Friday, May 13, 2005
A Festival of Victims
Jill came home from work on Friday night and caught me watching a bunch of beer sponsored cars going in a circle. Very fast. Very soothing to watch. The motors humming out the stress of you. Something like aromatherapy, but this is redneck-therapy. It calms the demon inside that wants to eat potted meat.
So I was eating leftover pizza, as the race wound down to the final laps. It was a decent race for the NASCAR Bush series. I was semi into it. But Jill wanted me to walk to Bank Street where the American Cancer Society was having some sort of festival to raise money for cancer research.
I didn’t want to abandon the end of the race. I had wasted-time invested in it. And maybe I’m being melodramatic here. But I didn’t want Jill to abandon me either, because she gave me the look. It was the expression that told the truth when her lips lied.
She said, “You don’t have to go. I just have to walk to Bank Street and meet up with Sloan and walk her home.” Then the look.
Sloan, who is fifteen, volunteered to help at the festival. She also purchased two luminaries—one for Jill’s mother—Patti Whitehurst and another for Jill’s sister—Gwen Hodges. Both are victims of breast cancer.
Like I said, Jill was saying one thing but her face was communicating something different. I’ve learned over the years to pay attention to her face. So I looked one last time at the race, grabbed the eject handle on my recliner, and yelled, “Wait up! I’ll go with you,” as Jill walked out the door. (I know what you’re thinking.)
It was dark. The sidewalk had a blanket of fresh grass clippings. The Victorian house that burned a couple of weeks ago stood wounded on the corner where it has been since 1901. Third degree burns on the backside, but the front was immaculate.
The furniture was missing, taken by men in green trucks who were going to wipe the smoke off. The owners rented an apartment across town. Now just a hull as we strolled along the sidewalk in front of it.
We stopped at a crossroad and looked both ways. Then we stepped out and down two blocks. First Baptist Church sat staunch on the corner where we turned and met Sloan.
We walked into the festival like a dream world. Lights hung along tents that littered the sides of the road. Large screens erected in lofty places along what is known as the Old Decatur district.
In the middle of Bank Street, along abandoned trolley tracks, sat two rows of luminaries. People were walking around them in some type of relay where every lap added to a sum of money given to cancer research.
I knew nothing about the festival. I knew Sloan was participating in the relay to raise money. I pictured it as some set course, but I wasn’t prepared for the dream world.
It felt so primitive. 1950ish. Innocent. It connected with something young deep within, a time when music had no picture. The novelist H.T. Hamann, in her novel, Anthropology of an American Girl, describes the world where I was walking, she writes, “Outside is music from an adjacent apartment. It’s not an old song, but old is the way it feels because it comes from a time when music had no picture, when music used to say who you were instead of how to look, and life was a dream you dreamt streaking by like you’re staring out of a speeding vehicle. Nights were dark back then, nights were mother of coal.”
This was the feel of the festival—a dream you dreamt, but instead of streaking by, it hovered before you with set eyes. A dream that did something deep to you, something you haven’t felt for a while, as if you had been hypnotized and told to picture a small town ignited with sanity and beauty. And we walked along semi-paralytic, hovering before a community gathered around one single purpose to eradicate cancer.
The sprawl of Wal-Mart killed the downtown district, but this night it had revitalized. People strolled. People looked. They cupped their hands to plate glass windows. Booths sold popcorn, cokes, hot dogs, and cupcakes.
We stood looking down at the luminaries that were labeled with the name of a cancer victim. We stood beside the luminary that represented Jill's sister, gazing at it in silence, realizing that she only existed in this world as a name on a luminary. Once flesh and blood. Now a name. Now a victim.
For a moment, we were more alive, alive for knowing them, alive for what they did to us, alive in the story they’ve become. Then we had to walk away. We always walk away from the moments that should be embraced. But festivals end, so do our lives.
We will become two names on a luminary or a tombstone. Someone will stand over us and remember more than what they see in two names. Patti Whitehurst—two names. Gwen Hodges—two names. Two lives that began in flesh transformed into letters on a bag in front of us.
The whole scene got me to thinking about the first two verses in the Book of John: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning” (John 1:1-2).
It’s strange how in the beginning we become flesh, and in the end we become two words—a different beginning from Christ. How will we exist in heaven? If we become only our names here, what do we become in heaven? Will it be a dream state? Will we be like we are now?
The Bible says we will have a glorified body. We will not marry or be given in marriage, which is a bummer, which means we had better enjoy it while we can. We are on our way to becoming two words—our name—Robert Stofel.
Copyright © 2005 by Robert Stofel
So I was eating leftover pizza, as the race wound down to the final laps. It was a decent race for the NASCAR Bush series. I was semi into it. But Jill wanted me to walk to Bank Street where the American Cancer Society was having some sort of festival to raise money for cancer research.
I didn’t want to abandon the end of the race. I had wasted-time invested in it. And maybe I’m being melodramatic here. But I didn’t want Jill to abandon me either, because she gave me the look. It was the expression that told the truth when her lips lied.
She said, “You don’t have to go. I just have to walk to Bank Street and meet up with Sloan and walk her home.” Then the look.
Sloan, who is fifteen, volunteered to help at the festival. She also purchased two luminaries—one for Jill’s mother—Patti Whitehurst and another for Jill’s sister—Gwen Hodges. Both are victims of breast cancer.
Like I said, Jill was saying one thing but her face was communicating something different. I’ve learned over the years to pay attention to her face. So I looked one last time at the race, grabbed the eject handle on my recliner, and yelled, “Wait up! I’ll go with you,” as Jill walked out the door. (I know what you’re thinking.)
It was dark. The sidewalk had a blanket of fresh grass clippings. The Victorian house that burned a couple of weeks ago stood wounded on the corner where it has been since 1901. Third degree burns on the backside, but the front was immaculate.
The furniture was missing, taken by men in green trucks who were going to wipe the smoke off. The owners rented an apartment across town. Now just a hull as we strolled along the sidewalk in front of it.
We stopped at a crossroad and looked both ways. Then we stepped out and down two blocks. First Baptist Church sat staunch on the corner where we turned and met Sloan.
We walked into the festival like a dream world. Lights hung along tents that littered the sides of the road. Large screens erected in lofty places along what is known as the Old Decatur district.
In the middle of Bank Street, along abandoned trolley tracks, sat two rows of luminaries. People were walking around them in some type of relay where every lap added to a sum of money given to cancer research.
I knew nothing about the festival. I knew Sloan was participating in the relay to raise money. I pictured it as some set course, but I wasn’t prepared for the dream world.
It felt so primitive. 1950ish. Innocent. It connected with something young deep within, a time when music had no picture. The novelist H.T. Hamann, in her novel, Anthropology of an American Girl, describes the world where I was walking, she writes, “Outside is music from an adjacent apartment. It’s not an old song, but old is the way it feels because it comes from a time when music had no picture, when music used to say who you were instead of how to look, and life was a dream you dreamt streaking by like you’re staring out of a speeding vehicle. Nights were dark back then, nights were mother of coal.”
This was the feel of the festival—a dream you dreamt, but instead of streaking by, it hovered before you with set eyes. A dream that did something deep to you, something you haven’t felt for a while, as if you had been hypnotized and told to picture a small town ignited with sanity and beauty. And we walked along semi-paralytic, hovering before a community gathered around one single purpose to eradicate cancer.
The sprawl of Wal-Mart killed the downtown district, but this night it had revitalized. People strolled. People looked. They cupped their hands to plate glass windows. Booths sold popcorn, cokes, hot dogs, and cupcakes.
We stood looking down at the luminaries that were labeled with the name of a cancer victim. We stood beside the luminary that represented Jill's sister, gazing at it in silence, realizing that she only existed in this world as a name on a luminary. Once flesh and blood. Now a name. Now a victim.
For a moment, we were more alive, alive for knowing them, alive for what they did to us, alive in the story they’ve become. Then we had to walk away. We always walk away from the moments that should be embraced. But festivals end, so do our lives.
We will become two names on a luminary or a tombstone. Someone will stand over us and remember more than what they see in two names. Patti Whitehurst—two names. Gwen Hodges—two names. Two lives that began in flesh transformed into letters on a bag in front of us.
The whole scene got me to thinking about the first two verses in the Book of John: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning” (John 1:1-2).
It’s strange how in the beginning we become flesh, and in the end we become two words—a different beginning from Christ. How will we exist in heaven? If we become only our names here, what do we become in heaven? Will it be a dream state? Will we be like we are now?
The Bible says we will have a glorified body. We will not marry or be given in marriage, which is a bummer, which means we had better enjoy it while we can. We are on our way to becoming two words—our name—Robert Stofel.
Copyright © 2005 by Robert Stofel
© 2007 by Robert Stofel
1 Comments:
Hi,
I was searching through Blogger to see if I can find some information on breast cancer symptom. I stumbled on your blog, as this was not quite what I was looking for about breast cancer symptom. I did however read your blog and found it quite interesting, keep up the good work and hopefully I will visit it again.
Regards,
I was searching through Blogger to see if I can find some information on breast cancer symptom. I stumbled on your blog, as this was not quite what I was looking for about breast cancer symptom. I did however read your blog and found it quite interesting, keep up the good work and hopefully I will visit it again.
Regards,
