short-story

Corn-Bred

~ philipamerson ~ 1 Comment

Corn-Bred

I’m a Hoosier, Indiana born and bred, on most July Sundays I can be found at church. On the best Sundays, the benediction ended, I then head for sweet corn at home from the farmer’s market.  Bought the day before from a young Amish teen in the City Hall parking lot.  Straw hat, gray shirt, grayer suspenders, blond curls and a sneaky, shiny smile. From down near Paoli most likely, I surmise – the corn and the smile.  “Picked this morning” he offers. “In the moonlight?” I tease, in return. We trade a chortle. The grin and banter worth the entire purchase price alone; but I win, as I carry off a half-dozen ears.  “He smiles with his eyes, he does.” I heard it growing up, like him I bet.

Early July, Indiana sweet corn is extra-scrumptious; I prescribe as it a necessary antidote to the extra-boneheaded politicians who now scour the state dressed in a toxic religious wardrobe. Deceptions attached to their bigotry like the sown-on-shadow of Peter Pan. This summer sweet corn is better. Much needed offset to the racism, so appreciated in the summer heat of ’25.  

Worship was delicious too this Sabbath. A needed cure offered, beginning with soaring music.  A fanfare for a refurbished organ followed by hymn texts full of ancient, hard-won truths. The anthem is fetched from the apothecary of faith. “It is well with my soul” lingers still. Take that, you many poisons of the soul, you dividers of a nation.

The stage is set by the liturgy – we are called to hope and not despair; and, then a sermon, chasing down our shared deeper story.  Listen again to Naaman’s healing. His trust in his own power, his military hardware, is insufficient to bring peace.  No, no, no, empathy is not “a bug in the system,” Mr. Musk.  Empathy marks true humanity.  A “healed femur is the sign of the beginning of civilization” Margaret Mead once noted.  The wonderful irony of the powerful finding healing and justice by finally heeding the counsel of a young girl.  She brings a four-star general to his knees and his senses… and more than an outer leprosy is healed.  She did it well, both the young girl and the preacher this Sunday.  We are reminded that interdependence is more to be valued than independence.

It’s corn-bred wisdom that hubris and arrogance will end in dust. True in Elisha’s time and a lesson to be relearned now. God’s preference is for the small and marginal ones. The narrative is told over and again.  Let those with ears-to-hear, listen.  Too bad uncle Donald was on the golf course and missed learning how his story will end.  The closing hymn offers again this poetry of hope. Then I head home to sweet corn and a nap.

O God of every nation, Of every race and land,

Redeem the whole creation With your almighty hand. 

Where hate and fear divide us  And bitter threats are hurled,

In love and mercy guide us  And heal our strife torn world.

Rain begins as we walk home… “good for the sweet corn,” I think...

Corn-Bred

~ philipamerson

Corn-Bred

I’m a Hoosier, Indiana born and bred, on most July Sundays I can be found at church. On the best Sundays, the benediction ended, I then find sweet corn from the farmer’s market.  Bought the day before from a young Amish teen in the City Hall parking lot.  Straw hat, gray shirt, grayer suspenders, blond curls and a sneaky, shiny smile. From down near Paoli most likely, I surmise – the corn and the smile.  “Picked this morning” he offers. “In the moonlight?” I tease, in return. We trade a chortle. The grin and banter worth the entire purchase price alone; but I win, as I carry off a half-dozen ears.  “He smiles with his eyes, he does.” I heard growing up, like him I bet.

Early July, Indiana sweet corn is extra-scrumptious; I prescribe as it a necessary antidote to the extra-boneheaded politicians who now scour the state dressed in a toxic religious wardrobe, attached to their bigotry like the sown-on-shadow of Peter Pan. This summer sweet corn is better. Much needed offset the racism, appreciated in the heat of ’25.  

Worship was delicious too this Sabbath. A needed cure offered, beginning with soaring music.  A fanfare from refurbished organ followed by hymn texts full of ancient, hard-won truths. The anthem is fetched from the apothecary of faith. “It is well with my soul” lingers still. Take that, you many poisons of the soul, you dividers of a nation.

The stage is set by the liturgy – we are called to hope and not despair; and, then a sermon, chasing down our shared deeper story.  Listen again to Naaman’s healing. His trust in his own power, his military hardware, is insufficient to bring peace.  No, no, no, empathy is not “a bug in the system,” Mr. Musk.  Empathy marks true humanity.  A “healed femur is the sign of the beginning of civilization” Margaret Mead noted.  The wonderful irony of the powerful finding healing and justice by finally heeding the counsel of a young girl.  She brings a four-star general to his senses… and more than an outer leprosy is healed.  She did it well, both the young girl and the preacher.  We are reminded that interdependence is more to be valued than independence.

It’s corn-bred wisdom that hubris and arrogance will end in dust.  True in Elisha’s time and a lesson to be relearned now. God’s preference for the small and marginal ones. The narrative is told over and again.  Let those with ears-to-hear, listen.  Too bad uncle Donald was on the golf course and missed learning how his story will end.  The closing hymn offers again this poetry of hope. Then I head home to sweet corn and a nap.

O God of every nation, Of every race and land,

Redeem the whole creation With your almighty hand. 

Where hate and fear divide us  And bitter treats are hurled,

In love and mercy guide us  And heal our strife torn world.

Rain begins as we walk home… “good for the sweet corn,” I think...

I Will Call Her ‘Elizabeth’

~ philipamerson ~ 1 Comment

I Will Name Her ‘Elizabeth’

A block ahead of me, she slowly trod. She wears a blanket falling from her shoulders like a train dragging behind as if a royal gown. She turns at the corner, and I notice her bare feet. No crown, just matted hair from a rough night on the streets. Late March, evening temps were cool, but tolerable, I guess.  Still a blanket helped warm from to the chilly breeze.  Her gait made me think of her as “royalty on these mean streets” and I decided to name her ‘Elizabeth Rex.’

Another block, I have caught up and pass as we cross the street together.  At the corner of Kirkwood and Walnut, she stops and slowly turns. The grimy blanket end has gathered sidewalk debris.  Across from the Courthouse, near a restaurant I frequent, Elizabeth looked my way. Our eyes met and she quietly asks, “Do you know where I can get some shoes?”  I asked her name and where she was staying. She said she lives on the streets.  Had for nine years.  I doubted that, but I didn’t want to argue. 

Then from nowhere she says, “I’m an addict… a drug addict.”  I nod and ask what she was using.  “Meth, and some other stuff.”  “It can be dangerous,” I say.  I tell her that I have lost some friends to addiction.  She nods.  “What size shoes do you need? She stares into space for a long moment, then answers “nine-and-a-half.”  I doubt this as well.  Then, catching her eye again, I say there is a place nearby that can help.  Have you heard of Beacon? She stares off in the distance and nods “no.”

Calling her name, which was not Elizabeth, I said I would ask someone to bring some shoes if she wished.  She nod “yes.”  I call Elaine and ask if she could find something in our closet.  Elaine agrees and heads our way in her car.

I tell ‘Elizabeth’ that shoes and socks were on the way.  I then said again, “We can take you to a place that can offer more help.”  There was no sign of recognition, just that distant stare. We sat quietly for a few minutes near the crosswalk. Shortly a horn was sounding nearby.  It was Elaine.  I asked my new friend “Elizabeth,” if we could give her a ride to a place where she could have more help.  Over and again, I pointed and told her about Beacon, a place only a few blocks away that could help.  I opened the front door of Elaine’s Prius and invited her to take a seat.  “No, no,” she said, “God doesn’t want me to ride in cars, NO!”

Taking the bag from Elaine the woman and I sat on a nearby bench. I gave her the bag with socks and shoes and a few other healthcare aids.  She slowing pulled on the socks.  The shoes were TOO LARGE but the best we had to offer. She put them on.  I smiled, and feeling very Christian, I handed her a $20 bill.  She walked away – and I, experiencing an all too familiar voyeur’s guilt, took a photo.

Then, to my surprise she turned and walked back.  “Will you pray for me?” she asks. “Yes, yes,” I reply, “How about now?” We stood in the middle of the sidewalk and with my hand touching the royal blanket over her shoulder, I pray.  I prayed for her as a beloved child of God.  I pray that she would be delivered from her addiction.  I pray that she would know health and the love of others and discover places where she would not be harmed. “Amen” we said together.

Then to my surprise she said, “I cannot take this, none of it.”.  Handing me the $20, she sat down and removed shoes and socks. Putting them back in the small sack, she stood replacing the blanket over her shoulder she started away.  I tried to persuade, “Please keep them, the socks and shoes.” There was that glazed stare, birthed from addiction, abuse, fear, illness, poverty, or all-of-the-above… and more.  I tried again.  “Why don’t I sit the bag over there?” pointing to a nearby site.  “You can have it when I go away.”

“That would work,” she mumbled, repeating it over. I was pleased and sat the full bag on a step about 10 feet away.  I left.  Or I pretended to leave.  I crossed to the other side of the street and hurried down the block. Using the corner of the old Ladyman’s Restaurant as a shield, I watched.  I saw her pick up the sack.  She stood a long time at the corner, then crossed to my side of the street.  “Yes!” I whispered as I saw her carrying the bag.  When she turned and headed my way I quickly retreated, out of sight. 

I hustled past a church where I once served as the pastor, a quarter of a century ago, where we had begun a day center for persons without shelter. Turning east at the next corner, Fourth Street. I was out of sight, but “Elizabeth” and the millions of others like her, was not out of my thoughts.

What does it mean that our society cannot do better to aid persons without shelter, persons who struggle with addictions or mental illness?  What does it say about effectiveness of congregations, like this good one, that there are more persons on the streets without shelter than there were twenty-five years ago?  What does it say about me? My city? This university town filled with all our so-called experts? Why am I still so clumsy in honoring the humanity, the divinity, the royalty, of persons like Elizabeth?