull so uncomfortable that he cut off his attack and left, Red Hot Chili Chick for taking down Drama Queen and the entire Teams Edward and Jacob, and Underpaid Woman for cleaning up afterward."

"Do I get a raise?" asked Underpaid Woman.

"That said," Radio Voice continued, "I don't know what to do. We are still having trouble with our finances."

"Will you listen to me for once?" Practical Guy said. "If we focus on what we don't have, we'll fail for sure. We've got to do what we do well, and be willing to change a little. Let's focus on having some fun, doing some good, and making some friends, and, if the finances don't get better... well... we'll have had a great time and do some real good while it lasts."

"Maybe we can all chip in a little more," said Radio Voice. "You know, everyone increase their pledges a little."

"Hey! That's my signature pose, Practical Guy!" shouted Commander Facepalm.

"I'm not getting a raise, am I?" asked Underpaid Woman.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

52: Alliteraton Always Ascends

The prompt is to write about the "fickle finger of Fate." I'm old enough not to be able to hear that phrase without thinking of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In and their Flying Fickle Finger of Fate Award. This is something different.

Aria-averse Americans barely believe bohemians can confidently compose dreamy drum duets. 

Edgy experts esteem Fate's fickle finger, giving generous goodies.

Happy, healthy hedgehogs ignore icky iguanas just jumping joyfully.

Killer kitchen kittens love lapping low-fat milk, merrily mewing.

Nobody's nose notices other odorous oafs playing painful pranks.

Quintessential queens quickly rock righteous roadies, sweetly strumming sitars through tiny theaters.

Undertakers usually use very vibrant vacuums while watering willows. 

Xavier xeroxes X-rated yellow yucky yearbooks, zeroing zealous zebras. 

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Space

This isn't from a prompt, but from something we talked about during Sunday school last week. I'm going to try to work this out by writing. I'm sharing it since I hope it somehow helps you.

The passage we were discussing was Ephesians 3:14-21, but it wasn't really about that, at least not the actual words.

It was more about the way the words made me feel. I could tell that the author (Paul or whoever) wanted to be affirming and loving and he wanted give these disciples who were so horribly oppressed some sense of hope. "It all makes a difference," he is saying.

But  when I read the words, I felt, well, oppressed myself. Constricted by the apostle's words. I couldn't figure out why.

It's times like these when I really appreciate Sunday school. There's a community there where we help each other struggle with the Bible, and with God and our place in God's world.

What I got from the discussion, largely with the help of Erin and Alyssa, is that the passage is so specific, so crystal clear in what the apostle thinks God is doing, that there doesn't seem to be any room for me in there.

Now, I know that, as with most things related to theology, there's a lot of magnetism at the poles. Either you should just shut up and let the Bible tell you what God is doing in the world, or you should just speak up, because what's in the Bible is nothing but conjecture by people 2000 years ago. I don't think either pole is right.

I just think that when you love someone, you make space for them. If you love your wife, maybe you see a movie you wouldn't otherwise, or maybe you change your behavior because, well, because you want her in your life. If you love your mother, maybe you put up with some of the things that drive you crazy because the world is better with you crazy and her there.

And I know that God loves me, and God loves you, and that means that God leaves space in God's world for you. It's not a kingdom of love if all anyone does is follow orders and force themselves to want The Right Things.

John, a wonderful person, a Presbyterian pastor, whose blog I read recently lost his son. I don't know details, and I don't need to know them, but I do know that the loss was sudden and unexpected and the young man was too young to die. When I read John's blog, reading the edges of his grief, it seems important that whatever the Kingdom of God means, it must contain a space for him and the joy he felt from his son and the grief he feels now. Not just Joy and Grief, not just the concepts, but his joy and grief, which is both different from and the same as all the other grief there is, ever was, and ever will be.

So, basically, if anyone can comprehend the dimensions of Christ's love as the apostle says, then I'm really wrong about, well, just about everything. And there can't be only one way to react to God's love.

I'll gladly give up on even the concept of ever really understanding Christ's love if there can be room in there for John and his son, because then, maybe, there's room for me.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

51: A Use for Tissue

The prompt was to come up with a bunch of uses for tissue, and then write about one of them.

Many years ago, I saw a woman crying.

I walked by, 

uncomfortable.

I didn't know her.

What would I say?

What if she thought...

It wasn't my business.

Steps later 

When I thought...

When I turned back, to be who I wanted to be,

it was too late.

I hope someone was

the me I wanted to be.

I hope they listened to the woman.

I hope they cried with the woman.

I hope they gave the woman a tissue.

I hope God forgives me.

Especially since

It wasn't the last time.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

50: The Dealer

The prompt was to write about a town that lost its supply of... well, you'll see.  (By the way, it's not poetry, though it might look like it.)

Hey, you!

Yeah, you!

Come here.

Are you a cop? No? Good.

You want a little action? You want a little stuff?

Yeah, the white stuff. Shh. Not so loud. Keep it down. You never know who's listening.

I can get you the brown stuff too, even rocks. Raw, processed, however you want.


Hey, you!

Yeah, you!

Come here.

Are you a cop? No? Good.

You want a little action? You want a little stuff?

Yeah, the white stuff. Shh. Not so loud. Keep it down. You never know who's listening.

I can get you the brown stuff too, even rocks. Raw, processed, however you want.

It's the real stuff, none of that fake stuff the Blues and the Pinks and the Yellows try to sell you. And it's not that HFCS stuff either

I can get it for you by the cup, or by the bag, or whatever you want.

It's good stuff too. Give you a real kick.

So, we got a deal? We got a deal, right?

Yeah?

OK, so how much sugar to do you want?

[Dear Stand-Up Comedian (or perhaps Really Funny Friend of Mine) who did a short bit that inspired this piece, please accept my sincere apologies for not remembering who you are. -THR]

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

49: A Rainy Evening at Home

The prompt is to write 250 words on what I do on a rainy day. Oh, I don't know, this seems fairly typical...

It's cozy inside as the rain falls on the roof and windows. The water sloshes down the drainpipes and splashes on the gravel driveway. I'm sitting in my chair, reading through some magazines, listening to some soft music, looking at my old journals. I look through some notes about a project I'm working on, a project I should really finish sometime. Occasionally, I get up to stretch my legs, or perhaps to get a little tea, and peer out the window at the tempest outside.

I return to my comfortable chair and my reading and my music. It's nice to be inside where it's dry. After a few minutes, it sounds like the storm is really kicking up outside. The wind is blowing the drops against the windows. They're hitting hard, almost like hale. I hope the power doesn't go out. There's fresh meat in the refrigerator upstairs, and I don't want to have to get the generator going again.

A flash of light and then thunder rattles the windows. The power of it is so awe inspiring. There's another strike, then, after a moment, another, close enough that I can hear the thunder crackle like foil.

It looks like it's time. I climb the stairs and take the meat out of the fridge. I throw the switches. The machinery crackles into sparks and motion. I stand on the platform with my project as it rises up through the opening in the ceiling. Lightening flashes again and again.

IT'S ALIVE!

If you're keeping score at home, I've done a story about a vampire, a monster, a psychotic Smurf, an evil genius and now Victor Frankenstein. What can I say? I write what I know.

  

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

48: Freewrite on Anger and Grief

Prompt #48 is to do a 5-minute freewrite with the phrase "Anger suffers as grief withdraws." I admit not to knowing what a freewrite was until I looked it up on wikipedia. Basically, it seems like the idea is to just write, keep the pen moving or the keys hammering for a certain amount of time. Spelling or grammar or even making sense is unimportant. It's not generally supposed to be actual writing, but a kind of warm-up exercise for the writer's benefit. I admit to having written what follows elsewhere and then looking through it to make sure I didn't say anything I wouldn't want to make public before copying it here.

This whole public freewrite thing is, frankly, terrifying.

Anger suffers as grief withdraws. I think anger points often points to forgiveness or where forgiveness should be anyway. Anger is sometimes something more, though. I get angry a lot it seems, and I don't like it. I try to avoid it when I can.

Sometimes, I think grief is something I can live without, and sometimes I think it makes things better somehow. Like marking where something is wrong. When that emptiness goes, it seems like there ought to be some mark. When the grief drops away, when the sting of it vanishes, or subsides, it seems like there ought to be something else there.

But when grief withdraws, makes itself small so that you don't notice it anymore, don't feel the emptiness as much, then it's hard for anything to go there. Not anger, not happiness, not anything but just numbness, like a drug, like part of your nervous system was just cut away.

It's hard to think sometimes. Anger doesn't really suffer. At least my anger just makes me suffer. I don't like being angry. I avoid it when I can. I don't like talking politics with people who just try to get angry. A lot of times that what I see people doing: doing politics and getting angry, like the enjoy the anger, relish it. They pick a side, and it really doesn't matter whic, but they just get angry at the other side. It's liek a game.

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.