Thursday, September 29, 2005
Dream War 001: Booby Prize?
Bruce Farris glanced around to make sure that nobody was nearby. But the schoolyard of Mayfair Christian Academy was safely deserted.
At last he had privacy to enjoy his chocolates, his hard-earned reward for defeating the entire school. For Bruce Farris had won the yearly Bible reading contest. He'd read the entire Bible in just nine weeks. He defeated the high school kids and the other junior high kids in his class. He had even beaten out Rachael Holstein, a senior whose brother was a missionary and whose sister went to Bible college, and who had long, ripply blond hair like pictures of saints. Yes, by carefully mapping out exactly how many chapters a day would have to be read, and studying them as he proceeded, he read it through and passed the quizzes that covered each book. Nobody could believe it.
The members of the school board would come to shake his hand at the next awards ceremony. His achievement would be noted on his report card. He would have his name engraved on the plaque of names outside the principal's office.
But the best reward of all now sat in his hands. It was wrapped in thick brown paper, and smelled faintly sweet with an enticing perfume. He knew what it was, and he planned to enjoy it all by himself.
For Mrs. Trudy, the ancient, white-haired, fourth grade teacher who looked like a Christmas tree angel and beamed good will and affection onto everybody, donated her own special prize to the winner of the contest each year. And that prize was a box of 36 chocolate truffles. Milk chocolate, dark chocolate, mint chocolate, white chocolate, butter cream chocolate, malted chocolate centers. Perfect, round mounds of solid light or dark chocolate encasing light snowballs of truffle centers. And now, they were all his. All 36 of them.
He realized, of course, that it would be impossible to eat 36 chocolates before his mother arrived to pick him up. He would have to share sooner or later. But this moment was his and his alone.
He set his books alongside him on the sidewalk and cast a glance up the straight, narrow drive to watch for his mother's station wagon. Then he tore aside the paper, revealing the smooth white box cover underneath. In tiny gold cursive, the words "from the chocolatier" had been written. He pulled up the lid and the aroma of fresh chocolate wafted up in the faint lift of air. He gently, almost reverently lifted the frail white sheet of paper that covered his prizes.
There was a card, face down, inside and---to his surprise---an array of unexpected shapes. Not the small globes of truffles that he had expected. But these were chocolates shaped like tiny bottles. He picked one up and experimentally bit into it. As he did, he turned over the card to read it.
Just as something that tasted exactly like cough syrup ran down his throat, he saw that the card was printed with the title THE CHOCOLATIER'S CHOCOLATE BOYSENBERRY CORDIALS, and under it, scrawled in black pen, the words, "They were out of truffles. Hope you like these---Mrs. Trudy"
He spit out the cough medicine chocolate. He had only a moment to stare in horror at the cruel trick of his destiny. All 36 pieces were chocolate boysenberry cordials---the absolute worst form of chocolate candy in the entire world.
But he had no time to lament or be outraged. For just then, the familiar white station wagon crept up the long, narrow drive at Mom's usual crawl: cautiously and on time.
Even now, when the grounds were completely empty and deserted, she crept along to the pick-up point, as though there might be first graders hiding behind the bushes, ready to throw themselves under the wheels.
"Hi honey," she said as he opened the back door and threw his books in. He closed the door, opened the front door, and climbed in.
"Hi." He dutifully kissed her cheek and then passed the white box to her. "Would you like a chocolate?"
"Oh!" She was pleased. She took one and put in her mouth as he set the box onto the seat between them. He pulled on his seat belt.
"Oh my! Oh Bruce, what is it!" She covered her mouth with her hand in horror and stared around at the landscape to make sure nobody was watching. Then she rolled down the window and spit out the chocolate. "That was cough syrup! Somebody put cough syrup in those chocolates!" She snatched up the white card from the box and read it. Then she stared at him.
Bruce's mother, as even Bruce knew, was an amazingly pretty woman with jet black hair and dark green eyes. He met her amazed look.
"That's what chocolate boysenberry cordials taste like?" she asked him. And then she added in wounded amazement, "I've never had one of those before." She---like he---was stunned to realize that something that tasted that bad could be made with chocolate.
"Maybe we could rewrap them and give them to somebody we don't like," he suggested.
She shot him a second glance and then slowly and carefully pulled out, watching for those hapless little kids that just might launch themselves directly at the fenders of moving cars.
They passed the long, low elementary wing of the brick and steel building, then the tired-looking playgrounds carpeted with hard-packed dirt and clumps of grass on the fringe.
"You look like it's been a bad day," she said as she guided them out to the highway..
"Today," he announced. "I won the Bible reading contest."
She was startled. "You did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Mom, I've been trying to win that contest since third grade. And every year I lose and have to start all over again the next year. This year I was just going to do it. And I did. I scored 90s or higher on all the quizzes." He folded his arms and knit his eyebrows.
"That's great," she said. She stopped at the light and looked over at him. "Isn't it?"
He did not add that when his name had been announced that morning in chapel, Rachael Holstein put her face right down into her hands, her saint-like hair cascading around her like a golden veil. She burst out crying at losing so unexpectedly, and to a seventh grader at that.
And Dave Wilson, a senior and captain of the Varsity basketball team, had singled him out with a glare that promised revenge for making anybody as holy and sweet as Rachel cry. He decided not to mention this to his mother. Seventh graders and high school kids were usually kept apart, so he should be safe. And Rachel was so good, she might just forgive him in a day or two and ask Dave not to beat him up for having read the Bible through in such record time.
"It's not that great of an accomplishment," he told her. "I mean, I read it. The heart of our faith."
"Yes!" she said, completely in agreement.
"Now what?" he blurted.
"'Now what' what?" she asked back.
"What else is there?"
A sudden quirk pulled at her mouth and she clamped down on it. Already she was laughing. But when she spoke, her voice was steady--no trace of laughter.
"I'm not sure what you're saying." She kept her eyes on the road.
"Mom, I'm not any different! Nothing is different." In fact, he thought, the whole experience had been a little like the chocolate boysenberry cordials. He had expected that once he had read the entire Bible through that he would feel different.
"Don't you think that, perhaps, one reading of the Bible isn't enough? I mean there might be some things you won't even be able to understand until you see them again and again.".
"But Mom, I believe the Bible! It's not like Harlowe. He's always worried about evolution. He's afraid it's all true. So he reads Genesis 1 and 2 over and over again. But why would I do that? I'm not dumb enough to believe we came from apes.".
She flicked a glance at him--no more laughter now. Her quick eye was gentle and yet--somehow--it told him he was mistaken somewhere. Where?
"Bruce, the Bible's not like a textbook. It's the Word of God."
"I know, Mom."
"And do you know that Jesus is the Word of God?"
"Sure."
"That means that to know Him, you study the Bible." She sighed, groped for words, and said, "The Truths of the Bible are everywhere, in all of Creation, Bruce. A great wisdom. The wisdom of the Word of God is the wisdom that holds the whole universe together."
"I know that!" he exclaimed.
She glanced at him, her eyes slightly rueful, but she let his assurance to her pass. She looked at the road. "And reading the Bible is part of a relationship. You see Christ more and more as you read it. And you see Him seeing you."
"What's that mean?"
"At times reading the Bible is a part of prayers. At times it's even like a conversation between you and the Lord. You can't just read it through and say you know it and be done with it. It has to become a part of you. The Bible is God's means to communicate Himself to man."
He sighed. "It's not the Bible," he said. "It's Life. You go to school, go home, and when you get old enough, you get a job. Is that all there is?"
She shook her head. "There's so much more than that. that I can't even tell you all there is."
"Try," he said. "Just one thing."
"How about loving someone?" she asked. "Loving him and protecting him and watching him grow up?"
It embarrassed him. She had gotten onto the Mom track. She was sentimental.
"You'd love your son whether it was me or somebody else," he told her.
"But that's impossible. The only son I could have is you," she said. "Bruce, children aren't gum balls that come down the chute every time somebody needs to be born. It was written long ago that you should be my son, that God would love us, and that He has a will for our lives."
"I just read the whole Bible, Mom, and I didn't see that."
She gave a helpless shrug. "Then it must be time to read it again, Bruce."
"What?" He stared at her in horror.
|
At last he had privacy to enjoy his chocolates, his hard-earned reward for defeating the entire school. For Bruce Farris had won the yearly Bible reading contest. He'd read the entire Bible in just nine weeks. He defeated the high school kids and the other junior high kids in his class. He had even beaten out Rachael Holstein, a senior whose brother was a missionary and whose sister went to Bible college, and who had long, ripply blond hair like pictures of saints. Yes, by carefully mapping out exactly how many chapters a day would have to be read, and studying them as he proceeded, he read it through and passed the quizzes that covered each book. Nobody could believe it.
The members of the school board would come to shake his hand at the next awards ceremony. His achievement would be noted on his report card. He would have his name engraved on the plaque of names outside the principal's office.
But the best reward of all now sat in his hands. It was wrapped in thick brown paper, and smelled faintly sweet with an enticing perfume. He knew what it was, and he planned to enjoy it all by himself.
For Mrs. Trudy, the ancient, white-haired, fourth grade teacher who looked like a Christmas tree angel and beamed good will and affection onto everybody, donated her own special prize to the winner of the contest each year. And that prize was a box of 36 chocolate truffles. Milk chocolate, dark chocolate, mint chocolate, white chocolate, butter cream chocolate, malted chocolate centers. Perfect, round mounds of solid light or dark chocolate encasing light snowballs of truffle centers. And now, they were all his. All 36 of them.
He realized, of course, that it would be impossible to eat 36 chocolates before his mother arrived to pick him up. He would have to share sooner or later. But this moment was his and his alone.
He set his books alongside him on the sidewalk and cast a glance up the straight, narrow drive to watch for his mother's station wagon. Then he tore aside the paper, revealing the smooth white box cover underneath. In tiny gold cursive, the words "from the chocolatier" had been written. He pulled up the lid and the aroma of fresh chocolate wafted up in the faint lift of air. He gently, almost reverently lifted the frail white sheet of paper that covered his prizes.
There was a card, face down, inside and---to his surprise---an array of unexpected shapes. Not the small globes of truffles that he had expected. But these were chocolates shaped like tiny bottles. He picked one up and experimentally bit into it. As he did, he turned over the card to read it.
Just as something that tasted exactly like cough syrup ran down his throat, he saw that the card was printed with the title THE CHOCOLATIER'S CHOCOLATE BOYSENBERRY CORDIALS, and under it, scrawled in black pen, the words, "They were out of truffles. Hope you like these---Mrs. Trudy"
He spit out the cough medicine chocolate. He had only a moment to stare in horror at the cruel trick of his destiny. All 36 pieces were chocolate boysenberry cordials---the absolute worst form of chocolate candy in the entire world.
But he had no time to lament or be outraged. For just then, the familiar white station wagon crept up the long, narrow drive at Mom's usual crawl: cautiously and on time.
Even now, when the grounds were completely empty and deserted, she crept along to the pick-up point, as though there might be first graders hiding behind the bushes, ready to throw themselves under the wheels.
"Hi honey," she said as he opened the back door and threw his books in. He closed the door, opened the front door, and climbed in.
"Hi." He dutifully kissed her cheek and then passed the white box to her. "Would you like a chocolate?"
"Oh!" She was pleased. She took one and put in her mouth as he set the box onto the seat between them. He pulled on his seat belt.
"Oh my! Oh Bruce, what is it!" She covered her mouth with her hand in horror and stared around at the landscape to make sure nobody was watching. Then she rolled down the window and spit out the chocolate. "That was cough syrup! Somebody put cough syrup in those chocolates!" She snatched up the white card from the box and read it. Then she stared at him.
Bruce's mother, as even Bruce knew, was an amazingly pretty woman with jet black hair and dark green eyes. He met her amazed look.
"That's what chocolate boysenberry cordials taste like?" she asked him. And then she added in wounded amazement, "I've never had one of those before." She---like he---was stunned to realize that something that tasted that bad could be made with chocolate.
"Maybe we could rewrap them and give them to somebody we don't like," he suggested.
She shot him a second glance and then slowly and carefully pulled out, watching for those hapless little kids that just might launch themselves directly at the fenders of moving cars.
They passed the long, low elementary wing of the brick and steel building, then the tired-looking playgrounds carpeted with hard-packed dirt and clumps of grass on the fringe.
"You look like it's been a bad day," she said as she guided them out to the highway..
"Today," he announced. "I won the Bible reading contest."
She was startled. "You did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Mom, I've been trying to win that contest since third grade. And every year I lose and have to start all over again the next year. This year I was just going to do it. And I did. I scored 90s or higher on all the quizzes." He folded his arms and knit his eyebrows.
"That's great," she said. She stopped at the light and looked over at him. "Isn't it?"
He did not add that when his name had been announced that morning in chapel, Rachael Holstein put her face right down into her hands, her saint-like hair cascading around her like a golden veil. She burst out crying at losing so unexpectedly, and to a seventh grader at that.
And Dave Wilson, a senior and captain of the Varsity basketball team, had singled him out with a glare that promised revenge for making anybody as holy and sweet as Rachel cry. He decided not to mention this to his mother. Seventh graders and high school kids were usually kept apart, so he should be safe. And Rachel was so good, she might just forgive him in a day or two and ask Dave not to beat him up for having read the Bible through in such record time.
"It's not that great of an accomplishment," he told her. "I mean, I read it. The heart of our faith."
"Yes!" she said, completely in agreement.
"Now what?" he blurted.
"'Now what' what?" she asked back.
"What else is there?"
A sudden quirk pulled at her mouth and she clamped down on it. Already she was laughing. But when she spoke, her voice was steady--no trace of laughter.
"I'm not sure what you're saying." She kept her eyes on the road.
"Mom, I'm not any different! Nothing is different." In fact, he thought, the whole experience had been a little like the chocolate boysenberry cordials. He had expected that once he had read the entire Bible through that he would feel different.
"Don't you think that, perhaps, one reading of the Bible isn't enough? I mean there might be some things you won't even be able to understand until you see them again and again.".
"But Mom, I believe the Bible! It's not like Harlowe. He's always worried about evolution. He's afraid it's all true. So he reads Genesis 1 and 2 over and over again. But why would I do that? I'm not dumb enough to believe we came from apes.".
She flicked a glance at him--no more laughter now. Her quick eye was gentle and yet--somehow--it told him he was mistaken somewhere. Where?
"Bruce, the Bible's not like a textbook. It's the Word of God."
"I know, Mom."
"And do you know that Jesus is the Word of God?"
"Sure."
"That means that to know Him, you study the Bible." She sighed, groped for words, and said, "The Truths of the Bible are everywhere, in all of Creation, Bruce. A great wisdom. The wisdom of the Word of God is the wisdom that holds the whole universe together."
"I know that!" he exclaimed.
She glanced at him, her eyes slightly rueful, but she let his assurance to her pass. She looked at the road. "And reading the Bible is part of a relationship. You see Christ more and more as you read it. And you see Him seeing you."
"What's that mean?"
"At times reading the Bible is a part of prayers. At times it's even like a conversation between you and the Lord. You can't just read it through and say you know it and be done with it. It has to become a part of you. The Bible is God's means to communicate Himself to man."
He sighed. "It's not the Bible," he said. "It's Life. You go to school, go home, and when you get old enough, you get a job. Is that all there is?"
She shook her head. "There's so much more than that. that I can't even tell you all there is."
"Try," he said. "Just one thing."
"How about loving someone?" she asked. "Loving him and protecting him and watching him grow up?"
It embarrassed him. She had gotten onto the Mom track. She was sentimental.
"You'd love your son whether it was me or somebody else," he told her.
"But that's impossible. The only son I could have is you," she said. "Bruce, children aren't gum balls that come down the chute every time somebody needs to be born. It was written long ago that you should be my son, that God would love us, and that He has a will for our lives."
"I just read the whole Bible, Mom, and I didn't see that."
She gave a helpless shrug. "Then it must be time to read it again, Bruce."
"What?" He stared at her in horror.
