The Quest of George Part Three
Peace is what we want isn’t it?
Georges’ quest forces him to confront the lack of peace in his life
Peace is a reconciling quality of love
Peace is found in actions and attitudes of reconciliation
We need to reconcile with ourselves. Accepting who we are both the good and the bad
We need to reconcile with others
We need to reconcile with God
Peace isn’t dependent on the actions of others, it is dependent on us
Peace is what we give to others, and it returns as a gift to us
Ro 12:16 Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.
17 Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody.
18 If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.
George had taken his time crossing the valley towards the rounded green and grey peaks that fenced the valley with its town and grassy range. His hard pressing pace lost some of its speed as he took in the strange smells and sounds of a landscape unlike his own. A bold, river divided the valley, and tributaries spread from it like the fingers of a great blue hand, each finger sparkling with a diamond-like brilliance. Some of these were shallow enough for him to forge simply by strapping his great soled boots to his pack and hiking up his pants. Others teased him to try, but George quickly discovered they were too deep and too swift. Fortunately, sturdy bridges carved out of grand planks painted in brilliant hues of blue offered him a safer, drier passage.
The big yellow dog made no distinction between shallow and deep, catapulting into the wet with rambunctious yapping. The first time caught George by surprise. Soaked by the splash he further surprised himself by pulling back a curse before it could fully form, and it dribbled weakly off his teeth, falling short of its yellow barking target. George smiled, pleased that he was able to contain himself.
He remembered the first time he had cursed at Emma and how her head snapped as though struck by the cruel comment and how her eyes expanded in hurtful surprise. Later, he had mumbled an apology of sorts, being careful to balance it with his commitment to make sure Emma knew where he stood. George was realizing with fresh understanding that those harsh words were the chisel that helped crumble the peace they had enjoyed. The quest was giving George time to reflect, and what he saw was not always pleasant.
He had misgauged the distance across the valley to the range, and now, late in the day George struggled with the steep grade. The great leafy trees that had shaded protectively, were handing him off to sharp toothed, resin painted pine that seemed to say keep your distance stranger. The higher he climbed the more obvious the hand-off, and George became more unsettled as the familiar continued to give way to the unfamiliar. Even the smooth earthen black path was telling him to move on. This new path with its varicose veins of roots hurt his feet and the shale grumbled and shifted under his great thick soled boots.
The higher he climbed the cooler it became and with each rest stop his sweat quickly chilled him. George had never been this high up, he was concerned. The next town remained at least two hard days walk away. George thought he had prepared for sleeping outside; he was less sure now. He was surprised at how quickly the sun was running to hide behind the mountain. The sense of well-being and calm that had carried him from the town across the valley was lifting. In its place he felt agitated, uneasy, with a sense of unnamed foreboding.
And now this, the path was breaking into three; the left one partially west and north, the middle almost due north and the right path, more east then north. It was hard to see in the low light. Had he missed a sign?
Unable to go forward and to late to turn back he felt despair. Despair’s dark hand bullied him to the ground. At least the big yellow dog had remained true and for the first time George stroked the broad head, scratching firmly on the fur covering the hard bone behind the dog’s ear. The big beast leaned in grinning, forcing George to brace with his free hand. The dog groaned and yawned and George offered a cautious smile. This untamed terrain had its own sounds, sounds that made the near darkness even less appealing.
He made an undersized fire and pulled out a sandwich prepared by Charis from the town of Benignus so many hours earlier. Reaching for the flask George hesitated. Was this the right time to drink from it? George certainly needed refreshing and it seemed like a good time to enjoy it, on the other hand he couldn’t afford to become sick again. The ancient had also told him it was to be savoured in the company of others, and George didn’t think the big yellow dog qualified as others. George let the flask rest.
The dog noticed first, its furry neck changed texture and a growl thundered out its belly. The dog gathered itself and pointed down the path. George gathered himself, crouching behind the dog, grabbing his walking stick.
They were foot steps—heavy, deliberate and a clink like scraping sound accompanied the steps like a metronome: a walking stick —then a long pause.
The fire’s glare removed George’s ability to see into the forest and he knew with that helpless knowing that he was being observed. Illuminated by the small fire, the man’s size was exaggerated by his shadow silhouetted against the brush, the figure seem monstrous as he made his way to George. “May I?†the figure asked, motioning near the flame to a spot across from George.
George hesitated, “Yeh, sure†was his uncertain reply.
A broad soft brimmed tweed hat and grey jacket—the kind George reserved for his chores—covered the large boned man. They were worn and soiled like the patched dark twill trousers and old brown shoes. The man stretched a leg to the fire exposing a hole in the sole, leaving a grey socked foot unprotected. His big crevassed hands with their protruding veins were stamped with dirt. He looked like a drifter, a hobo to George.
“You don’t belong here do you?†the man stated as much as asked. “No,†George said, with finality, not wanting to give anything away to the drifter.
“I have a place a day north of here. If you don’t mind I’ll stay here the night.†George did mind. But what could he say? The man looked suspicious. Not the kind of person George normally associated with.
The man made several attempts at conversation but George wasn’t interested in small talk. Drifters were no-goods who begged instead of worked and stole from honest hard working people. His father had taught him this, as he had taught him how to deal with drifters. For now he only wanted to get through the night, and not long after they lied down.
George awoke several times but the dark was complete and he could only hope he would be safe till morning. He felt for his pack, and flask from the ancient, and the extra boots from Charis and the big yellow dog pushed against him offering some reassurance and George regretted ever leaving his farm.
The shift from sleep to waking was swift and the peace he felt in his dream drained away immediately leaving the dull residue of dread and anxiety in his gut. The dog was gone! He grabbed to his right. His extra boots, the high laced, hard soled walking boots that had belonged to Charis’ dead husband, were gone! George cursed as he had not cursed in a long time: a long sentence of disconnected vulgar words. All directed to the dark man in the soft brim tweed hat; the drifter.
George was on his feet, his walking stick in his grip. When he found that drifter he would teach him a lesson never to be forgotten.
But which path?
It didn’t matter.
The dog pushed through the bush like a plough horse and playfully glanced off George’s knee almost knocking him to the ground. From the same direction followed the dark man in the tweed hat. The man’s whistling reached George first, and then he spotted the hat. “Why, you!†George shouted, “Where are my…†George stopped. The man’s hands were full with a string of fish in one hand and a pair of highly polished boots – his boots, in the other.
The Man’s whistling stopped; “I caught some fish for us for breakfast, and your boots; they are fine boots, hand crafted. I appreciated your hospitality last night and took them to polish them using a black root the way my father taught me.â€
The fish were fine, mighty fine. And the man he was not nearly as large as last night; no bigger than George, and in the absence of shadows his features were softer, even gentle. And when he smiled his eyes smiled.
George learned things about the man – and he learned things about himself. He learned that the man, his name was Lewis, had been as frightened as George. He had been taken back by George’s apparent lack of welcome and had slept as poorly as George, wondering if he too would be robbed or injured by the stranger with the big yellow dog.
They continued their journey together.
Lewis was a woodsman, a logger who earned enough to care for his family. What surprised George is that he did not have his own land, nor did he feel the need to, instead he lived by a great river. What caused George to ponder more than anything else was the contentment he sensed in Lewis’s life? His clothing was poor, he earned barely enough to survive and he did not have his own land to work, yet he was a peace with himself and that calm affected George. So much so, that George did something foreign. He apologized without excuse for how he had treated Lewis the night before, and Lewis smiled and his eyes smiled: and George smiled.
According to Lewis his inner calm had not come naturally. He had lived a rough life, a life he had learned from his clan. He had robbed and beat a man and driven him off his land, moving onto it himself. One day a traveller arrived with a small party and asked for lodging for the night. Lewis planned to rob them too, and drive them away.
He didn’t, he couldn’t and instead Lewis came face to face with the traveller who seemed to know all about Lewis’ past and how he had come by the land. Lewis thought of running away, and he could have, but he was touched by this person who treated him with dignity and respect though he didn’t deserve it.
Lewis returned the land, made restitution—and was forgiven. And in being forgiven he accepted what he was and made a promise to treat others as he had been treated. And since then he had. Later, Lewis heard rumours that the Great Landowner himself had passed through his county, and he wondered?
They came upon the place almost by accident. The excited, delighted call of Lewis’s wife and squeals of his brood pulled George into the moment and he laughed as he had not laughed in a long time.
The place itself was where he could picture the great land owner living. It was perfect. The immense river idled along with its magnificent emerald caste. The edge was gentle and shallow. Huge oak trees lined its banks and in the boughs of the grandest tree Lewis had built a simple home.
And here George was at peace.
Later, George placed the solid boots with the high lace tops and firm gripped soles at the feet of Lewis—who rejected them: insisting that George would need them for the journey ahead. He looked at Georges’ great thick soled boots and smiled, and George smiled. The boots, of course were a perfect fit.
He could see his reflection in the clear still pool, bending he peered closely. “Who are you George?†he whispered. He could see his reflection in the scuffed mirror of his home impatient, demanding; he could see his reflection, surprised by kindness, in the basin provided by Charis. Now he saw a different George and thought to himself, what will the Great Land Owner think of me?
Have you ever felt a prejudice towards someone?
Have you ever look at past pictures of yourself, and been amazed at what you thought you were?
Have you had a moment where you realized you did not have a quality that you thought you possessed, and you had to reconcile who you are, with who you thought you were?