Dew on Cracked Clay

Jessica sat looking out the window at the steady downpour of rain.  The gloomy day fit her mood.  It had not rained continuously for over a year, but her mood had been dismal for that long.  Her only child, her son David, had been snatched from her by a drunken driver 14 months ago.  As a single mother, her life had revolved around her handsome son who held such promise.  He should have graduated from high school by now and been off to college.  She should have been baking cookies to mail to him.

But, every day she sat motionless, “nearly catatonic,” her friends said behind her back.  She rarely bathed or combed her hair.  She ate little.  Jessica had been a highly creative woman….an artist.  She rented a studio in a building downtown where interaction with other artists was stimulating.  She no longer wanted to be stimulated.  Awareness of life was too painful, because the light of her life had been snuffed.

As the stream of creativity which had characterized her life slowed so that not even a trickle was evident, her soul became parched and cracked and the worst of her was exposed.  She sat alone in the dark refusing to leave the house.  She stared out through unseeing eyes, unkempt, disheveled. She did not answer her phone or emails.  Friends worried as she withdrew from social interaction previously enjoyed.  In her bitterness of spirit, she said mean and hateful things even to those who did their best to console and support her.

“If this continues, it is not just her spirit which will dry up.  It is her very life which is at risk,” her friends murmured.

Once a soul reaches a certain point of hardness, even a torrent cannot penetrate the cracked clay of despair.  Especially a torrent accomplishes nothing as it bounces off and runs away.  A drop….on the other hand….a single drop….

Each day as Jessica sat at the window, a child passed on her way to school.  Many days passed before she noticed the child….a girl with misshapen hands.  As an artist who had done portraits, she could not help but notice and analyze the strange hands.

On another one of those rainy dismal days, the child walked through the sprinkles singing, “If you’re happy and you know it...”

Jessica almost smiled. How ironic!  The child with missing fingers and strange stubs sticking out was singing, “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.”

 Jessica looked down at her own delicate hands and lovely fingers...wonderfully talented hands and fingers capable of visually interpreting the creativity of her mind.  She had not recently cared for her nails, so she picked up an emery board.

A tiny individual drop of moisture fell on the barren earth within her.  It softened the soil ever so slightly, so little as to be almost imperceptible.

The next day the rain had stopped and the sun shone brilliantly.  She watched for the child.  This time she was skipping and singing, “There is sunshine in my soul…”

“There is no sunshine in my soul,” Jessica thought. ”I don’t want it.  If I sit in the darkness of death, it is my business.”

Still….the contrast between herself and the girl was inescapable.  A child with deformed hands sang.  Her hands lay idly in her lap.  She picked up a pencil and sketch pad and started to draw a picture of deformed hands, but a tiny trickle of hope seeped into the parched soul moistened by the one earlier drop of dew.

Each day she watched for the child.  Wanting a closer look, she eventually moved a chair outside, not realizing she had moved into the sunlight.  Paradoxically, she had also moved into the rain….the thirsty ground of her spirit began to allow refreshing drops to fall and fill her painful emptiness.

She wanted to talk to the child, but knew her disheveled appearance might frighten her.

She washed her clothes, took a shower, shampooed her hair, and put on some lipstick.

“Hello,” she called to the little girl the following day. “I see you pass every day.  What is your name?”

“Angela, but my family calls me Angel,” she replied with a radiant smile.

One cannot expect deep conversation from a child.  Jessica began to desire it.  She picked up the phone and called a friend she had not talked to in months.

Every day as she passed, the child waved her strange hands and smiled. Every day she seemed to be singing a different song. One day she did not pass, but Jessica didn’t notice.  She was enjoying coffee with a group of friends at a café near her long unvisited studio.

Actually, the child never passed again, but Jessica was rarely at the window watching.  She had returned to her studio and creativity had begun to flow from her crushed brokenness. Her paintings which had previously been beautiful were now also infused with palpable emotion.

Sitting in the café with her friends, she shared her thoughts about the little girl whose deformed hands clapped with joy.  She knew that seeing the child had precipitated the healing of her spirit, but how this had happened eluded her.

Lily, who was an atheist, dismissed the whole business as nothing more than coincidence.  She was sure Jessica would have come out of her funk on her own.  Time just needed to pass.

Heather, who was a new-ager, fingered her crystal necklace and declared that although there certainly was a spiritual component to the renewal, it was a mystery which would never be understood.

Judith, who was the Bible-reading, church-goer in the group, was certain the child had actually been a ministering angel.

Jessica knew how close she had come to the edge of an inescapable abyss.  But now, her hidden and painful wounds were replaced with a flood of peace.  It bubbled up from within her spirit and overflowed into conversation, laughter, productivity and the renewed joy of life. 

She couldn’t believe it was a coincidence.

She certainly hoped it was not a mystery. 

She wanted to know the origin of the joy that could somehow coexist with pain.  She determined to seek the source.

The Ticket

On the whole, life was pretty dull and mundane for a retired teacher with no family.  Julia’s husband had passed away seven years earlier, just before her retirement.  They had never had any children, so she could not complain, as some friends did, about the excessive drama created by younger generations, and the ways in which time could be consumed with their needs.

She belonged to a retired teachers’ group which met monthly for lunch, attended church on Sunday, and volunteered at Hospice.  Occasionally she got together with a friend for lunch or coffee, but in general, life had few ups and downs….or at least there wasn’t much deviation from the norm.  Trips with the retired teachers did get her out of town now and then.

Her small and tidy home had a small and tidy yard.  A neighborhood boy mowed the lawn for her.  She did love her flower gardens.  She looked eagerly each year for the perennials to bloom in their turn…crocuses, tulips, daffodils, gladiolas, daisies, bleeding hearts, black-eyed Susans, and phlox.  Julia loved them all.  She was also fascinated with hosta and had several varieties with solid or variegated leaves growing around trees in shady areas.

On a hot August day, Julia knelt with her trowel, weeding and edging the flower beds and thinking random thoughts.  She definitely needed something to spice up her life.  She wasn’t particularly interested in finding some elderly gentleman to date.  Her marriage had been happy, and it seemed like a lot of work to break in another husband.  She had noticed that even the nicest of men seemed to get a bit more grumpy and impatient as they aged.  She wasn’t sure that the benefits of a relationship would outweigh the irritations. 

She turned over the dirt and amused herself with the radical notion of becoming a secret agent.  Who would suspect a sweet gray-haired old lady?  She could travel the world on clandestine assignments, dancing on the edge of danger, risking a heart attack or stroke from the excitement and stress…or maybe not.  However, it would be nice, she thought, to have some delicious secret.

A delicious secret…hmm…what could she do that no one would suspect, but that also wouldn’t kill her prematurely?  What if she wrote a book under a pen name?  What if it was racy or dark and totally unlike her own life?  But then, how would she know about a life that was totally unlike her own?  She couldn’t stand watching soap operas or horror movies.

If only she could be fabulously wealthy, but continue with her lowly lifestyle.  She could give her money to a worthy charity.  It would be fun to walk through the world never being noticed and savoring such a secret. She turned this idea over along with the dirt until her knees were so stiff that she absolutely had to get up and stretch.  Perhaps that was enough gardening for today.

The rest of the afternoon passed reading plays by Euripides.  She had set about reading the Great Books, thinking she might actually become “truly educated” before her passing.  She discovered that she disliked Euripides’ attitude toward women, and that she was becoming bogged down in the Greek plays.  It was looking less likely that she could finish the Great Books before she became blind, senile or deceased.

She took up as much time as she could in preparation of her evening meal.  Tonight it would be a shrimp stir fry with fresh sugar snap peas, a small zucchini and scallions from her trip to the farmers’ market this morning.  Julia carried her meal to the living room and hit the TV remote. Scott Pelley was her dinner companion at 6:30 PM on weekdays.  She could have dinner with a handsome and pleasant gray-haired man with no strings attached.  She wondered if he was getting grumpy as he aged.  If so, she would never have to put up with it.

Midway in the news broadcast, she learned that the latest winner of Powerball still had not come forward to collect the $450 million dollar prize.  Theticket had been sold in Missouri at a rural convenience store.  Imagine that!  It was thought that someone probably knew he or she was the winner, but was consulting with a lawyer before claiming the money.  Julia let out a small disgusted snort.  She had never in her life gambled.  She could not comprehend the foolishness of a person spending even a dollar or two, when the odds were astronomically against winning.  She had never even participated in a 50/50 drawing.  Her parents had brought her up to believe gambling was a serious sin.

After Alex, Pat and Vanna had entertained her, she did a couple of crossword puzzles, took a leisurely bath and crawled into the double bed which had seemed too big for the past seven years.  She had just begun to drift off to sleep when she realized what a delicious secret it would be to actually win the lottery and donate the ticket to a charity.  She wondered if it would be possible to view the purchase of an occasional lottery ticket as harmless entertainment rather than serious sin.

Julia sighed, snapped the light back on and began to wander the house.  It was useless trying to sleep once her brain had begun to examine every aspect of an issue, even if the issue was a remote fantasy.  If there was a threshold at which she predetermined to purchase a ticket…and only one ticket….she would not be sucked into wasting huge sums from her carefully budgeted resources.  As she stood gazing out the living room window at the shadows cast by the street light, she decided on $150 million.  She would not allow herself to purchase a ticket unless Powerball reached that amount. 

As she admired her gardens in the moonlight from the kitchen window, she agreed with herself that she would not purchase a ticket at any store in which she routinely shopped and would be recognized by the store personnel.  She would vary her routes traveling to visit friends or when running errands, so that she made the purchases of tickets in many different locations.

If she won, and she had begun to believe that she would win, what charity was worthy of such a donation?  That, she decided, would require some research.  She drank a cup of warm milk and returned to bed.

Over the next month, Julia paid more attention to the requests for donations which arrived in the mail on an almost daily basis.  Normally such mail went straight in the trash unopened, unless it felt thick enough that there might be enclosed mailing labels.  But now, she read each request carefully.  How could one do the most good?  Human need exceeded any individual’s wealth….even her imagined, currently unrealized wealth.   One thing she knew for sure….she did not trust the government to spend her money wisely.  She wanted to minimize what she had to pay in taxes. 

Although the plan for her winnings was not fully formulated, Julia decided to buy her first ticket.  A friend with a year-round home on the lake had invited her for lunch.  The leaves on the trees were changing into a glorious array of colors, and she thoroughly enjoyed the drive to her friend Kate’s lovely home.  As they sat sipping tea after lunch, Kate commented that Julia seemed distracted….was something wrong? 

Julia thought, “I must learn to control myself better.  I am thinking about buying a ticket on the way home.  I can’t do anything that would cause suspicion.” 

What she said was, “Goodness, no, nothing is wrong!  I am just enjoying the breath-taking view of the lake and the colors of the leaves reflected in that area over there were the water is shallow and still.”

An hour later, she pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store which she had noticed on the drive to the lake.  She put the car into park, and sat there a moment.  Was she really going to do this?  Perhaps, she should buy something in addition to the ticket, but being frugal, she didn’t want to buy something she didn’t need.  Items she could use, like a loaf of bread, would be more expensive in a convenience store than in the supermarket.  She took a deep breath, marched into the store and bought her first Powerball ticket.  Her heart was pounding as she left the store.  She felt as if she had just committed a crime.  She decided that her parents and husband must be rolling over in their graves.  She slid into the car, closed the door and laughed out loud as she put the key into the ignition

.

That night as she ate dinner in front of the TV, she said to Scott Pelley, “I bought a lottery ticket today.”  Scott Pelley did not react or miss a beat as he read the news.  “So,” she thought, “it’s no big deal.”  She slept well, which she decided, when she awakened in the morning, was a sign that her conscience was clear.

Fall became winter and winter became spring.  Spring became summer.  Julia turned over the dirt in her flower beds and thought about the tickets she had purchased since the idea first came to her.  She no longer had palpitations and misgivings when she bought the tickets.  She had carefully followed her initial criteria for making a purchase.  Each time a winner was announced, she shredded her losing ticket.  The purchase and the shredding became a routine with no particular emotion attached.  Of course, when she put the first ticket through the shredder, she felt as though she was destroying money, but feelings of that type had subsided with each repetition of the ritual.

Although she wasn’t saving her losing tickets, she did want to know what she had invested in this foolishness.  Each time she purchased a ticket, she removed the top drawer of her lingerie chest and used a pencil to put a mark on the bottom of the drawer.  When she won, she planned to tally up the marks.  She wanted to know what the endeavor had cost.

She had also come to the decision that her immense fortune would be placed into a charitable remainder trust with an organization she had researched and felt confident was reliable.  Depending on the size of her winnings, she would draw a small percentage each year for donations during her lifetime, but the bulk would not be distributed until she was planted next to her husband.

Years passed.  Julia could feel her body getting older and more tired.  She spent less time in the flower beds, and they began to show the neglect.  However, when the opportunity was presented to take a bus trip to Hershey, Pennsylvania, with other retired teachers, she determined to go.  She needed something to break the monotony of life. 

The trip did serve the intended purpose.  She toured the Rose Gardens, attended two concerts, enjoyed dinner conversation with her fellow travelers, and purchased more chocolate than she should have.  On the return trip, the bus stopped at a restaurant with an attached gift shop.  During the meal, Julia walked through the gift shop on her way to the ladies room.  Hmmm…..Powerball tickets for sale and no one from the bus in sight…no one else at the cash register.  She made her purchase and slipped the ticket in her purse.  She forgot it was there when she arrived home.

A week later, she saw an article in the newspaper that a winning ticket had been sold in a gift shop in southern New York, and no one had yet come forward with the ticket to claim the money.  Her pulse quickened a bit as she retrieved the ticket from her purse. She sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper and the ticket comparing the numbers.  Did they match?  Her heart began to pound as she carefully compared every digit.  Her hands trembled with the realization that she held the winning ticket.  She dropped it on the table, afraid to touch it.  She jumped up and began to pace the house talking to herself.  The phone rang, but she didn’t trust herself to answer it.  She had to regain total control of her emotions, if this adventure was to remain her secret.

About 30 minutes later, she picked up the ticket and put it in the same lingerie drawer with the marks on the bottom…73 of them.  She would do nothing further until tomorrow.  That evening as she sat in front of the TV eating her supper, she told Scott about her good fortune.  He did not even nod or smile at her.  Alex, Pat and Vanna didn’t react either.

After her warm bath, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling.  The ticket was worth 375 million dollars.  It couldn’t be real.  It must be play money.  She must be dreaming.  She drifted off reciting to herself the distribution she had planned on.  With such a large sum, there was no reason to make charities wait until her death.  She would have 325 million distributed now and put only the 50 million in the trust.  Only 50 million?  She giggled.  She would draw only one-half of a percent each year from the money in the trust and find a way to give most of that away.  She would contact the foundation which was to be entrusted with the money in the morning.

Hal Josephs, the executive director of the Oak Tree Legacy Foundation, was late coming in to the office having had a breakfast meeting to attend.  On his calendar was an appointment his secretary had scheduled for 11 AM with a Julia S.  It was unlike his secretary not to obtain the full name.  She explained that the person who had made the appointment seemed to be hesitant to give her name or the reason for the appointment.  Hal shrugged.  He dealt with a number of eccentrics.

Promptly at 11 AM, an elderly lady arrived dressed in a matching skirt and jacket and looking the part of a retired schoolmarm.  He shook her slender hand, surprised by the strength of her grip. 

“Mr. Josephs,” she began, “I have an important matter to discuss with you, and I must insist on total confidentiality.  I do not want anyone…not even your secretary…to know my business with you today.”

Hal assured her of this with some amusement.  He had seen his share of retired school teachers who had saved up tidy sums, at least, in their estimation.  What is a large sum to one person is pocket change to another.  But, Hal was good at his job and respectful of all.

“A few years ago, I decided to do something I never thought I would do.  I began to buy Powerball tickets.  I do NOT believe in gambling.  I don’t even buy 50/50 tickets.  If someone asks me to buy a raffle ticket, I just make a donation.  So, this was a bizarre thing for me to do.  I convinced myself it was just for my own entertainment.  But….as luck would have it….”

Julia reached into her purse and pulled out the ticket.

Hal stared in disbelief.

“It’s worth 375 million,” Julia said calmly and quietly.  She had practiced saying this at home, so that it would seem casual.

Hal didn’t speak.

“You must take this and turn it in on behalf of the Oak Tree Legacy Foundation.  You must not reveal where you got the ticket.  All of the money is to come here.  I have written down the amounts to be distributed immediately, and what is to go into a charitable remainder trust with the distributions to be made when I die.  I am leaving this all for you to handle.  You can let me know when you have documents ready for me to sign.”

Julia immediately got up to leave.  Hal was struck with the notion that no one knew about this, and he could…no, no…he must not.  Just as Julia reached the door, she turned.  “By the way,” she said, “I have taken a “selfie,” as the young people call it, with the ticket, and placed it in my safety deposit box.  I know you are honest, but it is a lot of money and anyone could be tempted.”

Hal smiled and nodded.

Two days later, the news hit the media that someone…no age, no gender, no location indicated…had donated the ticket to the Oak Tree Legacy Foundation.  Hal deflected all questions.  No one suspected Julia.  No media camped on her front lawn.

The next time she went to the retired teachers’ luncheon, someone at her table said, “You know, I think that lottery ticket that was recently donated, was purchased at the very place we ate on our trip back from Hershey.”  Several people smiled and murmured.  Julia put on her disgusted I-Don’t-Believe-in-Gambling face.  Then she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.  As soon as she sat down in the stall, she pulled off one small square of toilet paper.  She stared at it thinking, “Isn’t it interesting what one small piece of paper might be worth.”

She never bought another lottery ticket, but often stared at small pieces of paper murmuring to herself.  A few years later, this habit brought great amusement to the staff at the Oak Tree Legacy Senior Home, the construction of which had been funded by a multi-million dollar gift from the foundation of the same name.  Julia didn’t seem senile in other ways.  What was the meaning of her strange ritual?  Each time a staff member helped her into the bathroom, they saw her tear off one small square of toilet paper and stare at it with an inscrutable smile.

Uncovered

             Miss Gladys Blyfield peered from her window at the Hope on the Hill Nursing Home which overlooked Lake Colton.  A prolonged drought and additional use for agriculture upstream had so diminished the flow into Lake Colton that it was beginning to reveal all that had been submerged when it was formed.

Lake Colton had been man-made sixty years earlier when Miss Gladys was a young woman.  The Colton Dam had been constructed at the end of Colton Valley submerging the small town of Springville, a lovely little village where friendships were deep, but also a place where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

For example, everyone “knew” that Rev. Dick Jamieson’s wife had run off with a drifter handyman who had been in the village for about six months prior to her disappearance.  It was obvious, because he had disappeared at the same time, just a few days before the valley had begun to flood.  It made sense that he had moved on.  There had been a great deal of work for him during the time everything was being moved out of the valley to higher ground.  Some folks had their homes moved. Others abandoned their houses, taking the compensation provided to them by the power company which had built the dam, and rebuilt in the new town of New Hope.  Much construction and remodeling had made for several months of steady work for Jack Blomquist.

On the other hand, it had made no sense at all that Shirley Jamieson had disappeared with him.  Pastor Dick was respected in the village as a kind, mild-mannered and generous young man.  How could Shirley have left him for the rough-around-the-edges Jack?  Dick Jamieson’s display of dignity in the midst of his grief was quite touching.  No one ever went looking for Shirley.  She had been seen more than once talking with Jack Blomquist.  She had been seen walking for no apparent reason past various places where he had been at work.  Was there a relationship?  An obsession on her part?  Most of the town gossips were sure they knew.  At the time, Miss Gladys had been one of the main purveyors of juicy tidbits.

In the intervening sixty years, the level of the lake had fluctuated, but never before had the remnants of Springville begun to protrude above the level of the water.  In the intervening sixty years, Pastor Jamieson and the town gossips had become old, and stories had evolved over time so that no one was sure of “truth” any longer.  If it were to “protrude above the water” would it even be recognized?

Pastor Jamieson had served his entire life-time at the church in New Hope remaining a bachelor, since there was no way to know for sure if Shirley was dead or alive.  Initially, this was somewhat disappointing to Miss Gladys.  A marriage to him would have elevated her social standing in New Hope.  But, he had continued living in the village, throwing himself into every charitable endeavor taken on by his community and never showing an interest in eligible young ladies. 

Eventually, Dick Jamieson retired, and he too was now a resident of Hope on the Hill Nursing Home.  A younger pastor now lived in the parsonage and served the community which had grown a great deal over the sixty years.  Everyone no longer knew everyone else’s business.

After over a year of the drought, Pastor Bill Shortz had stood in front of the parsonage looking at the muddy pond that had been Lake Colton.  The first of the skeletons of the past to protrude from the murk was the cross on the steeple of the old abandoned church.  In addition to being the tallest building in the old village, the church had stood on a bit of a rise in the valley.   Although that was the physical explanation for the cross, and only the cross, appearing first, it gave many in the village an unsettled feeling.  Some said that it looked like a marker in a graveyard, especially at night in the moonlight.

When more months passed without rain, the water level dropped still further. Now as Pastor Bill looked out he could see that although many buildings were still partially submerged, the entirety of the semi-collapsed and rotting remains of the church was now exposed, surrounded by a couple feet of sludge and muck.

Pastor Shortz set out on a Tuesday afternoon to do his weekly visits to the “shut-ins” of the community.  His itinerary included the Hope on the Hill Nursing Home.  In particular, he was looking forward to talking with Dick Jamieson.  He found Dick Jamieson sitting on the enclosed porch overlooking the lake.

“Hello, Dick.”

“Hello….Pastor….Pastor Bill?”  Dick Jamieson’s memory was beginning to fail him.

After an exchange of pleasantries, Dick asked if Pastor Bill knew whether anyone was poking around the reappearing ruins.

“I haven’t heard anything.”

A strange faraway look on Dick’s face seemed to indicate that he was struggling with something.  Bill was unsure if an unpleasant memory or the inability to recapture an elusive memory was causing some inner turmoil.

“I hope we get rain soon,” Dick said softly.  “I guess we don’t need the power generated so much anymore….what with the wind turbines on the hill across the valley now.  But, the lake certainly does look muddy and ugly.”

No more was said of the disappearing lake or the reappearing church, and Bill soon offered to read a Psalm for Dick.  Dick declined, but he did ask Bill to join him in prayer for much needed rain before he left to make his other visits in the nursing home.

Pastor Bill’s next stop was Miss Gladys Blyfield.  He had no way of knowing what Miss Gladys was about to unload on him.  Although Miss Gladys had initially believed and passed on the gossip about Shirley Jamieson running off with Jack Blomquist, another scenario had eventually come to her.  It had struck her one day out of the blue while she was vacuuming her apartment and sulking about Dick Jamieson never showing any interest in her.

She did not wait for Pastor Bill to bring up the shrinking lake and emerging village ruins.  As soon as he was seated, she began eagerly.

“I never believed the others, you know.  They all said that Shirley Jamieson ran off with that Blomquist guy.  No, sir.  I for one never believed it.  Once when I was alone in the church with Shirley doing some cleaning, she admitted to me that Pastor Dick was not as mild-mannered as everyone thought.  She didn’t say it in so many words, but I think he abused her.  If she did run off, I think she had good reason, but… (she paused for effect) …I think she is still down there somewhere.  If the rain holds off longer, maybe we’ll know the truth.”

Bill stared in disbelief.  Was she accusing Dick of harming Shirley…..possibly killing her?  Maybe Gladys was not in full possession of her faculties and was spinning a ridiculous and totally false tale.  But, the strange look he had seen on Dick’s face came to mind also.  The disappearance had occurred almost simultaneously with the flooding.  Dick’s explanation had never been questioned.  If anyone had doubts, they had not emerged until after the village was submerged.  He shook off the unpleasant possibilities and offered to read a Psalm to Gladys.

She requested Psalm 124, and he found himself reading:

If the Lord had not been on our side when men attacked us, when their anger flared against us, they would have swallowed us alive; the flood would have engulfed us, the torrent would have swept over us, the raging waters would have swept us away.  …  Our help is in the name of the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.

As he finished reading and offered to pray with Gladys, he thought he saw a smug smile playing on her lips.  He began to believe his imagination was running wild, and that he should mistrust his own sanity.  He headed home to talk with his wife, who was always a source of stability and good sense.

Cheryl Shortz welcomed her husband with a fresh pot of coffee and warm cookies just removed from the oven.  He sat down with a sigh, feeling safe in the haven of their home.  Even as he pondered his own domestic bliss, he considered what it would be like to live in the parsonage if instead of peace and comfort, one experienced turmoil and pain.  What if it was the place where “anger flared” and one felt “swallowed alive?”  He decided he did not have time to share his confusing jumble of thoughts with Cheryl before their two children arrived home from school.  Instead, he just inhaled the aroma of cookies and calm in Cheryl’s kitchen.

The ruins at the bottom of Lake Colton were, of course, too much of a temptation for the teenage boys of New Hope.  Canoes and waders were employed and the nooks and crannies were explored on a daily basis, as though buried treasure might be found.  Most of the parents did not know this was happening and would have forbidden exploration of the possibly dangerous ruins.  So, when a group of boys caught a glimpse of a skeleton inside the sagging church, they agreed not to tell their parents.  More than one, however, could not resist bragging to his girlfriend about their exploits.  The daughter of a state trooper questioned her dad as to whether such a tale could be true.

And so, a much belated investigation began.  The skeleton was female and the hyoid bone was fractured indicating strangulation.  The woman had probably been dead prior to the flooding and her body stashed in the old church.  The only woman who had disappeared around this time was Shirley Jamieson.  Was she abandoned by a lover who didn’t want to take her with him when he left the area, or had the man who had led the church for decades been carrying guilt for decades?

Bill Shortz experienced a wave of nausea when he heard the news.  He wondered if the police had already questioned Dick Jamieson.  He felt compelled to go see Dick himself.

When he arrived at Dick’s room, he was met by a nurse.  “Oh, Pastor Bill.  I am so glad to see you.  Dick has taken a bad turn….we think he has had a massive stroke. The last coherent thing he said was that we should call you.”

“I am so sorry.  Did he say anything specific as to why you were to call me?”

“He repeated several times…..’read 51, read 51.’  Do you know what that means?”

Since Bill always offered to read a Psalm when he visited shut-ins, he assumed Dick had meant Psalm 51.  He approached the bedside and opened his Bible.  Not knowing whether Dick could hear and comprehend, he began to read.

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions.  Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin.  For I know my transgressions, and my sin is always before me….

Dick clung to life for three days and then slipped away.  That was the day the drought broke and the rains began.

Dick Jamieson had no family to plan a memorial service, so it was left to Pastor Bill.  He had no idea what to say….what NOT to say. He watched the waters rising in the lake, covering up the ugliness and decay of what had been Springville and wondered whether Dick had for all those years been hiding ugliness and decay within his own soul.  Could a man stand before his congregation and preach love and godly living when he harbored a horrible truth?

Bill crawled into bed next to Cheryl.  They both enjoyed listening to the rain pelt the roof from the warmth and security of their own bed.  She snuggled against him with her head on his shoulder.  Bill sighed deeply.

“What’s wrong, love?”  Cheryl asked.

Bill found himself pouring out his disjointed and upsetting thoughts in no logical sequence: Gladys Blyfield’s implication, Dick’s strange expression, the discovered skeleton, the request for Psalm 51.  Was there meaning and relevance or where these pieces from different puzzles that didn’t fit together at all?  How could he do a memorial service for Dick not knowing if Dick was guilty and had repented, not guilty at all, or worst of all guilty and unrepentant?  What did the people of the church know or suspect?  How had this impacted the church’s ministry in the community over the years?

Then they lay in the darkness together, neither one speaking, listening to the drone of the rain.  Cheryl did not know what to say to Bill, but she silently prayed for him to be granted wisdom.

In the end, Bill Shortz honored Dick Jamieson for his years of work in the church and community with a very traditional and respectful memorial service.

But on Sunday, he preached from Matthew 23.  He talked about how the lack of rain had revealed decay and filth.  Restoration of the rain had covered the mess, and made Lake Colton beautiful again, but everyone knew what was underneath.

Then he read:

Woe to you…hypocrites!  You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. … First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean.  Woe to you…hypocrites!  You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men’s bones and everything unclean.  In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous, but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness.

By the time he had finished preaching, instead of thinking about the possible and unproven sin of Dick Jamieson, the hypocrites walked out that Sunday wondering how and when their own guilt would be uncovered.