Artist Lewis Lavoie will be part of the Urban Bridge conversation as he discusses Christ, Faith and Art .

He has a fascinating story to tell.

Check out http://www.lavoiestudios.com/, or http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x41zb2_lewis-lavoie_creation (below)

The Book Club meets at various homes at 6 PM on Saturdays.

NEXT BOOK CLUB

Our next meeting is at 7 pm on Sat. Jan. 24th. It will be held at Beth McLachlan’s home which is located at #21 (third floor) 11906 104 St. Ring buzzer #21 to get in. In case you need to phone her, you can do so at 780-868-0312. We will be discussing “The Kite Runner” and Beth will also be serving dessert. See you there!

Down the Road

Watch for the next meeting March 28.

For more information contact Jeff Hamm jv.hamm@gmail.com or 780-998-7898

He should be feeling sad about things, maybe even feel sorry for himself. His hand was heavily bandaged, wrapped in clean strips of cloth to protect the stubs that were his two missing fingers and George also missed the big yellow dog, Fido. He would instinctively respond to yellow dog rustlings but be disappointed in the counterfeit noise of wind and rodents that mimicked but could not replace his faithful companion. Still, even the jarring ox cart that multiplied the pulsing pain in the injured hand couldn’t trump the smile on his face. This was a strange feeling for George, to be happy; content in difficult circumstances. If only Emma could…., oh Emma would. She would listen to how he had overcome so many difficulties and learned things about himself. She would hear him say how sorry he was, and how much he loved her. This was George’s promise to himself and to Emma. His journal had become a truthful testament to this change. He prayed it wasn’t too late.
The happy reasons for his present state sat on the raised box at the head of the cart. Two sets of broad shoulders wrapped in simple cloth blocked his view of the team of oxen drawing him nearer the Great Landowner. Mr and Mrs. Elder, or as they insisted Sardis and Beatrix had come upon George in the forest as he lay sobbing. Half carrying him, the husband and wife moved him deeper into the woods, away from the awfulness of the mine with its pit. Away from Arman, away from the big yellow dog.
Their story burrowed deep into George. A long time ago they too were on their own quest to meet the Great Landowner but the city of Briet with its energetic broad streets and wealth had diverted them, finally Arman’s promises had deceived them.
Once their money was gone and their usefulness worn flat, the Elders found themselves slaving in the mine pit. They had each other and lasted longer than most, but the end was inevitable until one day they were distracted by cursing and barking. The guards were trying to drive away a dog and they succeeded. But the large dog was persistent and returned to the pit repeatedly. Placing its paws near the edge, its bottomless rich bark would echo over the yawn of the abyss, and again the guards away would drive it away. If Arman was present his abuse would overlay the landscape like a cursed blanket. That persistent barking presence pushed back the desolation in the Elder’s lives enough to give the couple an idea. They would find away to share their food with the dog.
They found a moment and sneaked to the spot where the dog always returned. Bending to place the food they were confronted by the big yellow animal. With hands of mouldy bread extended they pursued him and finally when the dog paused they were far from the pit. They simply continued on. The big yellow dog disappeared and they became part of a loose network of rescuers.
Best of all, they told George of the Great Landowner and his visits. When they did they smiled and their eyes smiled. Beatrix would end each story with the inevitable, “and George, he is so handsome” to which Sardis would respond, “Aw, woman I wouldn’t know about that, but he is a man’s man.” Then they would laugh, loudly, gleefully and Sardis would run that large paw of a hand over his face, rubbing the tears into submission. George absorbed the laughter occasionally releasing it with a giggling snort and the hilarity would continue. Yes, he should feel sad about things; maybe even feel sorry for himself, but he didn’t.
“There it is!” Beatrix un-lady like voice bellowed George awake. “Can you see the tower?” He could. The tower was the first sign of the Great Landowner’s home and it drew the ponderous oxen towards it a half-step quicker. A lake pushed against the city from the west side and wiggled its way to the city core with a network of canals. The land surrendered a variety of life that George the farmer had trouble comprehending: fruit, vegetables, shrubs, grass and trees impregnated every available spot. An array of carelessly spread pools and small lakes contrasted the green. George was so captivated by the scene that he almost missed the colossal vine covered arch marking the entrance. Passing beneath it he exclaimed. “Who built this arch?” “It is not an arch,” was Beatrix matter of fact reply, “it is a bridge.” Indeed it was. George could not let go, “Why build a bridge where there is no need?” “There once was” was her response, as though he should know this. He caressed the wedding band tucked deep in his pocket. How would he ever describe this place to Emma?
The city was beautiful, though not more beautiful than Briet. It was large, though not larger than Briet. Yet it was everything Briet was not. Permanent was one way in which to describe it. The city had been in place for a very long time and gave the sense of stability and hope and assurance – peace. There was something else. What was it?
Connected was another way to describe what George felt. People were talking to one another. Vigorous discussions, consoling intimacy, laughter, direction giving. Peering down the side streets George could see a mish-mash of intimate streets and courtyards and with rare exception doors were open creating a free-for-all movement of bodies in transparent relationship. It was though he was peering into their lives. And even in the haphazard intensity there was what could only be described as a feeling of well-being. George was himself taken up with this sense of well-being and though he realized he may have missed his one opportunity to meet the Landowner he knew that it would be okay. He would make due with his dry, unproductive land if need be.
Sardis pulled the cart into a stable. “This is as far as the cart can take us; grab your things George we need to find the Landowner. George grabbed the pack with his good hand and hoisted it over his back; the remains of wine in the flask swished a reminder of other, less joyful times.
“Where can we find the landowner?” George asked a shop keeper. “Hard to know, he is always about, but if you take this lane you are sure to find him sooner or later.” Off they went and at each turn they would ask the same question and in turn each question resulted in the same answer. Through side streets, courtyards, even kitchens and gardens they passed, and in each case their appearance and question was not an interruption. Poor Sardis and Beatrix soon realized they needed to spend more time off the ox cart forcing George to slow his anxious pace, which he did without complaint.
The lane opened into a very large courtyard. Its size surprised George. Benches, gardens, random groupings of chairs, and fish ponds filled the space. A hum of animated conversation pulled George to the large group in the middle. A young man and woman on the perimeter were listening to the hum intently. George asked “Can you tell where I can find the Great Landowner?” The young man seemed surprised by the question. “Where? Here, and if you listen closely you can hear him.”
George mimicked the response, “here? “Yes here,” the young woman laughed. George was suddenly very nervous, his ears felt warm, and the fingerless stumps throbbed, “I am on a quest, and I was to meet him but missed my appointment. I, I need to speak to him, who can make an appointment for me?
The young man shifted from George, focusing on the centre of the activity he shouted, “Sir, a traveller says he must speak to you!”
The hum subsided immediately, and in the momentary silence George felt equal parts elation and dread. “Does the traveller have a name!” a clear voice in the middle asked.” What is your name?” said the young woman, “George” George whispered. “George!” shouted the young woman, “his name is George!” “George!” said the clear voice “come here!”
The mass of men and women parted as he, Sardis and Beatrix shuffled their way in. And each one smiled and their eyes smiled.
The Great Landowner was seated at a small round table. The Landowner stood, yes he was handsome and he certainly was a man’s man, but he was so much more. He hugged Sardis and Beatrix which resulted in Sardis pawing away more tears. Then he took George by the hand, pulling him close he peered intently into the farmer’s eyes and whispered, “George the farmer. You are late” he paused… “But not too late.” And he smiled and his eyes smiled.
The great hall was prepared for a banquet, occupying the centre was an extended table. To George who was really just a simple farmer it seemed set for a king. The Great Landowner placed himself not at the end but in the middle. George was stunned by whom he saw at the table. He scanned the room slowly fastening a surprised gaze on each guest, who in turn smiled and their eyes smiled. For each chair was occupied by someone who had helped him in his quest. To the Great Landowner’s right the space was vacant and on the floor was a cushion, next was the ancient, and even here the pungent earthy aroma was present, on the Landowner’s left sat Charis from Benignus. Directly across Malte and Cathmore waved and nodded. Sardis and Beatrix were to the left of the brothers and grinned broadly. Then, an enormous door swung open and in strode Lewis with his great thick soled boots along with Bess and Mary. George ran to meet them. Finally, George was placed at the head of the table.
The sound of clicking on hardwood echoed against the stone walls, the sound was heading towards him. Curious, George rose and half turned, only to be knocked down by a slightly limping, large yellow dog, his companion, Fido.
After the shouting and weeping and barking subsided the dog took his place on the cushion by his master, the Great landowner.
“George,” called the Landowner, “lets deal with your most urgent business first” He continued “you have come to petition me, remind me, what is it you demand?” George had done it; he could not believe that he had completed his quest that he was in a position to argue for his right to better land.
“My petition sir,” he paused, “my need for more, he stopped again,” “has been fulfilled.” “How is that?” was the landowner’s intense reply. “My quest for more has been fulfilled by the men and women seated here. My land is fine, I am the one lacking. If I may, please allow me to return to my farm and to Emma, and I will make you proud.”
“So be it, George will return to his land” shouted the Great Landowner, “George” he continued “there is one thing I cannot give and that is Emma. If she will have you back, then you are hers.” “I understand,” George replied. The Ancient stood, “I would propose a toast to George in honour of the completion of his quest, but we seem to have forgotten the wine.” He smirked, “George will you provide the wine?”
If ever there was a right time to savour the wine in the flask, this was it. He was in the company of friends and it was a fitting time to refresh those who had helped him succeed in his quest. But he had wasted so much of the wine prematurely that there would never be enough to go around. “My ancient friend, the flask is all but empty”. The
Ancient was insistent, “Well let’s pour what you have,” and everyone at the table nodded. So George poured and he poured and the perfectly aged wine with its magical bouquet refreshed and renewed his friends.
As the Great Landowner’s guest George spent much of his remaining time at the small round table in the large courtyard listening in silence as he observed the inspiring dance of life orchestrated by the Landowner. George realized that he could be this example to his people. He knew where he belonged.
The journey home was completed with a sense of purpose. One unknown remained, would Emma have him back. His friends, who accompanied him as far as their various departing points advised him, coached him and teased him. Finally on the last leg he was alone and George’s resolve clashed hard against his insecurities.
When he arrived at the border of his farm the silhouette of the cottage against the darkened sky scared him. Inside, the light of the table lamp revealed an occasional shadow which he guessed must be Emma; another lower quicker shadow confused him. “This is so very hard. What now, what if she says no?”
Well, it was certainly too late to go on tonight he reasoned, after all there was no sense in frightening Emma. He would wait till morning.
He coasted jerkily into a fretful sleep. He dreamed he and Emma were kissing. It had been so long, and in his dream Emma was the way he remembered her in the beginning: gentle, subtle, caring.
She began to kiss his chin, cheeks and forehead: murmuring her love for him: it was an affection long pushed to the back of their relationship. Emma’s murmuring was morphing into soft growls which quite frankly startled George; but her breath was sweet just as he had remembered. He jolted to a sitting position! Emma clung to him sobbing and laughing at the same time, and a puppy with big paws and a yellow coat dropped back to its haunches, pleased to have roused the man on the ground.

The end.

The fruit of Joy: Rejoicing Love
The fruit of joy is a paradox. It most often finds it expression in difficult times
Joy results from two different actions
One, joy is an expression of love that results from living a life of peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. If you want joy then be and do these things
Christ said John 15: 8 When you produce much fruit, you are my true disciples. This brings great glory to my Father. 9 “I have loved you even as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love. 10 When you obey my commandments, you remain in my love, just as I obey my Father’s commandments and remain in his love. 11 I have told you these things so that you will be filled with my joy. Yes, your joy will overflow!
Second living fruitful lives does not guarantee a happy outcome but God tells us joy is not influenced by the outcome but by living fruitful lives regardless of the outcome.
Ac 5:41 The apostles left the Sanhedrin, rejoicing because they had been counted worthy of suffering disgrace for the Name.
42 Day after day, in the temple courts and from house to house, they never stopped teaching and proclaiming the good news that Jesus is the Christ.

Here is the campaign video for “Believe”. Watch it, believe and keep Fido alive in your heart!

Also, you can check out all of UBCs vidoes on our site at http://urbanbridgechurch.com/wordpress/index.php/ubc-videos/

The three trekked hard, Malte and Cathmore with their long reaching legs hardened and practiced, moved in a fluid tempo. George discovered that the rhythm of life extended beyond planting seasons; coaxing his arms and legs into a harmonized motion to keep alongside. Once again he whispered a prayer of gratefulness for Charis’s gift of the high topped, hard soled, firmed gripped boots. He placed his hand gently on the broad yellow head that padded at his side. He was less grateful for the silver capped flask clicking a repetitive reminder on the brass ring of his pack.

The plain seemed to extend beyond the horizon and though none of the men complained, they were tired of the monotony of featureless swishing grass. Cathmore’s sporadic shouts of, “I see something” each ended with a curse at the trickery of cruel mirages.

It ended so quickly the three almost tumbled and even gentle Malte shouted in surprise, his bass voice booming. The plain was in fact a plateau and its end was marked by a deliberate drop off. The land before them and below them was spread with farms like rectangular earthen throw rugs of yellows, browns, greens, and black, each fringed with a fieldstone fence. A thread of thick blue water was woven down the middle.

The rugs of earth matted the entrance to an enormous city. City was Malte’s word for it, for George had no word to describe what he saw. He saw masses of ornate structures, like a rich man’s, man made garden, complete with rows upon rows of varied, colourful buildings. The thick blue thread of water flowed down its middle and bridges clasped the two sides together. George studied the silver and copper roofs intently. Each roof grabbed a fistful of sun to throw his way.

“It is so bright!” was all he could say. The city was fashioned like rings of circles flowing out from the middle, with each ring a road that both connected and defined the circles. There were six rings and in the middle was a large square and in the large square was a building that drew all attention to itself, it pulled at George’s eyes. The entire city seemed to bow to the center.

“This must be it; this must be where the Great Land Owner lives” declared George, “What do you think Malte, Cathmore?” “No,” they responded together, in rare agreement. Cathmore continued, “Malte and I have heard rumours of a city which is before the place of the Great Land Owner, this must be it, if we are correct it is named Briet, because it shines so brightly.” He continued, “We have also heard stories that it is not all that it appears.” “What do you mean?” George responded. “Only that for all its beauty all may not be as it seems.” Malte offered. Cathmore followed up quickly, “Malte, we will not pass through this place”, and again Malte agreed, “You are right Cathmore, we will continue on.”

George was just as clear.” I am going to the city of Briet. Perhaps I’ll meet another like Charis. Malte, Cathmore, I have come to appreciate you as travelling companions and friends. And Cathmore, you remind me of myself and that can’t be all bad.” Malte pulled George to his broad chest and whispered, “Be careful friend. Hopefully we will meet again.” Malte and Cathmore smiled in goodbye, and their eyes smiled then their tall strides separated them from George.

George chuckled to himself, thinking of his plain farm and earthen village. The only evidence of dirt in Briet was the clusters of hanging plants. He wished Emma was with him to enjoy this. George had once witnessed the birth of a two headed calf, but even that was topped by the wonders of the city of Briet.

Complete was one word that kept coming to George’s mind. Everything was complete in Briet. No trim was without paint, leather shone with fresh oil, and the cobbled streets were ornately patterned. Carriages rushed by; the inlaid precious metal trim shouted look at me, and paired horses in expensive harness stepped with fine breeding. George didn’t have to worry about standing out. The wealthy citizens of Briet were much too focussed to notice George, except once, when Fido used a newly painted lamppost to do his business.

New was another word to describe Briet. Fresh concrete sent its wet odour past the large screened fences that camouflaged construction. George recognised the muffled working sound of hammers and saws. Even the people looked new in their shiny shoes with razor soles; like the town of Benignsus, but finer, much finer. And when the people smiled, which seemed to be a regrettable exception, their eyes didn’t smile. Still, the first impression was that life was very good in Briet, but was it?

George looked up, way up. A giant, face, taller than his largest orchard apple tree was painted across the brick and was staring right at him. It was a very handsome face and it was grinning and it said Mayor Arman invites you to dinner. The backdrop for the giant face was the building in the center of Briet. The dinner was for that very evening and was an open invitation for all new comers.

His best shirt was far from the best shirt being worn yet he wasn’t out of place. The square in the center of Briet which could have swallowed his home village had drawn all manner of men and women both elegant couples and plain folk. There were many races. George knew why he was here, but he wondered about the others.

The voice came from his left. Loud and clear but not offensive, it was rich, and cultured and it compelled him to listen; stopping just short of commanding him to listen. George could make out the form of Mayor Arman high above the crowd speaking from a platform which itself was in the shadow of the most beautiful building he could imagine.

“Welcome to my home and welcome to Briet the best place on earth.” George found himself cheering along with the rest: every eye attentive, chins slightly raised and forward. Arman continued, “like so many before you, you are on your way to the home of the Great Land Owner, it is a worthy goal, and the Great Land Owner has much to offer, but perhaps what you want is not to be found there and perhaps, just perhaps, you will find your desires, all the good you can hope to gain and achieve here. Let me explain.” Arman did explain, and by the time he finished it was dark, but no one seemed to complain or notice. The crowd cheered wildly and made their way to the tables of food and drink.

It sounded so good and so right and if not for his journey experiences and the cautious words of Malte, George might have been tempted to stop short of his quest for the Great Land Owner and invest his life in Briet, which according to Arman, would give him 100 times the yield of the best land. There was one other thing, his faithful companion the big yellow dog was agitated and George had learned to heed Fido.

He ate quickly and formed a plan for the evening. He must tour the magnificent house of Arman.

Beyond, beyond his experiences, beyond his imagination, beyond anything he could dream. The house of Arman was beyond, overwhelming. And again he gave thought to how his life would be different if he followed Arman. He moved from the entrance way. Noticing a large frowning man posted further in the vestibule, George slipped to the right and followed the corridor, Fido’s clicking nails surprised George and he realized he would need to find a less open space, but there were no doors only alcoves.

The movement startled him; it was a flash of cloth and a door clicking to close. George reached but the door seemed to disappear into the wall. Without a latch or door knob, George leaned against the wall and kicked in frustration. The wall gave way and he landed hard. The corridor was dark, small and it smelled not of opulence but evil. A slight, skinny woman recoiled, pressing against the wall. She was about Emma’s age thought George, but she seemed older, weathered and grey like a fence post.

“You cannot be here. You cannot be here!” She was nearly incoherent, bunching the sack-like dress in a knobby fist. “Leave this house; leave this city while you can.” She continued, “I was once like you but look at me now. He asks for you to invest your money, then your time and then he takes your soul. There are many like me. Once he took my very soul, he owned me. How can I return home, I am in debt and I am disgraced? I serve in this house; but most work the mine behind the hill half a day to the south.” She paused, “There is more. Leave this evil place” As she pivoted to scurry down the gloomy corridor something dropped. At first it appeared to be a bark chip, but looking closer George could see it was a scale.
The great landowner had been specific about when George was to meet him. If he left Briet now he should have no trouble making the date but he was troubled. Were the rumours true? George made a decision. He would remain longer and risk his appointment. George had to see for himself, he had to know if what she said was true. He had to find an answer for the anger that gripped his throat at the thought of someone who would enslave another. For what? For more?

It stung him hard, piercing his heart until it ached and bled with the realization that his quest had one purpose; to have more. He had abandoned his wife, and left his farm, sad as it was, in a quest for more. Was he any different than Arman? He would be tonight.

Grey clay neutered the landscape of all potential for life. The farmer in George was appalled but that was minor. In the bluish black sky of early dawn he could see heads emerging from the ground. It was a deep pit large enough to swallow a good sized lake and the pit was infested with moving bodies. Humans with picks, shovels and sacks strapped to backs; too many to count. They too were grey and devoid of hope.

You what! The voice from beyond the weathered shed startled him. It was the voice of Arman. A very angry, very evil, Arman.The big yellow dog growled. It came from deep within and both startled and assured George. The two ran to the shed and slowly made their way to the voice of Arman. He poked his head around to follow the voice, what he saw caused his leg to shake and he sank to the ground. The voice came from an evil that momentarily froze him, pushing him to run away. Arman had taken the form of the evil that he was. George looked again; the dragon-like beast had forced two women against the shear edge of the pit. George could make out bits of terrified words, “my child…sick…need time” The women gripped one another, swayed and then fell as Arman slashed at them with the serrated edge of his clawed wing.

George was running, “No, No, leave them alone” Arman turned. The yellow eyes and foul odour terrified George, still he ran towards the beast. Arman pounced, pinning George against to the earth. The wing with its edge was sweeping downward just as the big dog in frightening yellow fury leapt and clamped missing the beast’s throat but catching the joint where the shoulder intersected the wing. Arman screamed and pitched with the dog flaying like a rag. George rolled away from the fighting forms scrambling to his knees just as the beast planted its good wing for stability, pinching George’s fingers to the ground. He cried out, pulling away only to discover his baby and ring fingers were missing. His wedding ring gleamed in the clay. Arman attempted to rise into the air but the dog’s grip had made the wing powerless.

The beast clawed and ripped at Fido, still, the big dog hung on in unwavering persistence. George had to do something, had to help. A discarded shovel with its broken handle lay against the shed. George sprinted to it. Turning he saw that the beast and the dog were balancing on the edge of the pit. With his good hand George hurled the spade. End over end, it arced and then planted, with the spade imbedding itself in the Arman’s neck. Yellow puss-like blood exploded outwards and the combatants toppled, disappearing into the gloom.

George was on his chest and he inched to the edge, peering into the gloom for his companion. It was deep and still to dark. Angry voices were coming closer. He picked up his ring and stumbled into the gloom, running until he felt safe.

George wept.

Goodness Correcting Love

Good is aiming for God’s standard
It is in opposition to all forms of evil – in others and ours
It is a measure of God’ correcting love
Sometimes we do need to be harder on ourselves
Goodness begins with correcting things in our own life
Ro 15:13 May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.
14 I myself am convinced, my brothers, that you yourselves are full of goodness, complete in knowledge and competent to instruct one another.
Then perhaps we are in a position to tackle other injustices
Mr 11:15 On reaching Jerusalem, Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves,
16 and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts.
17 And as he taught them, he said, “Is it not written: “‘My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’? But you have made it ‘a den of robbers.’”

Have you ever met evil and known it?
Have you ever had to take a stand?

Chilled air splashed against George’s face as he pushed on through the night: funny how the dark made things worse than they really were; so it was good to walk. Time was he would have lied in bed fretting, but the walking help straighten the worrisome kinks that tangled his mind. It is true that he didn’t leave Lewis and Bess under the best circumstances, but he also knew they forgave him for the mess he had created. And the peace, he had never experienced peace as he had at their home.
George had just begun to clamber down from their soaring tree house, when that familiar great soled thick boot had planted itself a heels width from his nose. George winced involuntarily, almost expecting the menacing toe to punt him the rest of the way down. It is the kind of justice the boot had applied in the past to those who had crossed George. But the boot was on a different foot, Lewis’s foot; the boot had remained rooted in its place, obedient to its new master. Instead, Lewis had folded his sturdy frame over George, grabbed George’s shoulder and squeezed. George looked up to face the man, and Lewis smiled, and his eyes smiled.
He was making good time in his new high topped, hard soled, gripped boots. The flask from the ancient bounced a rhythmic tattoo against his pack and his big yellow companion, Fido, was content to amble alongside. The path led him alongside the immense emerald river. Its unchanging presence slowly seeped into his spirit and helped muffle the anxious voices with in.
The moon’s light had hinted at changes in the setting and the new morning revealed the full picture. The valley was slowly opening into an immense expanse of ground. George was startled, even a little afraid. He had listened to travellers describe a land called— prairie, but until now he had spent his life cocooned in the brown and green of woods and valleys, held in place by sloping hills which in turn were framed by distant greyish peaks. In George’s rare reflective moments he could picture a cosmic Gardner tending the countryside which was his home.
This, this was different. Like a vast dry lake the colour of his favourite string bean, bluish-green knee deep grass swelled and rippled in the now dry wind and reached as far as he could see. The sky spanned the expanse like a great blue bowl, fastening itself to the prairie somewhere beyond. The flat land was empty of trees except for occasional canopied clusters and George felt exposed, vulnerable, and insignificant—tiny.
The path thinned to a dry trickle as George pushed the walking stick ahead of him: uncertain and lonely.
The wind found a new voice in the grass, like a reedy whistle, reminding him of his neighbour Happy who could whistle through his teeth and smile at the same time. George chuckled: what he would give to hear Happy whistle.
Fido heard it first, a sharp sound that poked through the air. “What is it boy?” George called, hooding his eyes as he scanned the ground. The big yellow dog answered by bounding to his left—stopping like a sentry about one hundred paces away. This time George heard it, the whistle of a human, and he followed the sound to two distant figures moving towards him. They were men and they were closing rapidly.
They loped towards him and at a distance seemed as if they were skimming on top of the grass. Tall and trim, their hair the colour of corn and eyes blue like the sky, they slowed to a walk as they closed in. He had never seen men like this. George squeezed his staff and Fido, parked by his side was neither friendly, nor unfriendly. The one with the golden beard and wide chest spoke. The voice was deep and the sound like music, but George didn’t understand a word. The deep voiced one spoke again, noises that were more guttural, like he was trying to clear his throat. And again, George did not understand. A third time the deep voiced one spoke, “hello.” “Hello” George replied and he couldn’t help but smile.
The deep voiced one continued; I have not spoken this language in a very long time, do you come from the south, where men fence their land and farm the rich dark soil?” “Yes I do” George responded. And the man said, “I admire those who can grow life from dirt” My name is Malte and this is my brother Cathmore.
Cathmore cut in, “brother let me speak for myself. What is your name, where are you from, and where are you going?” almost challenging George. “I am George – and where are you from and where are you going? Malte laughed, “perhaps we have found someone who likes to argue as much as you Cathmore.”
George learned that they had come from a land far to the west and had been exploring for a long time. They too were heading north to the country of the Great Land owner. When George explained his quest they offered to travel with him and George happily agreed.
Though they looked the same, the brothers differed in every other way. Malte was mild mannered, calm and seemed genuinely interested in what George had to say. Cathmore argued with his brother on almost every point; and it wasn’t long before George and Cathmore were at it. It was Malte who put and end to one particularly long debate. “Enough already” he thundered, “I have never met two more self-righteous, narrow-minded people in my life.”
George was indignant, thinking to himself, ”who was this stranger to call him self-righteous, it wasn’t that he needed to be right, he knew he was right, and what right did that corn-haired character have to say different.”
George had been called self-righteous before. Emma in an uncommon burst had called him that very thing after a vicious argument. He recalled how she shook, her face blotchy with red and shiny with tears. “Why must life be black or white, right or wrong? Maybe George, just maybe, it isn’t so simple and you aren’t so right all the time” George remembered how he had rolled his eyes and laughed his mocking laugh, proud of his stubborn ways. Now, trekking on this plain with the self-righteous, narrow-minded corn-haired stranger, he felt like an arse.
The movement on the horizon was a welcome change to the endless grass. At first it was just brown shapes moving. The shapes gained form as the trio closed in and the welcome became alarm. George had his own cow and was familiar with the deer that raided his garden but these creatures were neither. Black/brown in colour with broad faces and deep chests the creatures blocked their path. Their piled, heavy muscles twitched and stretched at the almost hairless skin. Dropping their massive heads to chew, jets of dust sprang off the ground from the force of their breath. They were again as large as the largest cow and curled horns made them seem even bigger. One beast with a broken horn looked in their direction, raised its head, and snorted.
Cathmore hardly slowed his pace, “if we have to go around this herd it will add at least a day to our journey, George lend me your dog and we’ll see what these beasts are made of.” George opened his mouth, but it was Malte who responded, “Cathmore we need to slow down and think this through. Your bull-headed, fighting ways have gotten us into enough trouble in the past” “Malte, for all your muscles you have the nature of a lamb” was Cathmore’s quick response. “If I can’t take the dog then a brush fire will clear a path for us, the wind is in our favour.
George surprised himself with his response, “No, there must be another way, Malte do you have an idea?” Malte did have an idea. It would be risky but in the end he and Malte agreed, and Cathmore had no choice.
George held the three straws. Cathmore drew first, it was uncut. He was safe. Next Malte, as the straw pulled like a sliver out of his loose fist, George grasped that it was he who was holding the short straw.
George walked very slowly, the big yellow dog, sensing his nervousness, drew close to George’s thigh. Closer and close he moved, until he could smell them – it was the odour of sweat and dung and wet grass rising in a steam from the creature’s back. It raised its head, snorted and pawed. George’s legs went heavy and he fought his panic. He could see Emma, and their home, and their orchard, and he regretted many things. He wondered why he had felt so strongly to press for more. George stepped forward again and the massive head with its small black eyes returned to grazing. Rotating his head and shoulders stiffly, he caught the eye of the brothers, smiling he offered an unsure thumbs up.
George wasn’t sure how long they quietly pressed through the herd, but after a while his heart gave up its fight with his ribs. And the men continued among the massive creatures.
He felt good about himself that night as the three settled by the fire. For the briefest moment George considered pulling out the flask with its remaining wine—after all it was a time to celebrate, and he was in the company of new friends. “No, George” he counselled himself, “I don’t think so, I’d sooner take another chance with that herd”
George mused, he had for most of his life despised gentle, humble characteristics as feeble, something to be cut out, yet today he had been saved by them.

Gentleness

Gentleness is a humble Love

It is the opposite of argumentative, self righteous, stubborn, the need to win

It is counter intuitive to be gentle today

Think about how many films have revenge and win at any cost in the storyline and we applaud the character who has the last word hoping they will cut and skewer the antagonist with their sharp words.

It can be risky to be gentle,
Gentle people risk being misunderstood, overrun by aggressive actions, hurt by intolerance.

Yes there is time a time for tough love to fight for what you believe but more often than not there is a time for gentle love,

James had this to say Jas 1:19 My dear brothers, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry,
20 for man’s anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires.

Gentle love is the rule not exception

Its qualities are mildness, tolerance and humility

And what did Jesus say John 13:14 Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.

July 20th – evening.

Sunny today. About 24 degrees. Sunrise at 6, sunset at 8. Half moon …

No this won’t work. No one wants to read a history of the weather. Not even me. What do you write in one of these things?

Lewis said that it would help. I turned, startled by the presence of my new friend. He caught me off guard – transfixed by the image of the stranger in the river. The river-stranger who had my eyes and my trademark chin. My cowlick. I was stuck wondering who he was. This evil twin.

“Who are you George?”

Well, I must have been that way for a while when Lewis said it. And he must of been there a while too. I was nearly swimming in that reflection when his words caught my collar.

“This will help”. (more…)

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.”
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?

An Urban Bridge Story
The Quest of George
Last week we began our summer topic on the fruit of the spirit
The book of Galatians in the New Testament chapter 5 tells us that the fruit of the spirit is love and that it has 8 qualities: Joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Last week we learned about patience and this week we will discover the qualities of kindness and faithfulness. The book of Luke communicates this quality of kindness in story form Luke 10:30-35: 30A Jewish man was traveling on a trip from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he was attacked by bandits. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him up, and left him half dead beside the road. 31 “By chance a priest came along. But when he saw the man lying there, he crossed to the other side of the road and passed him by. 32 A Temple assistant walked over and looked at him lying there, but he also passed by on the other side. 33 “Then a despised Samaritan came along, and when he saw the man, he felt compassion for him. 34 Going over to him, the Samaritan soothed his wounds with olive oil and wine and bandaged them. Then he put the man on his own donkey and took him to an inn, where he took care of him. 35 The next day he handed the innkeeper two silver coins, telling him, ‘Take care of this man. If his bill runs higher than this, I’ll pay you the next time I’m here.’ (NIV)
Kindness expresses itself through the simple details of life and relationships: being interested in others, showing attention, listening, remembering the little things, tender hearted, forgiving In a word kindness is grace lived
The second quality of love we are going to introduce is faithfulness. The book of Luke 16: 10-12: 10 “If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones. But if you are dishonest in little things, you won’t be honest with greater responsibilities. 11 And if you are untrustworthy about worldly wealth, who will trust you with the true riches of heaven? 12 And if you are not faithful with other people’s things, why should you be trusted with things of your own? (NIV)
Faithfulness speaks of reliability, trustworthiness, a consistency that can be counted on.
Have you ever been a fish out of water, feeling that you needed to change to fit in?
Have you been the one to show the kindness?

The Quest of George Part Two
The spongy moss that hemmed in the road stretched to the trees like a lumpy blanket and cushioned George as his noisy stomach and aching sides recovered from the retching and heaving. He coasted jerkily to sleep, but it was rare for him to sleep away from home, and the breeze and the crickets upset the comforting whisper of the woods. Still, he was able to drop into scattered pockets of deep sleep. In the last, deepest pocket, he and Emma were kissing. It had been so long, and in his dream Emma was the way he remembered her in the beginning: gentle, subtle, caring.
She began to kiss his chin, cheeks and forehead: big, wet, sloppy kisses, murmuring her love for him: it was an affection long pushed to the back of their relationship. Emma’s murmuring was morphing into soft growls which quite frankly startled George. Her breath, how best to describe it? It was like doggy breath.
The big yellow dog dropped back to its haunches, pleased to have roused the man on the ground. He watched as the man on the ground sprang to a sitting position, vigorously rubbing—no, more like scrapping his face, at the same time shouting sharp strange words while offering his heavily booted feet in a crazy bicycling motion.
Yes, the man wanted to play! The big yellow dog obliged by grabbing the heavy padded boots, first one then the other as they were offered.
George collected his senses enough to jump to his feet. Swinging the wine flask and frantically shooing the biting yellow monster he grabbed a stick and pitched it at the crazed animal. It missed high and to right clattering far into branches and whooshing to the undergrowth.
The big yellow dog responded in a second bounding gleefully to fetch the stick. George grabbed a rock, knowing the creature would return to attack – and it did, but with a stick in its mouth, stepping proudly with a waggle in its tail.
George’s shaking slowly subsided; his weak shooing noises at the dog were useless. The dog continually bounded off only to return with unfailing reliability.
It was more than a village, more like a town, certainly bigger than what he was accustomed to. George needed a place to clean up. Unshaven and smelling vaguely of vomit, he did his best to wipe the moss from his trousers. Finally, quite pleased with himself he began his descent down the gentle rolling slope of the broad valley, unaware of the trapped piece of brown peat bouncing lightly where his coat collar met his matted curls.
Making his way to the edge of the town he tried one more time, “Go, go you cur!” The big padded sole of George’s boot aimed for the yellow dog’s head but instead found its way into the beast’s mouth and the pooch gleefully wrenched George’s leg like a thanksgiving wishbone. Angrily, a bouncing George swapped the stick for his boot.
It really was a pretty town: everything in its place. An oversize sign welcomed George to “Benignus” and beneath the funny sounding name was a slogan that read, “ welcome friend, your home for a night or a lifetime” A crisp, banner strapped to a street lamp snapped in the breeze and reminded him of the frayed relics that clung to the lamp posts of his own village. The town was larger than his, but not so big that a stranger would go unnoticed. George felt noticeable, but not in a comforting way and he could tell by the foot wear that they did not farm. His big padded boots with their oversize great soles called attention to themselves, and for the first time George wished they wouldn’t. They looked menacing compared to the slick, shiny tops and razor-like soles of the town’s people. Besides, the cobbled stones kept grabbing at his toes, as though to remind the boots that they really were out of place.
Everyone seemed friendly enough, nodding and smiling, just like home. But it wasn’t like home, at home George knew he belonged, but not here. There was a difference. But what was it? Ahh, yes, they were smiling with their mouths, but their eyes, their eyes weren’t smiling. Their eyes were evaluating him, measuring him. George had always considered himself a hospitable person, perhaps if he initiated, things it would be different, “ and a happy day to you” he confidently offered the pretty young mom and bright, blond little girl; the young woman reminded him of younger Emma. The little blond girl giggled, and the mom smiled – but not with her eyes, the same as Emma. The girl reached for the big yellow dog and her mother jerked instinctively pulling her back. “He’s not my”…. Oh what was the use? George had forgotten about the yellow creature padding reliably at his side, at least the dog’s smile was genuine, trustworthy.
It was odd to be considered odd.
The Benignus community centre was new and placed prominently. North across the street was the Court house and north-east diagonally through the intersecting street was the Post office. A large church had its home directly to the east. A commanding presence, it seemed oversized even for this town and George could tell that it was an important place. He stepped into the community centre. Wow it was so modern. Here and there were gadgets he had seen but could not name, and machines he had never ever seen.
A tall wooden rack held rows of fancy folded paper. The sign said “take a brochure”. George guessed that brochure must be a big word for fancy folded paper. He took one. The words were written in his language but they seemed to mean something different. It reminded him of the time he learned a new sport and how he had to figure out the new jargon before the game made sense. It was worth his while to learn the new sport – he was not sure if this was worth his while.
A big voice called from corner, “Hey buddy” George turned, he must be the buddy as he was the only one in the room. A thin, smallish man with narrow shoulders and pants hitched uncomfortably high owned the big voice. He wore slick shoes with shiny tops and razor-like soles. The man smiled – but not with his eyes, George returned the smile and wondered if his eyes also gave away the truth. The big voice continued, “Nice dog – but he really should be tied up outside” “He’s not”…. Again what was the use?” “What was that” asked big voice, “He’s, he’s not well trained” George impatiently swung the door open, and the dog obediently rambled out. “You look like you can use some help friend” the big voice offered, George wasn’t sure about the friend part, but he could use some help. The man continued on before George had a chance to respond, “We’ll get you some new clothes and a belly full of food in no time; of course we do expect a little consideration in return. What you need is to feel better about yourself, gain back some self-respect.” The big voice dashed to a closet in the corner and flung it open revealing rows of brooms, shovels and dustbins. Neatly stacked worn gloves rested on a shelf above the brooms and over that, another row displayed hard hats each with a decal that proclaimed “”By helping others I help myself”. The big voice smiled, stood on his tip toes, and reached for a hard hat. George’s eyes got big, he wasn’t smiling. His big padded boot was readying itself for a stomp.
It was a touch so light his impatience and anger almost over rode it. But the touch persisted, not in a commanding way, rather in a caring way. He shifted to see an elderly woman and her subtle fragrance reminded him of the best of Emma and his big padded boot with its large sole eased up. She smiled and her eyes were listening eyes, caring eyes. They were kind. “Karl” she directed her herself to the big voice, “how about I take over from here” Karl, prepared to lunch with friends replied, “buddy you go with Charis, she’ll take good care of you”
“My, what a friendly dog you have!” Charis was taken with the big yellow dog as it fell in beside George. What is his name? “His name,” George said with a resigned acceptance “is Fido.” “And does he live up to his name” Charis asked, “Yes, if nothing else he is faithful.” —And George smiled.
Charis, George learned had lived in Benignus her entire life, and had travelled even less than he. She once was married to a man from other parts, but the love of her life had died many years ago. Charis had been devastated by the loss and her spirit began to shrivel and the capacities to love slowly dissolve. Her loneliness and heart ache demanded an outlet so Charis had become a community centre helper to break the monotony and dull the hurt.
Charis offered her full attention to the stranger with the large padded thick soled boots, and the brown peat dangling at nape of his neck. She fed him, she cleaned and pressed his clothes and even wiped his boots, and all the while she listened and her eyes gently drew out memories: the good ones sliding easily off his tongue and the hard ones, once drawn out like a stubborn sliver, lost their power to inflict pain. And when he spoke of his quest she nodded, and he knew she knew how he felt. He felt safe with her and asked her opinion of his need for new land. And she replied that not being a farmer, she couldn’t really know but she encouraged him and said that the great land owner surely would do what was best for George.
Refreshed and encouraged George was up early enough that a lamp was necessary.
Charis had wrapped and packed him enough food for a number of hearty meals, placing his flask on his carefully folded coat to ensure George would not forget it – for he had told her its story and she encouraged him to keep the flask, though George was less sure.
The one thing he was not sure of was the offer of her dead husband’s boots. They were solid boots with high lace tops to protect his ankles and firm gripped soles. George liked his boots though they seemed more suited to the farm than the road. In so many ways they represented his life and reminded him of home. Take them she offered, “You don’t have to wear them just yet, but take them just in case.”
George agreed. He opened the closet to gather them up where he noticed three sets of boots; his great soled thick boots on the left, the high topped firm gripped boots in the centre and on the right, ancient and dusty from their long rest in the closet another pair of great thick soled boots – just like his. Charis simply smiled, and her eyes smiled, and kindness and grace reached deep into George’s soul. George and the big yellow dog made their way down the dew saturated path leading out of town.

This story takes place in the land of the Man and the Bridge. You can read that story here if you need to catch up.

The Quest of Goerge

Ouch! Pulling the thorn from his hand, he slowly and deliberately squashed the offending weed under the thick padded sole of his boot. He enjoyed the act of defeating the prickly little enemy, knowing full well this quick growing weed would be back to torment him all too soon; thistles, why so many thistles. Why didn’t his berries and bushes and fruit trees have the same persistence? Instead, they reacted resentfully to his efforts. Drooping sullenly, and offering him thin, wooden fruit with scarce juice that arrived late, if at all. (more…)