Avalanche — Part 3

I clench my fists and scold that whimpering coward inside. Come on, man! You can’t just sit here and die!

I never have been one to just lie down and let circumstances run all over me. I’ve never looked to others — or to God — for help. When life gave me a kick I tried to kick it right back. I’ve always depended on my own wits and I’m going to do that now.

I’ve got to make a hole in the snowbank outside so I can get some fresh air. So I grab my pick, but know right away that’s a silly idea. There’s no room to swing it. I toss it aside and dig with my mitts until my hands are almost frozen. I shove at the snow, demanding it to move, until the futility of it all hits me in the face again. I may as well try digging through the mountain.

I flop on the cave floor and accept the truth: there’s no way I can dig myself out of this grave. I’m going to die here — maybe in a couple of hours.

What’s so fearful about dying anyway? You just lie down and close your eyes, and it’s over. Or is it?

Some folks say you wake up to a whole new world: some say it’s heaven or hell. I’ve had some preachers tell me God’s keeping records in a big book and when you die you stand before Him and are judged by what’s written in that book. What will He say to me? Have I been good enough to get a pass for Heaven?

Some tell you your whole life passes before your eyes just before you die and you get to review all the things you’ve done in this world. All your failings and mistakes. I lean my head back against the cold stone and contemplate what that procession might look like. Scenes of the past pop into my mind, decisions I made, things I’ve said, people I’ve loved, some fights I’ve been in.

I think about my lust for gold. Yep, I see it now for it what it is: lust. For me it’s been like an insatiable thirst. I wanted lots of it, I wanted to get it before the other guy, and keep it for myself. I wanted all the nice stuff money could buy, the security of a fat bank account that would keep me through my old age.

I think of a Bible verse I heard one time: “What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul.” I sadly shake my head. No, I probably haven’t been good enough to join them saints when they go marching in.

For an instant I contemplate bargaining with God. I tell Him, “Lord, if you’ll just get me out of this situation, I’ll serve you forever. I’ll become the best Christian there ever was; I’ll be in church every Sunday, give my gold to the poor, become a preacher. Hey, Lord, I’ll even sing in the choir if that’s what You want.”

I remember other men who’ve made those same promises when they were in dire straits, and kept them, too. But I can name a few others who’ve have gone back on all their vows as soon as the circumstances changed.

Yeah, I could promise God all that, but what if there’s no miracle for me anyway? What if this is simply going to be my last day? A kind of acceptance settles into me. I need to make peace with my Maker now, if I can, because I’m going to be looking Him in the eye right shortly.

Even in the blackness I shut my eyes when I start to pray. “Are you there, God? Do you hear me? Do you know me? What’s going to happen when I die? Will you let me into your heaven? Will you — can you — forgive all the sins of my life?”

Soft as sifting snow, a few Bible verses slide into my thoughts. “God sent his only Son… whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life.” Songs I learned as a gaffer at school, rehearsing them over and over for the Christmas program. Never would have dreamed I’d remember them here and now. “Peace on earth, goodwill to men… Unto you is born this day a Savior, which is Christ the Lord…” I contemplate the Good News we sang about then and wonder if it could be for me, too.

Another verse came into my mind, one I heard in a fiery sermon one day: “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

I sigh another prayer. “Lord, is this an offer you’re making me, such a selfish sinner as I have been? You know I have nothing to give You in exchange. Except maybe this gold — and I guess it’s really Yours anyway, seeing You put it into the rock in the first place. But if You are hearing me and giving me this verse, if You can wash me pure as this snow outside today, and if You’re willing to do it, then I accept. I’ll give You whatever life I have left in this world and all my days in the next, if You’ll only clean me up and make me fit for Your heaven.”

I can never completely explain the peace that pours through me in that instant. I feel so light I could float, and so free. Suddenly I needed to be in the light so I fished a candle out of my pocket, lit it, and set it up on a chunk of wood. Symbolic, I guess.

For maybe an hour — you lose all sense of time in a place like that — I talk with God about my past, the people I knew, all the places I’d been. And He lets me know He’s been there with me, has seen and felt it all. Then He washes my past, forgives it all. I feel so new — like the fresh buds that pop out in springtime, even on an old tree. I’ve scoffed at the term a lot, but today I understand what “born again” really means.

Then I start to feel cold and sleepy. I stretch out on the floor and tell Him, “Thank You, Lord. I’m ready to go now, whenever You want to come for me.”

A few minutes later I hear a sound, another rumbling above me. I feel vibrations and hear thuds like falling rocks. Another avalanche! The noise is so fierce now I start shaking. This time even the cave seemed to shudder; instinctively I roll onto my belly and curl up, using my parka hood to cover my head. Is this the end, I wonder? My last minutes?

Suddenly I’m aware that the cave was filled with light. I lift my head, realizing the snow has tumbled away from the opening. I listen as the avalanche makes its way to the valley below. Finally all is silent. I crawl to the entrance and look outside, shutting my eyes against the dazzling sun. The clouds have almost all drifted away now; it’s a beautiful day.

Yes, it’s a glorious day to be alive!

Avalanche–Part 2

How long will it be before I run out of air? The question lingers around me like a noxious fume.

What am I doing here anyway? Why did I sneak over here, hoping and praying no one would know, so fearful they’d steal my gold? Right now I’d give it all to have one friend who cared enough to come and dig me out.

This is really crazy. Here I am, surrounded by all this wealth and I’d trade it this minute for empty space — space that would hold more air so I could live a few hours longer. Maybe long enough to dig myself out? Maybe not.

My mind snaps for a moment. I grope around, grab a bag of nuggets, and hurl it as hard as possible against the snow in the entrance. I hear the thud as it strikes, then falls to the ground.

Rocks. Small glistening pebbles. They won’t buy me enough oxygen to survive. They won’t buy me an air hole, never mind a hole big enough to crawl through.

If I could only melt my way through. I picture myself trying to melt some of the snow blockage with a lit candle, and I laugh. Oh, well. Maybe I should light one of them anyway. What difference can it make? Why not enjoy a little luxury as I’m dying? The candle and I can go out together.

Impulsively I crawl back to the entrance and try to move a bit more snow, but there’s no place to put it. I think about some fellow who wise-cracked one day that our town had a great snow removal plan. “It’s called Spring.”

Yeah. Spring will indeed move all this snow from the door of this cave.

And maybe next spring when the snow melts someone will think of me and come looking. If they find me they may use some of my gold to buy a nice fancy coffin for my remains and a headstone for my grave. It could say, “Here lies a very selfish man who died for his sin.” They’d choose marble, probably. Maybe that nice creamy-colored stuff with a cross carved on top. Or maybe just granite.

All depends on who finds me. Maybe some other miner will peek in and grab my bags, cover the hole, and my bones will be left here until Judgement Day.

I contemplate that day. Will the Lord come soon, like some preachers say, or will it be years and years yet? Or will He forget about us here on earth and go on to other things? I been in church a few times in my life, especially to funerals, so my mind drifts back to some of the songs and bits of sermons I’ve heard.

But I don’t want to die. Never gave it much thought before, but now I’m scared to die. Here I am, a prospector living all alone up here in the mountains, facing dangers every day, and now this. I’d better get ready, because I’m going to die.

I find myself shaking; tears are running down my cheeks. “Oh, God,” I shout into the darkness, “I’m afraid to die.”

Conclusion tomorrow.

WordPress Writing Prompt: Under the Snow


I was happy when I looked out my cabin window this morning and saw the huge flakes coming down soft as white rain. And no wind. This was my chance to slip up to the little cave and grab another bag of gold nuggets.

Searching for gold last summer in the ‘Caribou country’ of British Columbia, I’d come across a small cavern a few miles west of my claim. Poking around with my pick inside I uncovered a vein of gold. I’d struck it rich! So I staked that claim, too, and built my shack in a valley nearby.

However, I knew I’d have to be careful. Lots of other miners are nosing around these days, paying attention to anyone who comes into town with gold nuggets and following them to their claim. I can’t guard the vein twenty-four-seven and leaving bags of gold stacked in my cabin sure isn’t a smart plan. A fellow has to use his head. So I dug this little cave in the mountain a mile or so from my cabin, stored my gold inside, and covered it all up carefully. Now that it’s winter I only hike up there when I know my steps aren’t going to show. Just in case.

So once I’d had my breakfast this morning I threw on my overalls, boots and parka, grabbed the pick I’d need to move a few rocks. At a whim I stuffed a box of matches and a couple of candles into my pocket, too. Out here a person needs to be prepared; never know when you may have to start a fire. Then I headed out as those pure white crystals swirled around me. We’d already had a few good dumps of snow, so the world is a pretty place in the morning light. I looked back and saw that my steps were disappearing in the sifting snow. I nodded. No one’s going to follow me for long.

Now I’ve climbed up the side of the hill to my cave and raise my eyes to the cliffs above. Pretty white up there. We’ve had a lot of snow all right. With my pick I move a few loose rocks from the entrance to my cache, then get down on my hands and knees to crawl through the opening.

This isn’t a big cave, but roomy enough. Last summer I found and took advantage of a natural gap in the rocks so I didn’t have to move all the dirt out myself; now the rock walls give the place enough support I needn’t worry about it caving in on me while I’m here. I wiggle myself through the opening and pause to rest a minute.

In the dim light I see the bags of gold I’d stacked against the rock, and take a deep breath. There’s enough gold stacked up here to make me a rich man back home. I can live comfortably for the rest of my days. But I want to get as much as I can from that vein before I pack up and go home next fall.

A shadow seems to fall across the cave and I glance through the opening. Snow seems to be coming down by the bucket now and the wind is picking up some, so I’d better shake a leg. As long as I can see the summit of West Ridge I’m all right, but I sure wouldn’t want to get lost in a snowstorm.

Suddenly I hear a rumbling from high up in the mountain, getting louder by the second until it sounds like the whole mountain is crashing down. An earthquake? Can’t be. The rocks around me aren’t shaking; it’s all just noise. I crawl to the opening and see snow falling by the ton in front of my eyes. Before long I see nothing anymore. My cave is black now, the opening blocked by a wall of snow. I push at it, but it isn’t budging.

The darkness feels like ink. Sinister, like you’ve just been swallowed by some monster and are in its belly waiting to be digested. Instinctively I pull out my candles and matches, but hesitate to light them. Do I want to use them up so soon? How thick is that wall? How long will it take me to dig myself out? An hour? A day? I slip the things back into my pocket.

I try moving some of the snow away from the entrance, putting forth a lot of effort and accomplishing nothing. So I sit for awhile, feeling stiff from the cold but grateful I wasn’t outside when that snow came down. I’d have been buried alive! I give thanks for the rock walls that are holding up around me. Had this cave been dug out of the dirt, it might well have caved in from the force of the snow.

I think about lighting a little fire. I did stack a bit of wood in here in case I’d need some dry stuff sometime. Sure glad I brought those matches!

I get up on my hands and knees and feel around; my hand touches a piece of kindling and I pull it towards me. Then remember a fire will use up oxygen. I toss the kindling aside. How long will it be before I run out of air?

To be continued tomorrow…

For awhile now I haven’t given myself permission to sit down and write a long-winded story. It takes so much time! But when I read today’s writing prompt, I decided to forget the clock and just let my imagination take me where it would. This three-part story is the result — hope you enjoy it.

The House that Tom & Susie Built

“Oh, to be more patient!” Susie sighed as she got ready for bed that night. If only Tom could see my point! I don’t want to be a nag but he needs to make some changes — for the good of our home.

For one thing, he could say ‘No’ to some of these pleas for help. Like this morning when Uncle Jim called. Could Tom do a few repairs for Grandma?

“Yes, we love Grandma,” Susie had countered, “but any of your cousins could help her. They just say they’re too busy; well, we’re busy, too! We’ll never get our own house finished if you’re always helping this one and that one. Say ‘No’ this time!”

And had he listened? No. Then he wasn’t home in time for dinner, either, and the children became whiny and hard to manage. Irked, Susie grumbled at him after he did get home until he snapped back at her and stomped out to mow the lawn. The girls stood looking at her in wide-eyed silence until she shooed them outside to play. And Javon started to fuss.

Susie warmed up a bottle for him. “I guess I should apologize,” she told Javon as she fed him his bottle. “But maybe your daddy will think about this, too, and see that charity begins at home.” She brushed away the feelings of guilt.

Javon fell asleep and she started to vacuum, but she found resentment a bitter companion and was very thankful when Tom came in to say he was sorry. She apologized, too, and they both agreed that they wanted a happy home.

That night Susie whispered a prayer into her pillow. “I do want to be a good helpmeet for him, Lord. But there’s so much to do around here and the children need their Dad and… Well, You know it all. Please help us.” Then weariness overcame her and she fell asleep.

Next thing Susie knew, she and Tom were walking down a long road that stretched out ahead of them, then started to curve.

As they walked along, she had a sense of years passing. She glanced at Tom and saw with surprise that he had a cane in his other hand and was leaning on it a lot. She saw the grey in his hair and knew that hers was turning white, too.

Suddenly from around the bend in the road a man came toward them. With a spring in his step and a cheerful hello, he beckoned them.

“You must be the Reeds. I’ve come to show you your new house.”

She and Tom looked at each other in surprise and delight. The man, who seemed to be a real estate agent, led them around the next bend. Beside the road they saw a lovely new cottage.

Susie gasped. “Is this ours?”

“No,” the agent replied, “this is the home of John and Linda Thomas.”

Right then an elderly couple opened the door and waved at them. It was indeed a couple they knew from their congregation, but they were both very old now.

“Well, they certainly do deserve that neat home,” said Susie. “They’ve been so faithful in the church and such a good example to us all.”

The man smiled. “Yes, they’ve been building well all these years.”

They walked along farther and passed other houses, some looking very good and some rather ramshackle. One place wasn’t much more than a heap of crooked boards tossed together. The couple outside were bickering with each other.

The agent shook his head. “Even in old age some folks are still trying to decide whose fault it is.”

“I hope we don’t have them for neighbours,” Susie said curtly.

A few miles later the agent stopped beside another house. “And here we are, folks. This one is yours!”

Tom and Susie walked over to the house and eyed it dubiously. The siding had some jagged edges, a few boards were put on at odd angles. The door frame wasn’t quite straight.

“This is ours?” Tom sounded puzzled. He studied it up and down, and wandered around to the back, leaving Susie alone with the agent.

Susie examined the house and said to herself, “Somebody sure made a mess of things!”
The man seemed to read her thoughts. “It has been fairly well built. A few flaws here and there, but most of it is quite sound.”

He opened the door and Susie followed him into the cottage. Floor tiles were missing here and there. The fireplace stones stuck out at odd angles; amazing they didn’t tumble down!

“Oh, there must be some mistake,” she protested. “This can’t be ours!”

“Madam, I assure you, there’s no mistake,” he answered politely. “This is the house you and Tom have been building all these years. And you’ve done a halfway decent job, too. Some really good materials here.” He rapped on the wall. “Most of the subfloor is good wood. Most of the studs are in place, though some are a bit warped. Most of the roof is intact.”

“But…we would never build a place like this!”

“This is indeed your work, Mrs. Reed. What you have here is what you’ve put into your marriage all these years. You reap what you sow, you know.”

He pointed to the floor tiles. “Most of the time you and Tom have spoken to each other with respect — but not always.” Then he indicated several holes in the ceiling. “You and Tom have patched up most of your quarrels, but not all of them.” He waved at the gaps between the wall and the ceiling. “Times when each of you insisted on getting your own way. A bit was lost in your building. Selfishness is such a thief!”

Susie examined the fireplace with its stones askew and he explained. “These are the times you’ve accepted each other’s faults charitably — or complained angrily. They’re all here, just as you’ve stacked them.”

Susie cringed. What he was saying was too true. Sick at heart, she walked into the kitchen. The cabinets looked attractive, except that some of the doors were warped.
She didn’t dare ask, but he told her anyway. “Most of the time you’ve been honest with each other, but not always.”

Susie blushed, remembering a few of those times. “If only we’d known it would all show up like this,” she wailed. “How can we ever live here?”

The agent drew himself up in a huff. “That’s not my problem, Mrs. Reed. I’m only the agent of Time. My job was to bring you here and I have. All these years you and Tom have been building your old age. And may I remind you that when you were young you thought these things were good enough. ‘About like other couples,’ I believe you said then.”

He walked over to the entrance. “If you’d wanted something better now, you should have started years ago. Remember the old proverb: A wise woman buildeth her house, but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.”

Susie hung her head in shame. “If I’d only known I was building I’d someday have to live with…”

“Perhaps you could still make a few repairs,” he suggested cheerfully as he opened the door. “And now, good day, Mrs. Reed. I have others to bring to their houses, too, including your children. They’re married now and are building their own homes.”

“My children! What kind of houses will they have? If only they could see…”

“No doubt they will be following the example you’ve left them, so their houses will be half-ways decent, too,” he assured her. Then he stepped out the door into a whoosh of wind and was gone, leaving Susie standing there contemplating his last words.

She turned around to look over the house again and a wave of despair overcame her. How many repairs could they make at this late date? She sat down in a chair and began to sob.
Then Tom was beside her and his arm was around her. “It’s all right, Susie. Don’t cry. We’ll do what we can.”

Suddenly she was sitting up in bed, with Tom’s arm around her. “It’s all right, Susie. Don’t cry,” he was saying. “You must have had a bad dream.”

Susie nodded, then thought again. “No, I’ve had a very good dream. and I hope I’ll remember it for a long time. She leaned on his shoulder. “Oh, Tom, I’ve been fussing so much about getting this earthly house finished and I’ve been neglecting the most important one!”

Mrs Lot Muses

My conjectures of what Mrs Lot might have thought and felt. Based on the Biblical account given in Genesis 19:1-26


As I said, I never dreamed that things have gotten so bad in our city that these guests lodging in our our own house would be in danger — and our own lives as well. But a few hours after supper we begin to hear sounds, voices and then shouting, outside.

Lot sends out a servant to find out what’s what the townsmen want. Before long he returns, looking seriously scared, and says to Lot, “There’s a crowd gathered in the street out there, sir, and they don’t look friendly.”

I peeked out a window. Now that was an understatement. The gang advancing toward out house almost looked vicious!

Lot goes to the door and some one shouts that he should send these two young men out. Next thing others are calling the same thing and Lot is outside now trying to calm them down. We’re all horrified when we realize what this crowd has in mind.

I told you Sodom isn’t very safe, but really! These young men have ought to be more careful about coming into a city and upsetting everyone. People should study the travel guides and find out about the inhabitants of a place before wandering willy-nilly about the country side expecting some kind soul to take them in.

And Lot might have known better than to bring them here. Maybe he could have spoken a kind word in their ear — a bit of warning — and sent them on their way before sundown.

Wait! What was that I heard? Lot, what are you saying? Not our precious daughters. What insanity would make you offer to send our beautiful girls out to that pack of wolves just to protect these two strangers?

As a precaution I order the girls to disappear, to go with the maidservants and hide on the roof top.

Well, thank goodness! These young men showed some good sense and dragged Lot back into the house. The mob was almost at the door; I was afraid they were going to tear Lot apart. Now everyone is stumbling around out there as if they can’t figure out where they are or where they should go. I’m so thankful they aren’t battering our door down to get in!

Seeing what they’ve done to the men outside, I’m beginning to wonder if these young men really are supernatural messengers. But why have they come? In any case, I pray God will have mercy on us this night!

Lot just came to me now and said the men are telling him we have to leave Sodom, that our daughters and their families need to get out, too. Fat chance our sons-in-law are going to pack up everything and go flying out of town on the say so of two strange foreigners. (I’m not sure they believe in angels and may think we’ve lost it.)

I’m not very willing myself, but I’d better do some packing, as Lot insists. The servants are helping, but they aren’t at all interesting in joining us on our wild flight into the night. Good thing we still have the two girls at home to help. Oh, dear, we are too old for all this upheaval!

I have a pretty good idea how this will go. We’ll head off into the desert and spend a miserable night, then by morning everyone will have come to their senses and we’ll come back home again. I hope and pray once these men have left us whatever their message is and are gone on their way we can settle down and resume our normal lives.

The towns folk may be annoyed with Lot for a few weeks but they will soon forget it. Then, as I said before, the next time he wants to bring strangers home I’m putting my foot down.

They’re urging us to hurry so I’d best get moving.


I’ve told Mrs. Lot’s story in a contemporary voice, not just for fun, but because this really is a story for our times. I don’t think she had a clue what was coming, and neither do we, but the Bible tells us there’ll be a day when this world as we know it will come to an abrupt end. All the things we love and claim as our own will someday be gone. This may not come in our generation — or it may — but Jesus tells us about His return to our world, comparing it to the destruction of Sodom.

Luke 17:28-30
Likewise also as it was in the days of Lot; they did eat, they drank, they bought, they sold, they planted, they builded; but the same day that Lot went out of Sodom it rained fire and brimstone from heaven, and destroyed them all. Even thus shall it be in the day when the Son of man is revealed.

II Peter 3:9-14
The Lord is not slack concerning his promise, as some men count slackness; but is longsuffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.
But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up.

Seeing then that all these things shall be dissolved, what manner of persons ought ye to be in all holy conversation and godliness, looking for and hasting unto the coming of the day of God, wherein the heavens being on fire shall be dissolved, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat?

Nevertheless we, according to his promise, look for new heavens and a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness. Wherefore, beloved, seeing that ye look for such things, be diligent that ye may be found of him in peace, without spot, and blameless.

Mrs Lot Muses

My conjectures of what Mrs Lot might have thought and felt. Based on the Biblical account given in Genesis 19:1-26


Next I tell them the art gallery is open until eight tonight; they could probably spend some time there. “The Sodom Art Museum has a fine display of master pieces and there’s also an extensive collection of textile arts, wood carvings and pottery. I’ve also seen some cute miniature statues of the various gods of this land.”

He looked a bit horrified so I hastened to add, “Of course we know they are just silly images, but they are well made and interesting just to look at. I never worship them, though.”

My suggestion was met by sad frowns of disapproval from both of them. Critical types, I gather. For me it’s all relatively innocent, you know — just art.

By this time I’m getting impatient with them. I don’t want these fellows sitting around all evening with their gloomy countenances. So I try again, something totally innocent this time. I suggest that if music and the art gallery don’t appeal, they can maybe just stroll around Sodom and check out the architecture. Our architects have designed some very elaborate temples and an impressive civic center. With inlaid stones and colored marble, they’ve created some really nice patterns so worth seeing.

The one man just looked at me awhile and his face was so sad, like he was pondering some deep dark secret. Goodness, I thought to myself, this young man needs to be on anti-depressants! I even thought of suggesting he might try some for awhile if he was feeling really blue about life, but of course Lot wouldn’t appreciate me being rude to guests. So I just bit my tongue and refrained from suggesting any other attractions. If they want to sit here all evening and play tiddlywinks, it’s okay with me.

Now I will confess Sodom isn’t the greatest place to visit. As I said before, there are some really strange people here, but we try to be forbearing. It’s how they’ve been brought up, you know. We take the chance to say a few words now and then, but mostly we leave people to make their own decisions.

Yes, the people here are a rough bunch and their customs are so discouraging at times. Lot is often horrified by the immoral behaviour going on amongst the younger folks of this town, but I tell him, “We’re old, Lot. We have a different value system. You can’t expect the young folks to be as straight-laced as we were. We need to just love them as they are.”

He tells me it grieves him every day to see innocent children dragged into this perversion and I heartily agree. But what can he and I do except be a good example? “Let’s just live and let live,” I say. And he usually listens.

Though some times he gets so disgusted he even talks of moving back to the hills where his Uncle Abraham lives. I have no ears for that idea. “What?” I say. “Leave our daughters and their families. Lot, you know I’d never be parted from our precious grandchildren.”

I remind him of our lovely home and yard. “It would mean leaving everything we’ve ever worked for! I’m not interested in living up in the hills, and can’t bear the thought of going somewhere else and starting all over again at my age. Think again. Besides, we have no guarantees the next place we live would be any better, so I’m staying right here.”

Lot is a wonderful man, but sometimes he seems a little short-sighted, so I help him take a good look at things. And maybe if I’d been there when he was talking to these young fellows he brought home, I would have realized they would bring us nothing but trouble with the towns folk and persuaded them – nicely, of course– to go on their way to the next town. Maybe not, though, for I didn’t realize just how bad things have gotten here.

To be concluded tomorrow….

Mrs. Lot Muses

My conjectures of what Mrs Lot might have thought and felt. Based on the Biblical account given in Genesis 19:1-26

Mrs. Lot Muses

He’s a good man, my Lot. He’s always been a good husband and father; I have no complaints about that. He treats our servants well, pays them fair wages. He’s donated to various charities over the years; offers beggars a handout ever so often; never kicks stray dogs. And he’s always been kind to strangers coming into Sodom. (Which is what has gotten us into the mess we’re in now.)

He’s well respected in town, too, I’ll have you know. Every day he sits in the gate with the other elders and his advice is appreciated. Whenever a difficult situation arises in regard to our city, the town fathers will seek Lot’s counsel. They say they can expect Lot to come up with viable solutions because he has a good understanding.

So I really shouldn’t complain, but tomorrow morning I’m definitely putting my foot down. I don’t want to risk ever having this happen again. Never again will I spend a wild night like this one!

As I said, Lot has always been kind to strangers. Sometimes he brings home company on short notice and I try to go along with it and not complain. Well, this morning, he tells me, he was sitting in the gate with the other ‘grey beards’ and in walks these two young fellows, looking around like they have obviously never been here before.

Something about them appealed to Lot – and I have to admit they seem to be very fine young men – so apparently Lot jumped up and invited them home for supper. He said they were talking of just sleeping in the street tonight and, as I said, Lot has a good understanding of the way things work around here. He was afraid they’d get mugged – or worse. (I must admit, there are some really strange people in this city.) So rather than see them sleep in the park, he told them they can spend the night with us.

Anyway, Lot comes into the house this afternoon and tells me about these two men he’s asked home, wondering if we could treat them to our hospitality and good cooking for supper and could they stay the night? I must confess I was rather flattered and didn’t mind sharing our space. Innocent as I was, I didn’t foresee any problems. In fact, such handsome young men might even make good sons-in-law some day, should they decide to settle down here.

So Lot brings them into the house and shows them to the guest room where they can stretch out for awhile if they wish. Then Lot instructs the servants to get them anything they need. After this Lot comes to me and he whispers in my ear, “I think these fellows are angels.”

I didn’t take this very seriously at first. “They’d better be,” I whispered right back. “Remember we have two beautiful daughters at home and we don’t want any hanky-panky.”

(Mind you, it might almost serve him right if something did happen and one of these fellows ran off with Beth or Sue. Our poor daughters are getting teased constantly these days by all their friends because they are still so innocent.)

You know how smart young folks can be once they get wise to the facts of life. The other girls torment our daughters, telling them they’ll grow old and wrinkled and still be single because their prude of a father won’t ever let them out of his sight. I remind them that their other sisters found good husbands and they will, too, but teenagers are so eager to experience everything. It’s hard for them to wait for someone that suits their Dad.

Back to my story. These young men settled down in the guest room for a couple of hours and then we called them for supper. At the table they seemed nice enough, and I tried to make a few suggestions as to how they might spend the evening.

I told them the Gomorrah Generation Singers are going to be performing tonight and they might want to take it in. (Gomorrah being a city just down the plain from ours an we have a lot to do with each other.) “This group is world-famous for their talent and harmony. You won’t hear any better.”

The one young man looked at me and said, “I have already heard music infinitely more beautiful.”

“Oh,” says I, somewhat taken aback. “Do you have some really good singers where you come from, too?”

“The music is heavenly, an angelic choir,” he answered. Then he sighed, seemed almost as if he were homesick. “Compared to them your singing groups are like clashing cymbals.”

I’ll confess I was a little miffed at his dismissal of our local talent. After all, I myself have heard some beautiful sounds come from this choir – and the musical arrangements are out of this world. Incredible talent, I’d say! He didn’t have to brag up his own country so much.

To be continued tomorrow…


A Canadian Tale, Eh?

Today’s Daily Prompt, “Second-hand Stories” challenges us to retell one we’ve heard recently. A few days ago I read a little tale in an old Friendship Book of Francis Gay and have decided to retell it with a Canadian flavour.

One morning a Calgary police officer was cycling along on his usual beat when he saw a middle-aged man walking down the street. The man was dressed like a lumberjack and waddling along the sidewalk behind him was this beaver, eh.

The policeman braked and got off his bike. “Excuse me, sir, but what’s with this beaver and why is it following you around?”

The lumberjack looked back at the beaver. “He’s my pal, eh. I’ve brought him along with me so he can see what the big city looks like. But he’s having a hard time keeping up.”

“Listen,” said the officer, “we can’t have wild animals roaming around like this here in the city. You should take him to the zoo.”

“That might be a good idea,” the lumberjack replied. “Where can I find it?”

The policeman gave the lumberjack instructions on how to get to the Calgary Zoo. “You’ll have to take the bus from here, but watch out that beaver doesn’t bite anyone along the way, eh?”

“Don’t worry. He won’t bite anyone unless they’re made of wood.” He chuckled, then turned to the beaver. Come on, pal. We’re going to the zoo.”

The next morning the policeman was patrolling his beat when he saw the lumberjack again. This time he was going in the opposite direction — and again the beaver was waddling along behind him.

The officer stopped short. “Hey, Mister. I thought you were going to take that animal to the zoo?”

“I did.” the lumberjack replied. “And my little pal liked it so well I decided today I’d take him to the Stampede.”

Hamlet & the High School Dance

“To be or not to be? That is the question.” The words echoed through the trees and drowned themselves in the bubble of the creek.

“Whether it be nobler in the mind….” The young orator set down his book and looked around, soaking in the beauty of the small clearing. He sighed, then picked up his book again. “Whether it be nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune…”

It was no use; he just couldn’t concentrate. Art pulled his jackknife out of his overalls pocket and opened it. Flipping the knife in the air, he deftly caught it and carved a heart in a sapling growing near the log he was sitting on.

Who cared about Hamlet, Prince of Denmark? Would she or wouldn’t she, that was the real question – the only pertinent question in his life at this moment. If he couldn’t memorize Hamlet’s soliloquy and got a poor mark in Literature because of it, that would be just too bad. But if Jean wouldn’t let him take her to the dance, he’d be wretched.

And if she was escorted by Harold Adams, THAT would be a tragedy.

He scowled at the injustice of life. Why did he have to be born into a hard-scrabble family while Harold was wrapped in silver blankets from his first squalling appearance? And now Harold’s dad had bought him a brand-new buggy so he was really riding high.

Art’s frown deepened as he pictured Harold escorting his Jeannie to the buggy, lifting her up into it. He envisioned them driving through town; Harold would make a big show of it, too. Would Jean like that? Would an offering of wealth turn her pretty little head?

“Does she care for me or doesn’t she, that is the question?” he demanded of a floating frog. It dived into the creek. Only a small turtle, sunning himself on a rock, heard the young lover’s frustrated sigh.

The Tenderfoot

The minute he stepped out of the stagecoach that morning we could tell he was a tenderfoot. A real lily. His boots were clean; his jeans had no holes; his hands had no callouses. After the first afternoon of riding the trail in the hot sunshine he says he’s feeling “a bit faint.” La-de-dah.

The second day on the trail he asked the cook if we’d ever be served oysters. Can you imagine? Cook’s roar of laughter almost spooked the cattle. But we’d break him in. We make all our new ranch hands into real cowpokes if we can and we usually have a lot of fun doing it. But this one was a real jewel – or should I say “a pearl.”

We were sure to warn him that when he used nature’s biffy he should turn over every rock around in case a rattler was hidden under one. After all, we’d say, “You don’t want any painful jabs in the behind and we don’t want to have to lance and drain ‘em.” Of course we all stood around sober as a judge as we told him, and he still hasn’t been informed that there are no rattlers in these parts.

After that I don’t know if he was more scared of the rattlers or of us; every time he lit off his horse he looked around real careful first. Well, that was just too good to resist, you know. One afternoon while the rest of us rode on, Art slips back and picks up this garter snake he’d seen beside the trail. Carries it along in his saddle bag until we make camp. When our tenderfoot goes off to dreamland, Art sticks this snake in one of his boots.

Next morning you should have heard him yell when he stuck his toe into the boot and the poor snake wriggled a bit. ‘Course we all offer to cut of a few of his toes if the snake bit him. Cook flashed a nasty-looking cleaver and we tell him it’s the only way to save his life. Thought he was going to keel over right there and then, ‘til he realized we were just funning him.

Early one morning, just for fun, Sam pours out a little gun powder around a dried up bush, then trails off behind a nearby tree. When our tenderfoot ambles off toward the woods for some privacy, Sam’s waiting, flat out, behind that tree. He lights the gunpowder and we all watch out the corner of our eye as this little flash of white zips long to the bush and gets there at exactly the same minute as our new cowpoke. Suddenly there was this poof and flash as the bush combusted. He jumped three feet and took off running. Did we ever laugh!

Oh, we had our fun with that guy in the four days he was with us. But he found the work too strenuous, so he quit and went to college. I believe he became a dentist; heard his name in the capital city one time I was there.

Look him up if you ever get a toothache. He was a good guy; probably didn’t deserve a bunch of rascals like us.