Monthly Archives: December 2016

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The End of the Road: A Story of Redemption

A Christmas Tale by N. L. Brumbaugh

The man made his way to the gate; head bent, trench coat braced to the wind, shivering. Yes, this was the place. Overgrown with ivy, its black metal spikes pierced the darkness of the moonlit night. Its ancient posts signified a defense against the outside world. A mangy dog padded twenty paces behind him, paused, then sat itself down on its haunches. The mutt’s head followed the man’s every movement. Its ears twitched in alert reflex as they twisted toward the train rails to and from town.

Resisting the urge to launch a rock at the hound, the man peered at the gate, remembering. Was it a decade or two decades ago that this place had been called his home? where he had once supped with others of like-minded thinking. Desperate straits had brought him back. It had come to this. This was a last resort. The end of the line.

Wooo-woot. He could just barely hear the engine whistle. Must be the midnight rail. His hand fumbled around as it searched to locate what he was looking for and found himself unable to contain its unwelcome tremor. Could he do this thing? Can a person ever make peace with the past? His misdeeds had been many. His errors dark as the grime on his unwashed hands. The bell, a twelve inch affair, remained still. His hand unhooked then tightly clasped the chain while his other fingers traced the cross imprint on the bell’s flared side above its rim. Sorrow. What might have been. Indecision stopped him. Thud, thud, thud, his racing heart beat its staccato rhythm as alarm rose in his chest. Better do this thing, he encouraged himself, before I lose my nerve . . . before its too late.

Clang. Clang. Clang. The sound pierced the frozen night air. No. They wouldn’t send him away, not on Christmas Eve. He was sure of it. He listened. Then, the sound of feet tapping on cold stone pavement in the distance; the rustling of clothing, increasing, becoming louder, closer. The hound’s hair began to rise. The dog stood up.

“Who’s there?” A voice inquired.

“A stranger. One of your former brothers.”

“What is your name?”

“Just a friend who will cause no harm. My name will remain undisclosed. I am in need of your hospitality.”

An aging monk peered through the slits. His eyes squinted as they focused on the bent figure. He unlocked the hasp then lifted the steel peg from the ground. The gate swung open with nary a squeak as it offered its path to salvation. The cleric gestured, enter. The stranger followed, then paused, while the great gate closed behind the two men. The hound slunk over to the gate’s pier,  made a circle, then huddled in a round ball for body warmth. The men walked on. No words exchanged between, nor were questions asked.

A wooden door opened. The hallway echoed, their steps made strident slapping sounds in the empty darkness. Wall sconces held lamps lit in somber amber glow. They passed a fountain. His heart jolted uncomfortably. Its memory brought a stinging sensation to the traveler’s eyes. I remember. Oh, how I remember. Regret crashed inside his head. Why, oh why? How stupid he had been. He swept his brow to push the thought aside. That was then, but this was now. They continued on in silence. He had forgotten how incredibly silent this place could be.

“Remain here.” The monk’s vestments swished; then announced his retreat.

“We’ve been expecting you. Come in. Come on in and view our relics.” From the next room a voice came alive; it was masterful, calm, authoritative, rich–and peaceful. The visitor was not given a choice. Enter, he must. The shivering lessened. The visitor rubbed his chapped hands; oh how he wished he had gloves to hide their filth. Guilt and shame collided as he stood there, awaiting what was sure to be asked next. Yes, this was it. He stepped inside the room. The voice continued on, and it commanded truth from him. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, I, uh, it’s a long story, not very pretty. I’ve done a lot of wrong things, hurt people, ya know,” the words jumped out in a nervous jabber. He couldn’t quite make them behave. “I came because I want to make my peace. My life is over. I’m wanted . . . and I’m tired. They will find me. Soon.” He gulped; his throat dry. This was going badly. In a whisper the rest was laid bare in a silent plea of regret. “I wanted to see this place one last time, to say,” . . . his voice hesitated . . . “I’m sorry. To seek forgiveness for the wrong I’ve done” . . . “before” . . . His voice trailed off. The words spilled forth from a longing deep inside the haunted man. He saw the impossibility.

It was already too late, he knew that now. It had been a mistake to come. “Please forgive me for intruding. I’ll be leaving now. I shouldn’t’ve come. Really. It was bad of me. This place is not for the likes of me. I’m sorry for troubling you.” A sigh escaped as he hung his head. It was over. His demise was eminent. He’d come prepared. He fingered the metal inside his pocket—yes, it was still there. It would culminate in the early hours of Christmas Day. The end was near. Indeed, all hope was erased. It had been a weak hope to begin with. Yes, this was the end of the line.

“I said, you are expected,” the voice spoke again as if not hearing or concerned with the confessor’s confession. The traveler’s confusion mounted. He glanced at the tall man standing a few feet to his side. How could this be? He’d told no one of his plans.

The room burst into light. It was a museum. The robed figure’s arm swept out to indicate the display cases that circled the room’s perimeter. His gesture commanded, look. In awe the man glanced around him. Horror surfaced at what he gazed. Each glass plane surface held an artifact, not something pleasant but a repulsive image. Their appearance caused the man to retch and to involuntarily step back in confusion. His eyes glanced around. On each glass table was a pink-skinned creature, long dead, denude of fur, it’s head, feet or both removed. Each was mounted to a table surface; their faces were horrible, repulsive gargoyle-like images.

The man gasped. The images seemed to beckon him; Remember this? Remember that thing? The urge to escape was in panic mode, but he remained transfixed, immobile, glued to the spot. Something powerful was at work. What was this? What could it mean? What were these wretched creatures he was being forced to view?

The stranger’s gaze rested on the first creature. What was it? . . .when suddenly, “Poof,” it disappeared. Wha-a-at? His eyes rested on the next image. . . . “Poof,” then it was gone too. Hesitantly his eyes moved to the next table. It was hard to do, their pink-ugliness was revolting even to him. After a few seconds it disappeared too. Gone. His eyes looked from image to image, recoiling at their ugliness, each one remaining motionless until a beam from his eyes joined that of the object until it dissolved into nothingness.

It was odd. Then he came to the last creature, an over-large phantom-freak with repulsive pig-like features. It sat on top of an isolated display case in the back of the room; its exceedingly evil essence caused him to inhale and his breath to catch. The visitor spoke in a fragment of a whisper, commanding it to go away, “You, too.” . . .The thing disintegrated before his eyes and soon was no more. Depletion emptied him of all feeling. What did it mean? The tall robed figure nodded, pleased with him. Yes, well done, his actions indicated approval. There was compassion in the tall man’s eyes and there was warmth and approval in his countenance. An awareness entered into the stranger. It was a transaction. Something was different now. What was it? Gone. It was all gone! ‘They,’ were gone. His guilt, removed. Forgiven. Atoned. Finally . . . finally, peace. Relief flooded the traveler’s being, a flush warmed him from head to toe. All is well that ends well. He had been wise to come.

“You are free to leave or free to stay. It is your choice to make. All are welcome. None are turned away.”

The scraggly hound lifted its head, howled its lonely bay as a train clattered frantically into the silent night. On the other side of the gate, Christmas claimed another miracle.

Peace on Earth.

The Rest of the Story. This story is loosely written from a dream I had that startled and then woke me up. I was in that room with the creatures and a tall robed figure was with me. I saw the ugly pink-skinned creatures, most of them without heads or feet. All were laying on the top of glass display cases. They revolted me. As I looked at each one, it would disappear after a few seconds of my staring. I realized after two or three evaporated into thin air that I was to look at each one until, hopefully, it would disappear. Finally, I came to the ugliest and largest one of all, right next to the door where I could escape. It took longer to dissolve. The robed figure was pleased with me.

When I woke up, I thought long about it. In my mind the mounted creatures represented evil beings, whether demonic or not I did not know. I wondered if it held a message for me, like God using me (or us) to fight in the battle against the evil forces in this world.

Later, I decided to incorporate the idea in a short story about the sinner and his redemption in a modern day parable. In this story, the robed figure is Jesus and the table creatures are the traveler’s past evil deeds. He is repulsed by their ugliness like we should be repulsed by the evilness of our sinful deeds.

In conclusion, Jesus is the one Who heals, forgives and transforms. Remember the reality of this true, living miracle and reason for Jesus Christ entering our world as a human God-man to offer us the way of salvation for the redeeming of our souls.

…

This is a reposted blog.

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A Story about Honesty & How to Model Responsible Behavior to Your Children

“How do you save

someone from themselves?

You can’t.

You can love them,

you can help them,

you can provide for them,

but you can’t save them.”

Those are sort of discouraging words. There is a limit to what we can do for someone who is intent on heading a wrong direction with their life. I wrote those words on a tablet a couple of years ago. I don’t know why I wrote them or who I was thinking about at the time. I surmise it was to do with a young person who is not coming up to speed in some way. Looking at the words, I think I would add one more line; at some point, a person must become responsible for their own life.

On a talk show this week, I was listening to a discussion about young people and how they are today in comparison to a couple of decades ago. The host was interviewing a counselor in the college-university system. She said that she has been in the business for twenty-five years. She said that young people are much farther behind than young people were twenty years ago. She went on to say, college freshman today are much less prepared for school (and life) and there are reasons for this. Many of them have not failed because their parents have been making sure everything goes right for them. Intervening when there is an uncomfortable issue. Parents have been cleaning up the messes rather than giving their children the experiences of handling their own problems and the responsibility that comes with meeting the expectation. They haven’t had to face the consequences of their poor choices because of their parents’ willingness to step in and fix things on their behalf.

To be honest, I’ve been guilty of this at times. I have also practiced tough love on a couple of occasions because I knew I had to.

The discussion was about parents learning to allow their children to fail for the child’s own personal growth, and the need for adults to teach their children and young people how to become responsible for themselves. A parent’s role includes cheering their child on, by showing them that they are encouraging their personal growth–“This is great! Good job! See what you learned!” Responsibilities are something a parent expects and has a follow-through plan to help make it happen. Parents were encouraged to work on two areas at a time with each of their children. When those skills are acquired, they go on to the next two skills. They have a reasonable progression, a list, of areas they want their child to know and do before they leave home for college. They don’t overwhelm by having too many expectations at one time.

Intentional parenting is involved. It is like old-fashioned horse sense with kindness mixed in for good measure.

It all sounds good (one of the speakers has four children and has raised thirteen foster children and seemed to know what he was talking about). But, but, but. But, alas, sometimes it is pretty tough to make it all work out well. The goal, to prepare our children for life and to become responsible adults, is a good one, and there are ways to aim at it. As a parent of five, I can attest that the effort involved in solid parenting is much more difficult than it appears. It has its discouraging moments and it has its difficult challenges. It also has its rewards and its celebrations. Achievements are often the result of consistent learning of right behaviors, and also learning from failure when it happens, too.

There are times you must step back and let your child face the consequences for their actions. For example, I remember walking my oldest child back to the store to pay for some caps he took from a five and dime. I found him smashing the caps with a rock on the front stoop. He was in kindergarten or first grade. It was a life lesson. He was shy and it was painful for both of us. I had him speak to the male clerk, who was a tall man. Later on, this son of mine developed a penchant for finding lost items. The first thing he found was in the park when he was in first grade. It was a state-of-the-art, gold, extra-fancy with a long blade, pocket knife. It was a beauty. I wanted him to keep it, that’s a natural impulse, but it wasn’t his to keep. I knew I had a responsibility to teach him to do the right thing and that we don’t keep what isn’t ours in the first place. We turned the pocket knife in to the park personnel.

From then on, Son 1 would find all sorts of things, two bicycles on two different occasions, a white purse with $60 in it while in 8th grade and riding his bike out in the country, a Guess watch at an Oregon campground, many, many cell phones and so forth. Every single one he turned in to the proper authorities. Only the Guess watch was sent back to him 6 months later. I knew he was honest as the day is long the day I mistakenly carried a coiled hose out of a farm store without paying for it, when my son, realizing what I had done, grabbed the hose and immediately went back inside the store to pay for it. He was in high school at the time. Interesting, isn’t it?

Do all the good you can and the best you can. But then you have to let go and let them face their own choices. I believe it is essential to do this, or we end up with adult children who never grow up because they’ve never had to.