Tag: faith

Poodie James

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back into the bay, “we ought to try a power gurdy. I don’t know if it
would control the lines any better, but it would speed things up.”
“I don’t trust them. The hand gurdy is fine.”
“But, Dad…..”
“Peter. I said the hand gurdy will do for us.”
“Look, I’ll pay for it. If you don’t like it, it goes, and it doesn’t
cost you anything.”
“No. I said no.” The steel of stubborness was in the old man’s
voice. “That’s the end of it.”
Evenings when the boat was in port, Peter rarely had supper
with his folks. He roamed. After midnight, they heard his quiet
steps on the stairs to his room.
“You must say something to him, Ivar,” his mother said. “He’s
going to find trouble.”
“He’s a grown man, Hilda.”
Then, after a few weeks back on the boat and more suggestions,
Pete argued with Ivar about how to do the work, occasionally at first,
and after a couple of years nearly without ceasing. The change in his
son troubled Ivar Torgerson. A scowl seemed engraved on the face of
the young man. Eagerness for work transmuted into a flow of resentment
and quarreling. He swore at people who got in his way when he
walked on the dock. Ivar heard reports of Peter picking fights in bars
and tormenting drunken Indians on the waterfront in Seattle. He
heard worse too, things he would not listen to, about Peter and sailors,
about the kinds of things some sailors do. At Christy’s Tavern, he
knocked Hans Karlson flat when Karlson began to tell him what he’d
heard. Ivar never asked his son where he went on his nights out alone.
He could not bring himself to mention what he knew Karlson and the
others whispered about.
On a Sunday evening, Ivar and Hilda strolled down the hill
toward the bay, relishing the softness of the springtime air and the
quietness of the streets. They looked in store windows, admired
flower beds, ambled along the dock.
“Ivar, you’re headed toward the boat. This is Sunday. Come on,
we’re turning around right now.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Jazz with Ella

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David smiled. “You know, I don’t know when Gorky wrote that, but it’s the utterly perfect story for this country in 1974. Don’t you find that so much that’s told to us is a beautiful illusion when the truth is really ‘bitter’?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Paul continued. “The Soviets are like the old man—they just ignore the failures. The elevators that don’t work. The trucks that break down. The harvests that don’t yield what they expect. We visitors are like the father—we have to put a name to it, admire the beauty, then we point out that it’s not the truth. It’s no wonder they don’t really like our visits.”
“This is great philosophizing,” Maria cut in, “but I hear the truth right now.” She leaned over the railing. “I’m sure I hear a real nightingale singing.” The notes were pure and true, haunting. The group was quiet for a long time, listening, delighted.
Finally Paul got up from his deck chair. “Nah, it was just a scrubby little village lad.”
★
Paul Mercier returned to his cabin with the intention of diving into the definitive biography of the Sentimentalist period writer Karamzin that he had been trying to finish before the end of the trip. It had been difficult to find any study time because of their rigorous sightseeing schedule, though his conversations in Chopyk’s advanced class had been informative. That’s one thing about the guy, he is a serious scholar. He wondered if academia was truly his own calling. Did he really want to end up like Chopyk—an old lady, unloved by students and women alike? When they started out on this trip, he had found it easier to read the Sentimentalist view of nature in literature than to be out in the streets of Moscow actually viewing the real thing. But while they were in Leningrad something new had been emerging, something not found in books. He had been taking enjoyment from the scenery; it was refreshing. And he had even been moved by the rich, barbaric Russian history he saw depicted in paintings and church frescoes. For amusement, Paul had been keeping an informal list of the countless statues of Lenin they had seen to date, the endless art galleries, museums, and palaces of culture they had visited, but now he threw down these lists in disgust.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Arrows

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And so I prayed.
To deny myself at that point meant quelling the abhorrence I felt
toward my countrymen and replacing it with love. I needed to clean
the crystal ofmysoul of all intention, so that the pure light of God could
shine through me, like the sun through a window into a dark room.
I tried, I really did. But when I descended into the valley, carrying
my little medicine chest under my arm, in case I should find a
moribund Christian to whom I could offer spiritual comfort, the
expanse of unnecessary death and pain sickened me.
“Are you a Christian?” I asked of those who could still talk,
mostly Indians.
A few spat at me, others looked beyond me. I was amazed to find
only two Spaniards, two harquebusiers who must have fallen
during the first round of arrows.
It pained me to simply pass by most men, but my desire to help
someone and offer him absolution of his sins before he died kept
me going, though I was sadly aware of all the souls that would not
be saved.
“Are you a Christian?” I kept asking. I found a young native man
whom I recognized as one of our party. He had received several
blows from macanas: his head was cracked open and his entrails had
spilled onto the ground. Iridescent flies feasted on the pool of gore
underneath him.
He nodded, shivering and bathed in sweat. “Are you? Good,” I
said, regretting the word ‘good’ as soon as it left my mouth. My
hands trembled as I opened the chest and extracted the ampulla
containing the oleum infirmorum. “Can you talk?”
He nodded and moaned horribly, his eyes wandering aimlessly.
He made a convulsive attempt at confession, and I absolved him
forthwith, giving him the viaticum and anointing his eyelids,
saying, “Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may
the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed by sight,”
and repeating it with his ears, nostrils, lips, hands, feet and loins.
I raised my head and saw Pánfilo checking on the dead with his
harquebus hanging from his shoulder and his dagger at the ready.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Arrows

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“Leave me alone, will you?” he scowled.
But I wanted to make peace with him.
“I mean it, Gregorio. You need a bleeding to drain all those bad
humours and grudges. Hombre! I saw you in battle; if I hadn’t been
so busy running, I would have stayed put to watch you. What
shooting and fighting! You are a born conquistador. From now on, it
will be quite comforting to have you around.”
I uncorked a flask of marigold oil. Gregorio chortled at last. He
took a gulp from the mug he was holding.
“I saw you, too,” he said, “running like a hare.”
“Little wonder! I have never been so frightened in my life!”
Gregorio and Benjamin laughed. Perhaps I was more useful to
them as feckless character, someone to jeer at.
“Why, you don’t want to go to heaven, Friar?” Benjamin taunted.
“I know I am but a sinner,” I smiled. “But I could use a bit more
time before God blows out my candle. I’m hoping to find some way
to skip purgatory.”
“Trying to become a saint, are you?” Gregorio said. “Become a
martyr, then. That will do, won’t it?”
“That would be an improvement, no doubt. I’ve been thinking
about it. Perhaps one of these days someone will favour my
aspirations.”
Gregorio swatted at a hornet that came too close. “We’re going to
make it, I think,” Gregorio said. “Losada knows what he is doing.
You can see it in his face. I’m convinced he knows how the bastards
think. He has lots of experience. But, if you ask me, Francisco Infante
is the better of the two.”
Losada struck me as a man of principle whereas Francisco Infante
impressed me as a schemer, someone who would rather run things
for himself, so I decided not to respond to the bait. It was odd for me
to sometimes feel so close to Gregorio and Benjamin, and yet at the
same time I sensed their camaraderie was fickle, transitory. For
them, the New World was strictly a land of opportunity, and the
state of their souls was a distant second.
Were they ever my friends? Or did they even want to be?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

The Circle

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o the University of Southern California Medical Center, wait for him, and get him
back to the hotel. That’s his business for the morning, nothing else. The ride takes
about fifteen minutes, as rush-hour traffic is over and the streets are quieter at this
time of day. They arrive and the driver opens the door for them. Ibrahim gets out
with Hakim, and they walk toward the reception area. A blonde girl of about
twenty-five greets them.
“Good morning, sir, please have a seat. The nurse will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
The nurse comes to get Ibrahim. Before she guides him away, Hakim asks
how long they’ll keep him inside and the nurse says about one to two hours. They
have to perform a CBC and obtain a few scan images; the doctors have organized
two MRIs, and they need to do a small procedure to get a specimen. After that,
he’ll be free to go.
After they take his uncle away, Hakim takes a stroll on the grounds of the
medical. He walks for a while and then dials Talal’s number. The phone rings
four times before Talal answers. Hakim asks for news and Talal confirms that it
will take a few days. Hakim finds a bench and sits. His mind goes to Matthew and
Bevan once more. He is eager to learn more of what they do, the specifics of what
they deal with, and whom they report to.
He dials again and calls Peter at the office.
“Hi Peter, how are things there, today?”
“Not much different than any other day. How are things with you and your
uncle?”
“They’re doing the tests. He’ll be in for a couple of hours.”
“Okay. Do you need anything else?” Peter senses Hakim has something to say
to him.
“Look, Peter, I’d like to sit down with you in the next couple of days, is that
okay?”
“Yeah, what’s on your mind? Talk to me.”
“There is no rush. Just hang tight, we’ll talk when the time comes.”
Peter understands he has to leave this alone until the right time; after all, you
don’t push the people who have money and the power that comes with it.
“Suit yourself, Hakim, I’ll be ready.” He stresses the last words and Hakim
likes the sound of that.
“Thanks, Peter, I know I can count on you when it comes to the serious stuff;
thanks a lot.”
He spends the next hour or so outside, with his thoughts traveling to the
future and what he needs to organize with Talal next to him at the top of the
ladder. But he wonders what to do about Jennifer. The question breaks the …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

Still Waters

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Sister had warned the staff this morning to be careful what they
said in the hearing of their patients, especially this couple. Yesterday,
as his wife was being admitted, Guy Aubert had overheard the nurses
at the desk.
“The patient going into 224 is a threatened abortion,” one of them
said.
“This is not an abortion,” Guy Aubert yelled, his French accent
becoming more pronounced with the level of his outrage. “We do
not do such a thing as this. We are Catholic, and the church does not
allow …”
It had taken Sister several minutes to calm the young man down,
and explain what she meant by the medical term. Tyne cautioned
herself not to refer to her patient’s condition as anything but a
threatened miscarriage. Her heart ached for the couple and the obvious
distress they felt at the possible loss of this first baby they wanted
so much.
Shortly before three o’clock, Tyne made the final rounds of her patients
to assure herself that all was in order for the oncoming evening
shift. The young boy with the ruptured appendix seemed to be doing
nicely. His anxious parents had not left his bedside. The middle-aged
man, who had been admitted two days earlier with a heart attack,
slept peacefully. There was nothing more to do at the moment for
the bowel surgery in 216. His wife sat quietly by his bedside, and
smiled at Tyne as she bid them good night.
Jeannette Aubert was alone in her room, still lying on her back,
still clutching her rosary. Tyne could see where the tears had dried
on her cheeks.
She covered her patient’s hands with her own, and said gently,
“Shall I give you a back rub, Jeannette? You’ve been lying in this position
for most of the day. We don’t want you to get a bed sore.”
Tyne knew that, unlike her elderly patients, young healthy skin did
not develop pressure sores so readily, but a back rub would afford
her the chance to talk to the young woman alone. It might also help
Jeannette relax, and take her mind off the baby for a few minutes.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

He Rode Tall

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Joel wasn’t sure what it was, but somehow he had connected
with the peace and tranquility of the land. He was wondering
if there wasn’t some way he could make a go of the Circle
H. Joel knew that he had lost his soul a lot of years ago, but now,
maybe just maybe, he had found his soul in the hills.
“So who is this Smith character?” inquired Joel.
“Big rancher. Moved in about ten years ago and hasn’t stopped
buying since. Must control almost the entire county. Between
what he has already put his hands on and what he has tied up in
first right of refusals he pretty well owns Sweetwater Country.
They say he runs over 5,000 head.”
Even Joel knew that 5,000 head was a lot of anything let alone
cows. Anyone who has enough land to feed that many cattle
would be just about as close to a king as you could get in this dry
country.
By now, Harry had run out of chores to do and things to tinker
with so he slowly turned to face Joel. It was then that Joel clearly
saw the withered, weather-stained face of the man he was speaking
with. Joel couldn’t help but think that Harry’s head was too
big for the size of his body. His tiny frame carried maybe 140
pounds, none of it fat. With a thirty-inch waist, this ranch hand
of fifty or sixty, or was it seventy, years appeared to be in excellent
condition. His face featured a big nose, ears the size of tea saucers,
and an abundance of thick black hair. And his hands. His
hands were those of a worker and his big head seemed out of proportion
to the size of his lithe body.
“Lives over there,” offered Harry.
“Over where?” asked Joel, almost forgetting who it was that
they were talking about.
“The Buck Smith Ranch Corporation Headquarters are just
over those hills. Maybe a mile across.”
“Then we are neighbours.”
“Might say that. A mile across the hills but must be ten miles
around on the roads. Don’t see much of them over here. Just
their cows all over the hills.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

Arrows

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I retched again and leaned to one side to let out a stream of bitter
bile. I blinked in the darkness and looked around without the least
hope of standing up. The roof was low and the hot air impregnated
with damp and the smell of unwashed bodies, vomit and bilge; the
air seemed to congeal as I exhaled.
How long had we been rocking and shaking in this darkness? A
day? Two? “Eloí, Eloí, lama sabactani?” I quoted, meaning every
word our Lord had said when feeling forsaken on the Cross.
Trembling, I grasped a coil of rope. My tonsured head was bathed
in cold sweat; drops trickled down my forehead, slid down my neck
and soaked my grey cassock. The Seraphic Rosary dangled from my
cord, rippling monotonously. I took no more than shallow breaths,
distracting my mind amid the artillery, lines, water barrels and
cases, some knocked about by the sea’s fury despite having been
lashed down.
The hatches and portholes were kept closed to avoid water, and
the lighting of candles was strictly forbidden. I had withstood the
first hours by meditating on the Passion of Our Lord, but once
overcome by sickness, I could not stop vomiting.
The danger on deck had confined many men below: the carpenter
and his mates, the cook and his galley lads, the gunners, seamen
awaiting the change of watch. We sat close to one another, sweating
and praying, eyes fixed on the ceiling, following noises from the
upper deck. After making vows and promises to the virgin,
swearing to make penitence of fasting on bread and water the first
Saturday of every month, some wished to confess.
To my surprise it was Pánfilo, a wiry old midshipman who had
lost most of his front teeth, who came first. I dried my face with the
sleeve of my habit, uncertain of my strength, and passed my hand
across my wet chest and aching belly. My stomach was void, though
still assaulted by waves of nausea. “Move over, hombre! My sins are
only God’s to hear, you filth,” lisped Pánfilo. Others shifted. Pánfilo
knelt beside me.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

The Circle

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WASHINGTON D.C. IS CLOUDY and cold on this September morning.
Despite still feeling tired, Matthew gets up at 6 a.m., his usual time. The only
days he allows himself to sleep in are the rare days when he is at home, in bed
with Emily. Those days are special to him, as he can linger in bed and, if he is
lucky, have a morning session of sex with his wife. But those days are so rare;
at times he wonders why she has been with him all this time, in a life so
deprived of sexual satisfaction, since he hardly gives her any pleasure with his
quickies, as they call their lovemaking sessions. And he doesn’t count the true
love the romantic books of poetry discuss in their verses, because Matthew is
a true believer that such love doesn’t exist, that a man never loves a woman
that way, unless he’s a dreamer or having hallucinations. He walks to the
bathroom sink and washes his face, shaves, and brushes his teeth. He puts on
his usual suit for the office, clothes that he has carried in the same suitcase for
so many years. Then he goes down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast before
heading to work.He orders ham and eggs with hash browns, toast, and coffee.
This is the all-American breakfast which he is a strong believer in having
every day, even when at home.
“Never go out without a good breakfast in your stomach,” his father always
said, and Matthew Roberts never forgets that.
The server brings his food a few minutes later, as he enjoys his coffee while
reading the newspaper headlines.
Matthew has traveled between Los Angeles and Washington for thirty years,
all this time with the same government agency. Jennifer wasn’t even born when
he started this job. As a young computer analyst, he had many job opportunities.
However, he got lucky and this department was in a recruiting mode back in
those days. Now, after all this time, he looks back, and feels satisfied with the path
he has taken and where it has led him. After all, he is second in command. A few
more years and he can see himself retiring at last, with a good severance pay and
good pension. Then he will spend more time with Emily, whom he misses so
much, and with his daughter, who has been raised almost alone by her mother.
Then he will visit his father in Arkansas, who has been alone for such a long time

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

Water in the Wilderness

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Rachael bounced over the kitchen floor to watch Tyne take the roast out of the oven and place it on a platter for Morley to carve. “That sure smells good, and I’m real hungry.” The child sniffed the air. “Do we get gravy, too?”
“We sure do,” Tyne said, “and as soon as you’ve washed your hands we can start to eat.”
After they washed at the kitchen sink and settled in chairs at the table, Morley said, “Tell Auntie Tyne what you saw.”
“Piggies,” Bobby sang out.
Rachael cut in. “Chickens and cows and ….”
“Baby cows!”
“They’re not baby cows, silly,” Rachael said with authority, “they’re calves.”
Tyne laughed quietly as she filled plates and placed one in front of each of them. “And did you see the mommy hen with her little chicks?” she asked.
“Yep!” This from Rachael as she grabbed her fork and began to dig into her mashed potatoes.
Bobby followed his sister’s lead but Morley reached over and touched their hands. “Wait until Auntie Tyne sits down and we ask the blessing.”
Both children looked at him blankly. “What’s that mean?” Rachael demanded.
“It means,” Morley said gently, “that before we eat, we thank God for the food.”
“Oh yeah,” the girl said. “Mommy thanks God sometimes, but she calls it Grace. Why would she call it Grace? I know a girl at school who’s called Grace and she never says anything like that.”
Morley glanced at Tyne who noted with some satisfaction that her husband seemed momentarily at a loss. She bit her lip to hide her smile.
“Well,” Morley said as Tyne took her place at the table, “your mom is right in calling it Grace. You see, grace is a blessing …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X