He has a fascinating story to tell.

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

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

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.

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

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?

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.

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”.

I turned around to see a book in his outstretched hand. “A book” I thought! A ‘how to’ book, was it? How to not be such an untrusting idiot!? I took it. I owed him that much. He headed off towards the house and I was alone again. With disinterest I opened the cover.

Blank! It was no book at all, but a journal. An empty journal. Lewis wasn’t trying to tell me something – he wanted me to listen. To listen to that man I saw down there in the river. I hadn’t done that for a long, long time. I wasn’t going to start, either. I put the journal in my pack, next to the flask. My useless collection.

Fido bounded from the woods right into the face of the river-stranger. The dog replaced my own reflection and it seemed fitting – like he was almost half of me by now. I yelled, “No Fido – stop!”. But he must understand my words as little as I do his. “Stop” seems to mean “YES! Do that more!”. He splashed about and I sought cover. I became his towel as he whipped his body tightly back and forth on it’s axis. With each shake his fur set itself free from the cold water and my reflection. He splashed me over and again until we were both soaked.

And I suppose that’s how it all started with the Garden – and with Mary.

It had been sunny, and I could have dried off. Except that I had lost time in that riverbank. The moon snuck into the sky, sneering at my predicament. It brought the cold with it. I would not dry off this way. I had no choice but to head up to the house.

I say house – I should almost say fort. The fort is the kind of secret place I dreamt of as a boy. The kind of place where you show your soul to just one friend every summer. This was a hideaway. A treasure. A Pirate’s Cove, a secret lair. And I was about to enter – sheepishly. Few things can motivate me to swallow my pride and ask for help. Being cold is one of them. Being wet is another. It is no coincidence that both anger and shivering clench my teeth involuntarily.

I knocked softly, but they were joking around inside – or were they singing? I knocked a little more loudly – trying not to make a scene. Only the smashing pound of my fist worked in the end. The laughter inside stopped and I heard a drip from my sleeve hit the ladder. Another one traced my spine with it’s icy slither. The door flung open and Lewis bellowed, “Friend, you look half frozen!”.

“I hadn’t noticed”. My tongue caught that sarcasm like a frog to a fly. Instinctive. Just fast enough. “Don’t screw this up” I thought. “You can’t afford to be so … you.”

Lewis swept me under his arm and pulled me inside.

“I’ll tell Fido he has to stay …”

But he had taken off. He never did like that house. I thought it was the heights. Now I see it was the first sign.

Lewis brought me into his home and sat me down at his table. His wife poured soup and I inhaled it. I slept like a baby that first night – and until mid afternoon the next morning. They just let me sleep. They let me do a lot of things. I spent the first days resting. If I was going to make it to the Landowner, I knew I needed to refresh. Just for a day or two.

Or three. Or four.

The food was so good. The family so kind. They had asked me to stay until the end of the month. Their daughter Mary was to turn 21 – become a woman. I could see it was important. I denied and they asked that I at least stay another day, when their daughter would return from town. She had gone to buy a dress for the party – one fitted and sewn especially for her. She would like to meet me, they insisted, and I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse.

Besides, I had just started the garden.

Right by the tree – beneath the fort-house – there is this little plot of land. Great land. I wanted to get my hands dirty. I asked Lewis one night whether he would mind if I tried my hand at a little garden while I was still around. He delighted at the idea. The town was a far walk for vegetables. He’d get me seeds tomorrow. He walked away and the peace I felt in this place worked it’s way down.

I could get used to this.

That peace was cut by a sharp bark. As my eyes struggled to catch up with my ears, I found Fido at the end of the path – about 100 feet away. He just sat there and barked. And whimpered. He wanted to run. Wanted more adventure. “I’m no pup, Fido!” I shouted back. He didn’t move forward at the turn of the path – just barking and whining at the crossroads. “Must see a squirrel or something”, I had thought. How could he be restless in a place like this? Crazy dog.

Next day I planted those seeds. This Little Garden somehow took on meaning for me. It grabbed my attention. I am a farmer! That’s who I am! Yes George – you’re starting to get it! Carrots, tomatoes, potatoes and dill. No more room. What a stew that would make though! Maybe I’d have to stick around a bit to taste it. Bess would make good stew.

I stood up surveying my perfect rows of seed. My kingdom – my one speck of control in this foreign soil. I was the Master of something at last. And then I heard Fido. He stood far off at the crossroads and he barked. And he whined. “It’s going to be a great garden Fido!”. “Fresh carrots for you!”. He barked. I saw no squirrel.

I haven’t talked much about Mary yet, and I should. She was the second sign.

Mary came back from town when I was out fishing for dinner. She was in her room when I came in and washed up, and I didn’t see her until we ate. Bess and Lewis and I sat waiting around piping hot fish and rice for her arrival. I have to be honest, I didn’t expect much from Mary. Lewis’ wife Bess is, pardon me, no prize. Her features are barely more delicate or feminine than Lewis’ own. I did not expect Mary.

She emerged from her room – wearing the kind of airy sun dress that carried you into my heart years before. She floated in it, like a ghost who did not know or care if anyone could see her. Like a ghost – all spirit. All dream. She took her seat but quickly got back up, apologized and offered her hand to me. I felt like a prince in an old storybook – like I should take that hand and place a kiss upon it. She was looking for a shake – and shook firm – like her father. I nervously let go – a moment too late I felt, and knocked over my glass of milk as my hand retreated to my fork. I cleaned up, cursing my clumsiness. The rest of that evening I continued to act more like a trained ape than a man. I could walk upright and use utensils, but conversation seemed a trick too hard. Mary asked who made the fish. “It’s so delicious” she applauded. “I did” I answered. Then I remembered I did not.

“… catch it”.

Nice save. I did catch it. Me George ape, you Mary girl. Me no understand simple question. Me quiet now.

Look at George eat his rice – that’s tricky even for people! Good ape!

I got up from the table and retreated to my room, fully expecting to slip on a banana peel to the sound of a slidewhistle as I skulked away.

Things got better though. I talked with Mary often. I told her about everything at home … almost everything. I told her about my quest. She seemed enthralled. This mysterious stranger from a far off land! This world traveller. And from the Dry Land too?! Mary had not met a dry-lander before. I felt like a rebel, young and impressive.

And I was impressive when I tended that Little Garden that had grown at amazing speed. It was as if the soil were magic – just waiting for a wizard’s incantation before it exploded in green. I was the wizard and Mary liked my tricks. We watched together as little green tomatoes lit up the vines.

“Maybe”, I schemed to her one evening, “this food will be ready for your party. We could all eat it together then. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“Yes, it would! So, you are staying then?”

Someone wanted me to stay. There were not many tears when I left the farm. But I was wanted here. I was needed here. And wasn’t this Little Garden as good a land as I could ever hope to get? Perhaps this was where the Landowner had wanted me to come all along. Isn’t that his way? Meandering, surprising paths? Maps we cannot fully read or understand? I have heard such talk.

Fido barked at his invisible squirrel once more. He just stood there at the crossroads and barked. Maybe if I could see his eyes I would have picked up on something. But he was a good hundred feet off. And it was dark. And he wasn’t really my dog, anyways.

As days passed, I worked the garden and I slept. I pitched in around the house and chatted with the family. We played games at night. We became so close that it seemed right for me to stay for that party. How could I not? Mary would be a woman and she would soon meet a man. Or had she already? What was happening to me? What was I thinking?

The night before the party I had a dream. I was tending the Little Garden. The plants had begun to snatch at the clouds above. They must have been a hundred miles high. I stood back, proud. Well done, George. I heard footsteps behind me, and I could smell Mary’s perfume. She was walking towards me from behind, but I did not turn to see her. No hurry. I would let this moment wrap itself around me. I would enjoy this. I stood open jawed at my accomplishment. At night, it’s fruit would be the stars! I waited for Mary to tell me she was proud, too. She placed her hand upon my shoulder. Her arm was around me. I tensed up, but then relaxed. She had not touched me before. I was swimming in a pool of shark-water thoughts. I turned to kiss her, open eyed. I turned and saw you, Emma, and then I woke up.

I tried to push that dream out of my head all day, and I nearly succeeded. “What would Emma know – or anyone know – of this place?” I had found my calling! I was fulfilling my potential. Perhaps the Little Garden would grow as high as I dreamt. These people understood me. Emma – they got me the way you used to get me. The way I used to get you. I still want to be got.

At dinner Lewis, Bess and I waited at the table for Mary – as we had that first night. Her second coming was far greater than the first – a gift wrapped in a custom-fit gown. A gift for some lucky boy somewhere. Someone. Some farmer? We were able to eat a few of my vegetables, though most were still waiting for the right time. And then I remembered – the right time! Yes – there was one more thing I could bring this family – could bring Mary. The flask was in my room. The Ancient had told me of two conditions. It must be drank at the right time and in the company of friends. These were more than friends by now, and as far as I knew at that moment, I would never leave that house.

I declared, “Wait! A toast!” They looked puzzled until I emerged from my room, flask in hand. I poured for each of us and just a little remained. It was nearly a perfect amount! This was surely the right time. I would stay here – they would let me. My journey ended. Whatever the map said, this was my destination. A toast to my peace. To my fulfillment. “A toast” I cheered, “To Mary!”

“To Mary!”

We all drank deeply.

Silence.

Spew! Gag! Wretch! Heaving coughs filled the air!

Mary’s white gown stained red with the vile, spit liquid. My wretched, lazy soul soaking the pure, joyous evening in darkness. My easy-way-out face reflected back at me in my half-full cup.

The third sign. Three strikes. I got it …

What does it matter that I mastered that Little Garden? I can’t even handle myself.

Mary left the room, stained. Bess and I didn’t talk, but Lewis sat with me as I packed. The empty journal fell open from my pack as I rushed. Stupid ape. Lewis simply picked it up, dusted it off and handed it back to me.

“This will help”.

I packed like a madman – not wanting to lose any more time, and more than slightly embarrassed. I said thank you as best I could.

I didn’t look for Fido because I knew where he was. Waiting for me at the end of the path. Barking. Restless. I hear you boy. I am listening now.

We have been walking through the night and my body needed to stop but my mind is racing on. I write, and it does help. My mind is remembering you Emma – and seeing all the parts of you that I thought were Mary. Yes … I am missing you.

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?

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.

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.

Sometimes George could swear that they were conspiring against him. In the first moments of wakening while he still had one boot in his dreams he could hear their whispering in the early morning breeze challenging him to invest more of his money and time. More— more—- more. More of him; more time, more money, more effort:

George was not one to wait. Had never been one to wait. He wanted results now!
It was this insistence on having his needs met now, that had splintered his bond with Emma. A delicate flower of a woman, it was that lingering, subtle fragrance of her life that had first drawn him to her. But now she was no better than the prickly little enemy in his field: responding to his demands with a feeble, self-protective bristly resistance—so unlike the Emma he once knew. And he slowly squashed her long-suffering nature under his edgy, thick soul.

What really bugged George is that his mediocre farm was surrounded by thick, gleeful land; land that seemed to bear fruit as if all by itself. Trees that stretched happily upward, offering their golden produce to the sky: perky shrubs, pregnant with berries that grabbed playfully at his trousers marking them, with their copious juice. Each stream seemed to gush unselfishly to feed the land. The soggy ground with its rich colour patiently gripped the thick souls of his boots, daring them to squash the spongy irresistible life beneath.

Georges’s neighbours assured him that their land was no different than his.
When George asked them for their secrets, they proudly offered up their remedies for a fruitful return. He would stamp his great thick boot “No, there must be more, I already know these things. They take too much time, too much effort. There must be more you are not telling me.”

“George, George” ——–

His neighbours reminded him of the ancient story of the bridge that had reconnected them to the great land owner and how before the bridge, all land was like his land and his land was the norm, not the exception. “George” they said, “take more time, and invest in what you have been given. Sometimes it does take longer than planned.”

George needed a return now. Not later. George wanted the benefit of the fruit now not later. This is what he would do. He would insist on his rights, better land, that’s what he needed. He would appeal to the land owner.

George paced and panicked and dreamed up a dozen conspiracy theories for why he had heard nothing. In due time, in good time, word came back. The land owner’s personal messenger brought the news. In a thorough explanation so as not to miss a thing, he spoke for the land owner, explaining the journey and the conditions under which George could appeal. As if with a mind of its own, his great padded boot tapped an irritated song in sync with George’s mumblings of “get on with it man – get to the point.”

He did, and finally George was give a map along with the appointed time he was to meet the land owner. George thought to himself, I’ll make the journey in half the time, surprise the landowner with the importance of my need for new land, and be breaking new ground in time for the next harvest.

Before first light, before his land awoke to whisper its unhappiness, before Emma could be rushed and crushed, George was half-way through the township.

Emma slept in that day, and her bent spirit began to straighten, along with a pale hint of her subtle graceful fragrance.
It was new, this land beyond his county. George had never taken time to travel. What surprised him most was the abundance of the land. Great thick trees supported by trunks wider than his hoe stood tall: generous trees bending over the path to offer him the best of their fruit. At first George had little time for this nonsense; committed to keeping a brisk pace he brashly swept the giving branches aside.

But George who was never much for exercise was soft in the belly and softer in his feet. And his great soled boots were out of their element. Where they excelled in the soft soil they suffered on a hardened path. Enough already! Fat, squishy blisters screamed their disapproval and pressed against his right heel; rebelling against the foreign activity.

And George was forced to rest.

He picked a spot where his feet could reach the stream and the soft moss welcomed his behind—gently. The aged apple tree received his rigid back—tenderly. And the leaves of the forest whispered a gracious greeting to the hurried stranger.
A weird, pungent, earthy aroma was the first thing George was aware of as he opened his eyes. “Just great,” he cursed, as he angrily realized he’d been asleep. George was concerned, the sun had traveled a long ways and he stood stiffly, dizzy with the quick movement.

The pungent earthy aroma moved! Surprised and a little afraid George realized an ancient man was resting against the backside of the same welcoming trunk.

The pungent earthy aroma spoke. The ancient voice resonated with a deep unhurried cadence; this intrigued George and for the first time in a long, long while he chose to sit and talk, and even his great soled boots offered no complaint. The ancient’s conversation meandered covering farming, politics, and religion and distant lands he had visited, and even about a long ago meeting with the land owner.

And for the first time in a long, long while, George subdued his compulsion to press for answers—for wrapping up, content to let the old man ramble on. It was comforting.

But the sun was being pushed down by the moon and they both realized it was time to find shelter for the night.
“Here, Take my flask” the ancient offered, “It holds a very special wine from my own orchards. It is a wine that must be savoured and sipped slowly in good company, and not before its time. It will refresh you when you need it most.”
Savouring and sipping in good company was not George’s style. “How soon can I drink it” was all he could think to ask. “When it is time” was the ancients reply and with that he offered his earthy, soiled hand in goodbye, and slowly trundled away from George.

Needing to make up for lost time George forced his body into a quick stride. Soon, too soon, he was tired. Refreshing, that’s what he needed if he was to make the next village by dark. Removing the flask from its strap, he quickly pulled out the stop and jabbed the opening to his mouth, drinking deeply, he was overwhelmed by the harsh cutting liquid!

A sharp thistle poked deep into the soft flesh between his thumb and finger while he swayed crazily on knees and palms, and retched, and retched. Folding to the ground like a knot George realized he could go no further.
And for the first time in a long, long while he asked himself must I always be in hurry and he cursed his impatience.