Crushed Oreos

The dirt pudding recipe called for a package of crushed Oreos. Esther took the package outside to the garage and grabbed the hammer. Our garage there in our off-base house in Tzuzu, Japan was a narrow concrete-floored area, covered with an awning and squeezed between our house and our neighbors’ (not the shoe-throwing neighbor, the one on the other side of us). Pouring the cookies into a bag, she started hammering away, thud, thud, thud. After a few blows, the bag ripped open and six cookies fell out onto the floor. Rats! She had wasted the cookies. Esther picked them up, tossed them into a cardboard box next to her and went on hammering.

The box needed to be thrown away anyway, so she planned to toss it into the trashcan after she finished making the dirt pudding. She closed the flaps of the box and put it on the steps of the back door. After she was inside and mixing whipped cream and chocolate pudding together, however, she promptly forgot all about it.

Our neighborhood got really dark at night. If you stepped into garage after sunset, it was as pitch dark as a stack of black cats. Micah threw open the back door, intending to just run out in his sock feet to get wire cutters from the work bench. As he stepped on the first step, he felt jaws close around his ankle and clamp tight. He kicked his foot, trying to get loose but the jaws held tight. Something was rattling around his foot inside the mouth of whatever it was. As his foot came down, it slid on the smooth concrete and almost sent him to the floor completely. Where was that light? He couldn’t see a thing. He kicked again and felt the stuff rattle, he lost his balance and fell against the work table. Calm, keep calm. Where was that light? He groped for the switch and finally found it.

He stared down at a battered cardboard box with the flaps holding it tight to his foot. He sat down and pulled it off. OREOS?? That was what had been rattling around his foot. What in the world was a cardboard box with six Oreos doing on the back steps? Quickly Micah stepped inside the back door. “ESTHER!! Are these yours?”

Esther came out of the living room, a little surprised at Micah’s angry tone. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. I guess I forgot it.”

“Forgot it? Don’t EVER put something like that on the steps!”

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Amendment from Micah: Esther didn’t really forget it. The younger kids were always putting whatever they couldn’t think of a place for into the garage. She didn’t want to bother getting her feet cold, so she just put it on the steps.

Answer to Micah from Esther: How could you know my motives? It was an accident, I tell you!

John Mark

An old man and a young man sat facing each other in the lamplight of a dinner table. “Always up for a story, huh Mark?” the older man said, the many lines around his eyes melted as he smiled.

The younger man leaned across the low table, the flickering light playing across his face. “You are surprised at that, teacher?”

The older man shook his head, “Brother, not teacher.”

The other man tipped his head to the side in impatient assent. “Alright, Brother Peter. But please, tell me more. The people followed you around the lake without food and --?” Mark settled back onto the reclining pillows, knowing the story would come.

A mischievous look twinkled in Peter’s eyes, “And we fed them of course.”

Mark started up again, “With what, Tea – I mean, Brother Peter – with what?”

“With food.” Peter took a bit of bread and scooped up some lentils, a smile playing under his beard.

The younger man gave an exasperated sigh, “But with WHAT food? You said yourself that the disciples hardly brought food for themselves, much less for five thousand others.”

“Five thousand other men, you’re forgetting the women and children. There were at least ten thousand in all, I’d say.” A faraway look came into his eyes and he leaned back. “We came up to Jesus and said ‘Hey, there’s no one around here to get food from.’”

Mark listened closely, hardly breathing as he drank in every word. His dark eyes sparkled with intense interest, following every expression on the old man’s face.

“He just looked at us, shrugged, and said, ‘Well, you feed them.’ I was always quick to open my mouth, so I said, ‘It would take two hundred denarii at least! Where do we get that kind of money?’” Peter paused, thinking.

“What then?” Mark asked breathlessly.

“Well, my brother Andrew was asking around and found a little boy who had a little basket of food. He brought boy up to Jesus and we unpacked the basket. There wasn’t much, just five small pitas and two fish. A snack. But Jesus just smiled and told us to get the people to sit down. That was quite a job I can tell you, but after a while we got it done. We had them sat down in groups of hundreds and fifties. Then Jesus picked up that lonely pile of food, raised his eyes to heaven and blessed it.” Peter started to cough.

“What happened?”

“Give me a moment to breathe, child.” Peter smiled, “He started to hand the bread to us. He just kept handing and handing and handing. We kept passing out bread and fish to the people. There was no end to the food! EVERYONE ate until they were full! Then we started gathering up scraps and gathered twelve basketfuls of scraps. We sent that little boy home with more than enough for his lunch the next day.” Peter laughed, “You should have seen his face. Most the crowd didn’t realize what had happened, but the boy knew. He saw it all.”

Mark laughed with him. “Ah, you should write this all down, Brother Peter. Think how much you have seen!”

“No, no.” Peter answered, stretching and getting up. “I have too much to do. I’ll leave the writing to you.” He grabbed his cane and walked slowly from the room.

Mark sat up all the way and started to clear the table, “Write it myself? Well, maybe.” He paused and stared into space for a moment, then suddenly jumped up and left the room. A moment later he returned with quill, ink, and parchment. Carefully, he spread the parchment out and moved one of the oil lamps closer. He wrote late into the night, recording the story Peter had just told.

The next day, Peter was scheduled to speak to a small group of slaves that met in the house of a potter one of the poor areas. Mark took his place among those listening as Peter began. “When I was following Jesus, we were going to the Caesarea Philippi area –”

Mark jumped and looked around desperately; he needed something to take notes. Quickly, he snatched up a handful of a potter’s clay and scratched some notes into it with a stick from the floor. “Jesus asked us,” Peter continued, “’Who do people say that I am?’ John shrugged and said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, some Elijah or one of the prophets.’” Peter looked around with a smile, “None of the people really knew what to think of Jesus. Jesus looked at us and asked, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ All at once, I felt the power of the Spirit on me and I said, ‘You are the Christ.’ It was only by the power of the Spirit that I could have said that.”

At home, Mark looked at his notes. They were messy, but mostly readable. He’d have to be more careful next time to have something ready to write with. He leaned over his desk and began to carefully, transfer the writing to the parchment. One part of his clay tablet had got mashed and was unreadable. Getting up, he walked into the next room where Peter was talking with a couple Christians from the far side of the city. Mark waited patiently until they were done, then asked, “Brother Peter, where were you going when Jesus asked who people thought he was?”

Peter looked a little startled, “Caesarea Philippi.”

“Thanks.” Mark headed back to the room.

“What are you up to, son?” Peter called after him.

“Just following orders.” Mark tossed over his shoulder with a smile, “I’m writing your memories of Jesus.” He walked back into his room, then stuck head back out. “Oh, and was it five fish and two loaves?”

Peter shook his head, “Five loaves and two fish.”

This Past Year

This past year has been the “Year of Kids” in my life. I spent a lot of hours at the local Boy’s and Girl’s club, settling arguments and trying to keep kids from killing each other with wild antics. I loved the kids. I enjoyed getting to know them and taking care of them.

But, this morning I got to thinking of how much time I spent hugging and rocking kids because their lives were coming apart. Here is a list of the situations I heard from all different kids (not all at the Boy’s and Girl’s club):

Her father lived in Jonesboro – or was it Jackson? – and she hasn’t seen him since she was two.

She didn’t really know her mother and now she was going to live with her for the first time since she was a baby.

His parents are both on drugs so he’s moved several states away to live his aunt – the only one in the family that would take him.

Her mother is on drugs.

She didn’t have a good relationship with her dad. Now she’s a teen and she’s going to spend the summer with him for the first time since she was in third grade.

His mother doesn’t work – but mom says he’s too much trouble to keep at home.

Their stepmom neglects them.

Her mother only feeds her one meal a day – if that.

His mother’s boyfriend just moved in and suddenly he has a new brother his own age whom he never knew before now.

She is the one raising her little sister when they stay with her mom.

She trying to run away because she wanted to get away from her foster home and go to her real mom.

His stepfather was arrested last night for drug dealing.

Her father shot her mother right in front of her.

He lives with his grandmother. His sisters (each with a different last name) are farmed out to other relatives in Texas.

Her father was just diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

His father is in prison.

Her father has a restraining order against him to keep him away from her.

She just tried this morning to call her father who she hasn’t seen in months. He told her never to call him again.

His stepfather died a month ago in a car wreck.

She stays with friends because her mother is an alcoholic.

I don’t know how many times I’ve held and rocked a child who can’t understand why her Dad isn’t home. It’s been more times than I’ve kissed a boo-boo this year. Why does our country not put any value on fatherhood? How can they not realize what it’s doing to their children? Just last Wednesday, I took a girl out of the Bible class because she kept crying. “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“I want my dad. I haven’t seen him in weeks and my mom said I couldn’t call him. I love my dad, why can’t I see him?”

What do I say? I never was in her place. How can I tell her it’s going to be ok? They would be empty words. So I sit down in a rocking chair and rock her, crying with her. What do I say when her world is falling to pieces? I point her to Jesus. He knows. He can hold her together. That’s all I can give her – but it’s the best there is.

A memory and some thoughts...

My first bad bike wreck was when I was six years old. Not many people have the ability to hot-dog a bike at that age, but I did. The mountains of Japan afford many places to careen down crazily steep and windy roads – and that was what I was doing. I was having fun weaving back and forth as I flew down a narrow, mountain path between rice fields. Before I knew what had happened, I had lost control, flipped over the handlebars, and smashed by face into the road. A bike wreck can be traumatizing when you’re not old enough to really think it through rationally. In my mind, I had been doing just fine when suddenly the bicycle bucked me off. What was to prevent it happening again? For months I crept along the streets, refusing to go faster than a crawl and getting off to walk my bike at every hill.
My sister, Esther, who is six years older than me, liked taking me with her when she rode her bike to the store, but my fear of hills was rather cumbersome after a while. “Mommy, can I put Martha on my rack to go to the store next time? It would make it go a lot faster.” She said one evening.
Mommy looked at me, “Well, I don’t know. I don’t want her getting her feet caught in the spokes.”
Daddy glanced up from the helping my brother Peter with his math school work. “We could get her some boots to protect her feet. Maybe riding around with Esther will help Martha’s fear of hills.”
I wasn’t so sure. Riding on the back of Esther’s bike? Was it really safe? What if I fell off? Mommy went to the store and bought me a pair of black boots that zipped up the side to make sure my shoe laces wouldn’t get tangled in the gears. I put them on and with some qualms settled myself on the bicycle rack behind my sister. Esther pushed off and began peddling down the street. I discovered I loved it! Those became some of my favorite memories: Feeling the warm breeze in my hair while holding onto my older sister’s solid back and watching the neighborhood slide by. There is safety in not being the one in control – in just being along for the ride. I felt completely at ease. Esther wouldn’t wreck and I could hold onto her for protection.
I was reminded of this recently when I was worrying about my plans for the future. Which school should I go to? When should I go? But this picture of riding behind Esther rose in my mind – my safety is in letting God ride the bike. I’m just holding on to him and enjoying the scenery.