The day before he died we ate ice cream for lunch and listened to Bach's Magnificat. He knew infinitely more about music, gourmet food and faith than I ever will. I wanted to learn from him; to know him better, journey with him as he raised two children with his wife, my friend, Margie. Metastasized brain cancer slaked my hopes.
A few days before, as I sat in my wide windowed writing room deliberating over the last lines in my most recent creative nonfiction manuscript, my editor called.
"Just typing the last few lines," I said, proud as a mother hen who has just heard chicks beginning to vigorously peck at translucent vernal shells. "How was your trip to New York?" I asked eagerly awaiting news of a cover design or editorial directives.
"Sally," his voice fell flat on the phone line. "We're not going to continue with your book."
In an instant a year's worth of intense research, disciplined writing, rewriting and dreams ripped out of my soul in slow motion, arched and flew across my desk. Along with my heart, it landed hard and mortally wounded like a crunched, crinkled, worthless first draft at the bottom of my recycling bin.
Cuts that affected hundreds of other writers killed my book. Cancer killed my friend's husband. For a year I had prayed for hope and healing and health. For nine months I had carried the weight of words hoping they'd come wailing into the world; but they were stilted, stillborn. I had thought June would be a month of celebration: a birthday cake with 40 candles on it for me, Cancer in remission, a book on its way to the press, a gathering of my closest girlfriends to celebrate. Instead, the girls came to Illinois for a funeral; and I cried through most of the summer.
After weeping about it all with one of my friends from church, he e-mailed:
I knew you and Bry had a great burden to bear with John's death, but I didn't know about the mortal blow to your book. Sometimes our dreams have to die so they can experience a resurrection and glory that we cannot imagine. I pray that for you.
Lately, I've been waiting, trying to rest, asking God for unlikely liveliness to spring from dark dead places, beauty to rise out of ashes, crinkly wet wings to come from the quiet chrysalis of waiting. I've been begging for resurrection in my life and my friend's. Some days I'm ready to give up, get back in bed; or I'm so pissed off that I blast unsuspecting innocents with pent up anger that I ought to share with God alone. Other days a gracious gift of gratitude washes over me like a lemonade rain falling in certain select grassy spots on a sunny day.
It is a rare gratitude that my personal death has happened to coincide with my friend's most devastating time of loss. A gratitude that my little piece of present pain somehow helps me see her a bit more clearly, love her with a gentler more organic kind of empathy; and prompts me to open arms wide and hold a sacred space where - together - we weep and know that emptiness is the best invitation anyone can give to God or each other.
Emptiness is the place where life and love can begin. Would it be too cliché to mention that the image of an empty tomb keeps coming to mind? Margie is opening herself up to the empty place of mourning in dozens of creative ways. In my own ways, I guess I'm joining her. As she mourns the loss of her man, I'm giving myself a break from writing and striving and trying to pound out a career path. Instead, I'm coloring and scribbling prayers in a sketchbook. It's funny how many circuitous paths, seeds, butterfly wings and tiny green leaves are popping up on the stark white watermarked pages.
The only thing I've been able to write since the deaths is the following Reader's Theater titled,
Three New Lives. It's based on my obsession with resurrection these days and the lives of my son, Mary Magdalene and Jonah (three of my favorite people who know, first-hand, of life after death). My family read the piece for a hillside service at our church family camp in July. It makes me think of Margie's husband. It makes me think of my book. It makes me think of anyone who may be going through a season of goodbye, or dashed hope, or a path unexpectedly turned in on itself. I paste it here for you. And, I also offer it to any church that may want to use the reading, perhaps during Lent this year, as a piece of companionship for the lonley times of waiting.
May God be doing enlivening work in all of us as we wait and hope and cry and long with patience, buoyed by the memories of resurrections unearthed in own lives and in the lives of our friends.
THREE NEW LIVES
A Readers' Theatre telling Three Parallel Resurrection Stories
love
for
Two Adults, One Child and A Chorus of Two or More
The setting is a black backdrop or empty stage. The readers stand in a line wearing simple, everyday clothes such as jeans and T-shirts. The chorus may stand off to one side, but close to the main readers. The man may hold a walking stick or wear a large scarf suggesting a tunic. The woman may wear a shawl around her shoulders. The boy may have a bug box in his hand or on the ground beside his feet.
The time is kairos not chronos as the Man is an Old Testament character, the Woman is a New Testament character; and the Boy exists in modern times.
Props: a large scarf, a shawl, a bug box (These props are not quintessentially necessary.)
Multimedia: If multimedia is available, pictures of Christ’s resurrection, and the metamorphosis from caterpillar to chrysalis and then butterfly would perfectly compliment the text.
MAN, WOMAN, BOY (ALL) and CHORUS: ONCE UPON A TIME . . .
MAN: God asked me to go to Nineveh.
ALL and CHORUS: ONCE UPON A TIME . . .
WOMAN: God gave me the best friend I’ve ever had, an unlikely guy from Nazareth.
ALL and CHORUS: ONCE UPON A TIME . . .
BOY: I was playing at the pond when I saw a caterpillar. He had black, white and yellow stripes. He was sitting on a huge Milkweed. I picked the weed, stuck it between my bike’s handle bars and gave the little guy the ride of his life!
ALL and CHORUS: THE RIDE OF HIS LIFE!
MAN: I sat under my favorite tree and told God I was sick of my life . . . sick and tired of being a prophet. (Looking up toward Heaven) You say you’re giving me the ride of my life . . .
ALL and CHORUS: THE RIDE OF HIS LIFE! THE RIDE OF HIS LIFE!
MAN: But, this life is for the birds! Come to think of it . . . the birds have it better than me! Ever since I started doing your crazy work people have been treating me like a leper. Everybody in the village points at me. Sometimes I even hear them whispering things like, doomsday . . . repent . . . evil-doers . . . wickedness . . .helter-skelter . . . I’m sick of this, God! Everyone thinks I’m nuts. Even my closest friends don’t want anything to do with me.
WOMAN: My friend was the kind of guy who would stick by you . . . even when times were tough. Right before I met him I was going through a really hard season . . . probably the worst time in my life. It got so bad I literally thought I was losing my mind . . . going nuts! I was feeling divided, depressed, hearing voices . . . lots of voices . . . most days I didn’t even want to get out of bed.
BOY: Right by my bed. That was the perfect place for the caterpillar. When I got home, I stuck the guy in a huge jar . . . stuck the milkweed in there, too . . . and set it right by my bed. That way I could keep a good eye on Fred. Fred. That’s what I named him. Seems like a good name for a caterpillar. Don’t ya think? I wanted to be able to call him by name.
ALL and CHORUS: CALL HIM BY NAME. CALL HIM BY NAME.
WOMAN: I loved it when my friend called me by name. “Mary, come sit by me. Mary, let me tell you a story . . . Mary, wanna hear a joke? . . . Remember the time James and John were fishing and . . . Mary, I love you.”
MAN: Whenever God calls my name, I freak out. “Right at JO, I want to take off running. But, his voice is loud and strong – a commanding parental kind of voice sometimes. “JONAH!” he bellows. And, I have no choice but to listen (at least for a while).
THE BOY: From my bed I watch Fred. “Fred,” I whisper. “How are ya doing?” Yesterday Fred ate three leaves; so I decided to go back to the pond to get him more. The little guy – who isn’t so little any more – seems to be really hungry.
ALL and CHORUS: REALLY HUNGRY. REALLY HUNGRY!
WOMAN: I was really hungry one night during my difficult season. So, my friend built a big fire, smoked some fresh fish and offered it to me. I woofed it down. He sat next to me by the raging fire until the summer sky was laden with stars and the bonfire burnt to ashen embers. He listened to me, really listened. When my stories were done, I cried on his shoulder for over an hour . . . Then, he prayed for me. It wasn’t one of those rote, memorized prayers like you hear at synagogue. It was more like he was just talking to God.
ALL and CHORUS: TALKING TO GOD. TALKING TO GOD.
MAN: I’m sick and tired of talking to God telling him that I don’t want to go to Nineveh! I hate being the guy who curses and convicts . . . the guy who spouts off about wickedness and wrongdoing. I’d rather talk about grace and be the bearer of a little good news. (Looking up) Don’t ya think it’s about time that you have a little good news for your people?
ALL and CHORUS: A LITTLE GOOD NEWS. A LITTLE GOOD NEWS.
WOMAN: The good news was that after he prayed for me, I was O.K. For the first time in years, my steps felt a little lighter. Then the unexpected bad news came like a punch in the gut . . . taking my breath away and choking my good news . . .
BOY: The good news was that Fred ate the new leaves I brought him. The bad news is that he seems sick. Last night he stuck his tail to a branch of the Milkweed and hung upside down – in the shape of a J – for a whole hour. When I woke up the next morning, he hadn’t moved at all.
ALL & CHORUS: HADN’T MOVED AT ALL. HADN’T MOVED AT ALL.
MAN: God didn’t budge in his desire for me to go to Nineveh and tell them that The Almighty had seen their wickedness. So I ran. As fast as I could . . . I ran away. At the time it seemed like a reasonable notion that I’d be able to run away from God . . . at least until the storm came. You see, I had boarded a boat, paid for my ticket and fell asleep below deck . . .
WOMAN: I was sleeping when Peter told me the bad news. My friend had been arrested . . . under some bizarre, manipulative accusations. He was going to trial, and possibly to his death.
BOY: I stared at Fred. For a few days he looked like he was dead. Out-of-the-blue he started wiggling. He wiggled and wiggled and wiggled, kinda dancing ‘til his skin and head popped off and fell into the jar holding his Milkweed.
MAN: Suddenly, out-of-the-blue, the ship was being violently tossed by the furious storm. Nausea, dizziness and fear made me feel as if my outsides were in and my insides were out. Before I knew it, men from the deck were tossing me into a furious raging tsunami of waves.
WOMAN: I felt undone, as if I would vomit my entire soul. I was scared of what might happen to my friend.
ALL & CHORUS: WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN? WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN? WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN?
WOMAN: A group of women and I followed him from Galilee. We walked along the dusty path in the footprints made by his sandaled feet and told stories: how we’d seen him cast out demons, heal the blind, play with the children, comfort widows, fish like he had command of the sea.
CHORUS and ALL: COMMAND OF THE SEA. COMMAND OF THE SEA.
MAN: I knew God could command the sea. I also knew he was ticked at me, so I wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing when a colossal fish swam toward me, opened his stinky mouth and swallowed me whole. Hours later, I was still inside, covered in seaweed and delusional. My prayers started morphing into poems:
I’m praying this prayer from
Inside of a fish,
And it really stinks in here.
So excuse me for breathing from only my mouth
My nose is filled with fear
Of catching a whiff of half digested clams
And snails and disgusting kelp
The best I can do from inside of this beast,
Is pray something simple like: HELP!
CHORUS and ALL: HELP! HELP! HELP US, LORD!
BOY: Help Fred, God! It looks like Fred is dead. His stripes are gone. His head is gone. He looks more like a leaf. I thought about tossing him into the trash. But, my mom said, “Wait three more days, Honey. I think Fred’s resting in there.”
WOMAN: My friend had been dead for three days . . . after they had crowned his head with a circlet of thorns, took him to the top of a hill, and laying him on a cross . . . pounded nails into his hands and feet. When I watched him take his last belabored breath, I bowed my head and tried to pray like he’d taught me. The only words that came to my heart were simply, “Father, help!”
MAN: Help me! Help me! I’m gonna die of seasickness or stench! When are ya gonna help me get me out of here?! It feels as if I’ve been in here for at least three days, God!
ALL and CHORUS: THREE DAYS. THREE DAYS. THREE DAYS.
WOMAN: On the third day, I went to my friend’s tomb with spices to embalm his body.
BOY: Three days later Fred started to turn dark purple. He didn’t look like himself at all. I started to worry that he was getting sicker!
WOMAN: I looked inside the tomb. My friend’s body wasn’t there.
MAN: Before I could get a grip what was happening to me, it felt like the great beast was breaching out of the water. We soared in the sky for over ten seconds. Just as the megalithic fish descended, I felt his stomach muscles contract around me (almost squishing me to death). The force of it all catapulted me like a human javelin down the fish’s trachea, out his gargantuan mouth and onto a sandy shore. The thing puked me up onto the beach.
I was vomited!
Sand stuck to my hands, my legs, my hair. I didn’t care. I kissed the sand. I noticed the way it stuck to my lips. I kinda liked it, but just as I rubbed it off a little, I caught a glimpse of the creature’s mast of a tail disappearing into the deep . . . . I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I felt as if I’d been given a brand new life, a second chance, and began crying at the sure joy of it all
ALL and CHOURS: BEGAN CRYING. BEGAN CRYING.
WOMAN: I began to cry.
BOY: I didn’t mean to, but I started crying. It looked like Fred was dying.
WOMAN: That’s when I heard a stranger call my name, “Mary, why are you crying?”
They have taken my friend away, I said. When I looked the stranger, I realized it was the one for whom I looked. I ran to hug him.
BOY: I couldn’t believe my eyes. Fred was changing! He was alive!!! And, suddenly, he had wings! Orange, black and white wings! At first they were wet and crinkly. After an hour or so, they were dried. Fred flew! He flew over and landed right on my shoulder!
WOMAN: My friend was no longer dead! I couldn’t believe it, just as he had given me a brand new start . . . now he had a brand new life! It was a miracle! Mere days before – with my very own eyes - I’d seen him die on a hill . . . now he lived and breathed! He called my name!
After seeing him by the grave, he met others on the road as they walked to Emmaus. And he met me by the sea . . . cooked my favorite meal of fresh fish over an open fire. I’ve never been happier than the night we sat together – by roaring flames – ate and thanked God on the beach.
MAN: On the beach, I heard God’s voice a second time. “Go to Nineveh and proclaim to it the message I give you.” I got up, brushed myself off and did as God asked. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at what the god – who made the Great Monster Fish vomit me up – did next. He had compassion on Nineveh! Instead of killing them all; he let them off the hook. He gave them a fresh start . . . just like he’d given me.
BOY: In some kind of crazy way, Fred seemed to have gotten a fresh start
. . . new wings! Slowly I walked toward the window with him on my shoulder. I opened the window wide and watched Fred fly into his brand new life!
ALL and CHORUS: BRAND NEW LIFE! BRAND NEW LIFE! BRAND NEW LIFE!
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