A TV School (Excellent Service)

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Gerald was swearing inwardly, though outwardly he was maintaining his lawyerly demeanor. Phil had always been disorganized, but this was approaching legendary. Somewhere in this haphazard stack of SIGNED! contracts she had turned over the school's identity, constitution, and perhaps even property rights. He was going to be in such trouble with the Trust's officers. She had called him to ask for advice, albeit in her typical backward fashion. If it weren't for granfather Corney he'd have resigned as the school's lawyer years ago.
Phil was repentant, but it was beginning to look like too little, too late.
Good old Yeats brought in supper. Maggie must be feeling for the old lady. She'd sent them stroganoff just like his grandmother used to make.
Taking a breath he pushed back the papers and stepped over to the work table where Yeats had laid out supper.
"Aunt Phil, this is a nightmare. I'm still not sure I understand what's happenned or how you can get back on top of this situation." He gestured to the stacks of sorted contracts. "This stack gives them the ability to rename the school for television purposes. This one gives them 24 hour camera access. This one allows them to control admissions and that one allows them to hire new teachers. So far the only thing they can't do is fire you and that's only because Trust policy supercedes this more recent batch of paperwork. I think Trust policy will help with a good number of these items, but there are a lot of things including the possibility of uniforms that you are just going to be out of luck on. I've called Bernie and he's going to help me. Yeats, you signed these documents as witness, didn't it strike you that she might want to slow down?"
"Miss West is an excellent decision maker."
"Be that as it may, Yeats...." Gerald gave up. Grandma's stroganoff was really good.
"On the other hand, Master Gerald, She is not the most efficient person."
Phil looked hurt. Yeats never criticized her and here he was doing it in front of Gerald, who always criticized her.
Gerald, however, saw something different behind Yeats' comment and stepped back to look at the pile of contracts. They weren't all signed. She'd forgotten some of them. Maybe things weren't so bad after all.

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Living Sacrifice

empty cracker
no grief
no regret
dead communion
in remembrance.

Host of Life
His Life
Broken Life
Breaks me into Breathing

Take. Eat. This is my Body,
Broken for You

Larry Boy Says...

That I can't be the superhero God wants me to be if I'm thinking about chocolate all the time. Drat! I thought getting the mildew off my daughter's special frog doll qualified me for superhero status, but if a chocolate obsession gets in the way of that, well, let's hope he stays out of the bathtub next time.
I love Larry Boy and all his friends. We have the entire collection, and somehow the formula never grows old. But. I'm beginning to question the very low bar we set for "superhero" status in my little corner of the Christian world. A guy writes a short little book on an even shorter prayer, and he is suddenly a superhero because it sells well. I find it telling that when he actually tried to live his superhero life, he found it so hard he came home. Shouldn't superhero status have something to do with genuine sanctity, not salesmanship?
Maybe I'm asking too much of my fellow believers to expect them to want their heroes to be more than glorified salesman, and that their gurus be more than inspirational entertainers. After all, the real thing has never been exactly popular. Genuine saints have an alarming tendency to be martyred or at least seriously persecuted. I don't think evangelical Christianity is about that. Larry Boy may give up his chocolate, but I don't think he'll be moving out of the mansion or giving up his butler.
I'm probably never going to reach superhero status in my faith, but I don't think it will be because I couldn't give up chocolate. I think there are much more grievous sins that the average evangelical celebrates which will ensnare me.

A TV School (The Rookary)

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Sharp could see that he was headed to someplace special. Young Frankie could barely contain himself.
"Children in Frankie's pod are not allowed on the third floor of the library, thanks to nervous Nellies and cantankerous censors, but Phil's not here and you ought to see this."
"You lead the way, Professor Spurgeon."
Fred led them to the Southern tower and unlocked the door. Sharp stepped through the door and nearly stepped back in surprise. He was standing on a wide balcony that was continous around the room except for periodic piercings for what appeared to be fire poles. Floor to ceiling shelves were built into the walls as were study desks placed beneath large windows. The edge of the balcony was protected by a wrought iron guard rail decorated with fantastical flowers and birds. Sharp stepped forward and looked down three stories.
"We call it the Rookary, for obvious reasons. I've always thought it spectacular."
"Absolutely, but..."
"Isn't it a hazard? I had hoped for better things from you. Students aren't allowed on this level until they are in their final pod, and sometimes not even then. Originally, this was due to the very many rare books and the more mature content of the books on this level, but little boys who once sailed down the long pole grew up to be lawyers and now deny their children the priveledge due to 'liability.'"
"The long pole?" Sharp asked.
"Oh,here, they took the pole out, but the gate is still here--welded shut, mind you, but still here. There was a fireman's pole that went the entire distance. It was a legend with the students that you couldn't graduate untl you had slid down the whole thing. They took it out in '82. Now the poles only go a story at a time. Speaking of, hop to it, Master Stein, your mother will be waiting."
"Yes, sir!" Frankie began his descent, happily scrabbling from pole to pole. When he reached the first floor he crashed out of the door and into the hallway.
Sharp smiled.
The rest of the tour was just as intriguing. Fred had an encycolpedic knowledge of the school history, and was delighted to have someone to share it all with.
As the two men finally returned to the first floor they found themselves in the midst of a small gathering of mothers and children. They had obviously let themselves in and then become aware they were being rude. A stack of papers was growing on a table in the entrance hall.
"May I help you, ladies?" Fred asked.
A young mother blushed. "The children were so excited by the advertisement and the web site that we came to hand deliver our applications."
"Advertisement? Web site?" Now it was Fred's turn to be confused.
Sharp stepped in. "I'll take care of these. There will be a secretary to collect applications here on Monday, but for now you may leave these here with me. You are also welcome to submit applications online."
"Could we tour the school? Randall was riding Manely, and Brooke just kissed old Beakley on the nose." The woman smiled encouragingly.
"I'm sorry, maam, but the school is closed for today." Sharp ushered all the mothers and children out into the school yard.
Fred thumbed through the stack of applications. The pile represented twenty children. He smiled as he looked at their photos. Phil was a genius.

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A TV School (Frankie Stein)

This story begins here.

Fred was surprised to find Frankie waiting on the steps. There was nothing surprising about his enthusiasm. What ten year old wouldn't want to mummify a bat? The surprise was that Phil was late. Phil woke up at 4 am and dashed out of her house at 5 in order to avoid her household staff. Fred would never understand why she didn't dismiss the staff, sell the house, and move into a nice condo, but to each her own.
Frankie took off for the third floor lab while Fred unlocked the front door and turned on a few lights. He wasn't expecting anyone else today, but occasionally Alan like to come and work equations on the glassboard.
Frankie had the bat in a tray and a dissection kit all laid out. Fred had to smile. he had been just the same at that age. In fact, his childhood pet--a cat named Ra--was in a papier mache casket on a shelf with other animal mummies he had made over the years.
Fred and Frankie set to work, and quickly removed the sacred organs. Fred was reaching down a jar of dessicant when the sound of a door slamming distracted him.
"I'll be right back. You can begin prepping the body for immersion."
Fred headed to the stairs to see where the sound was coming from and startled a young man. Dressed in jeans and a crisp, blue t-shirt, Balder Sharp was poking around in the school.
"Hello, I knew there had to be someone around, but the building is so still it was hard to imagine it. I'm B. Sharp of Blair Productions. I'm here to draw up a layout of the school and begin planning how to light and film the show here."
"So, Phil went ahead with it. Welcome to Sonrise. I'm Fred Spurgeon, professor of logic and whatever else the children get interested in. Today I'm teaching a young man how to properly mummify a bat. Is there any way I could help you?"
"I need to know how you use this building, so I can figure out how to film the show. If you could give me a tour, I'd greatly appreciate it."
"Certainly, let me get our bat comfortably settled in the natron and then Frankie and I will pretend to care about the ceremonial incantations. After that, I'm all yours."
"Thanks. I'll come find you."
"Third floor, history lab, take a right at the top of the stair and keep going until your nostrils scream."
Sharp continued measuring the rooms while he waited. The school was beautiful in its simplicity. The only complications to the very straightforward planning were the giant towers on the corners of the building. He had found the Southern tower locked, but the Northern tower had contained a chapel on the first floor and an art studio on the second.
He slogged through the endless classrooms on the second floor. They seemed little used, but well maintained. The third floor was a mess. Rooms were completely given over to an endless, ratty clutter. There were some slight indicators of order--racks of costumes, rows and rows of file cabinets, jars of chemical and art supplies--but the overall impression was one of filthy chaos.
He began to appreciate the comment about his nostrils screaming. There was a definite odor that began to make itself unavoidable as he drew closer to the history lab. Gagging, he entered the room.
The professor and his student were deeply involved in some ritual and they didn't seem to notice Sharp at all. The room was very orderly. He proceeded through time as he circled the walls.
He settled himself in the cold war section because it was the most down wind. Fred and Frankie finished up and Frankie headed for the stairs.
"Wait a minute, Frankie. How'd you like to slide down the library and out?"
"Really, Dr. Spurgeon?"
"Certainly, I need to give Mr. Sharp a tour and the library is the best part, right?"
"Right!"

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Silence

Today is one of those days when the loveliest sound I can imagine is complete silence. The older girls are taking swim classes and while I am delighted with their joy and their success in the classes, the younger ones and I are getting thoroughly crabby with the humidity and the boredom of sitting and watching them swim. Add to that the pressure I've put on myself to keep writing, and the way that my writer's group has cranked up the pressure to write well, and I just want to shut up and not say anything. I want to go off into the deepest woods I can find and put in ear plugs. I'd like to just sit and listen to nothing until I finally hear it. It feels like I've been years away from stillness, and there is nothing I want more.
So, my apologies world if I'm too quiet for your taste. My bucket is empty. I need to return to the stillness to fill it.

Naughtingham

I keep deleting work. I don't think that's a good trend, so I'm putting this back. People may not get it, but I've never worried about that before. It's a meditation on life under the the law man and life under His Grace.

The maid has become a madam
Sure Wood is all veneer
There is nothing left but the robbin'
The sheriff won't interfere.

The madam turns maid in an instant
As the Robin heralds new Spring
Men once again become merry
When the sheriff bows to the King.