When We Speak

I wrote this hymn as a response to the sermon from a couple weeks ago which focused on a reading from James 3.

Tune: The Sacred Harp, see The Lutheran Service Book 848

Lord, our tongues are quick to evil
Lord, our words we use to harm
Lord, our thoughts are full of poison
And we spread them without care
We cut down our friends and neighbors
With no thought of how they'll feel
Our communion suffers greatly
When we don't use words to heal.

We forget our words have power
Sharper than the weapon's edge
We are careless when we use them
Between friends we drive a wedge
Lord, our comments hurt you also
With one tongue we curse and bless
It cannot serve different masters
Keep it tame to serve the best

Tales from the Waiting Room II

The computer consumes my attention and I do not look up for a few minutes, forgetting that the biggest part of my job is to greet people with a smile before burying them in a mountain of paperwork they must conquer before seeing the doctor. I hear a small rustle and look up. His wrinkles multiply as the corners of his mouth turn up. I apologize and frantically click at the computer, trying to find the right screen. I begin the dance; the man and his wife know their steps well. I ask; they answer. “Yes, we live there. That’s our number.” Ah, we can end early; their insurance cards have already been added to the computer. The man still reaches for his wallet, either deaf (I assume he did not hear my cue to skip a step) or unwilling to deviate from the well-known choreography. All right I can do the whole routine. I stomp on the feet of my impatience.

It is not his insurance cards that appear from the creases of his faded brown billfold. A picture, edges worn, emerges from the leather pocket. The church backdrop gives more insight into the color of the smiling girl’s dress than the ink’s sepia hue. Her eyes match those of the woman before me. “That picture was taken 60 year ago.” His face radiates the same happiness and love as the younger version’s captured on the paper, but his voice adds an edge of pride that can’t be caught by film. “Happy Anniversary.” I add a line to my usual song as I hand them their paperwork. He gently returns his memory to his pocket and takes his wife’s hand. “I should write this moment down” flits through my mind before the computer claims my attention once more.

Tales from the Waiting Room I

He saunters down the hall

White fabric clings to his muscular frame

Ink sprawls across his exposed arms

I hope he doesn’t trip over his shorts…

She rides in her chair

Encased in a rosy cocoon

Her memories etched across her face

She hopes the doctor’s news is good

He pauses

She stops

He skirts her chair

And tucks her blanket closer round her body

The Next Several Weeks

Dear Readers,

I have recently been cast in a local stage production. Because of the extra time I will need to devote to the play, I will be posting only on Fridays for the next several weeks.

Thanks,

Hanna 

Invisible Man I and II

Invisible Man: Original Version

Quiet, invisible man waits

Dark, silent night creeps

Large, old clock chimes.

Quiet, invisible man stands.

Big, wooden door creaks.

Night air is warm.

Invisible, quiet man walks.

Black, square payphone sits.

Invisible, quiet man stops.

Bright, little key turns.

Shiny, silver coins clang.

Brown, cloth bags bulges.

Brown bag is heavy.

Strong, invisible man grunts.

Quiet, invisible man runs.

Big, wooden door opens.

Brown, cloth bag drops

Soft, warm bed groans.

Quiet, invisible man sleeps.

Looking back, I am thankful my teacher didn’t take off points because I used several of the adjectives more than once. And recounting now after 10 years, I’ve noticed I only wrote 19 lines. Whoops… 

I edited it a bit.

Invisible Man: The Thesaurus Edition

Quiet, invisible man waits.

Dark, long night creeps.

Large, old clock chimes.

Silent, unseen man stands.

Big, wooden door creaks.

Night air is warm.

Imperceptible, soundless man walks.

Black, square payphone sits.

Indiscernible, inaudible man stops.

Bright, little key turns.

Shiny, silver coins clang.

Brown, cloth bags bulges.

Canvas bag is heavy.

Strong, unobservable man grunts.

Stealthy, covert man runs.

Large, carved door opens.

Brown, cloth bag drops.

Soft, warm bed groans.

Exhausted working man sleeps.

Hot, yellow ball rises.

Freshman English

Once upon a time I was in English IA. My teacher was under the impression that my classmates and I were interested in becoming better writers. To help us in that endeavor, he assigned “weekly writings,” a short, creative writing assignment that was due at the end of each week. These weren’t free-for-all assignments; he would give us a topic and occasionally other parameters for our work.

One week (far enough into the year that he was aware that I was smart, and that I knew I was smart, but that I was not smart enough to know when to keep my smartness to myself) our class was discussing payphones. Mr K’s* gave us this assignment for the week: Explain how money is emptied from payphones when no one ever sees anyone emptying them. We were learning about adjectives that day so there was an addendum: we had to use at least 40 adjectives, but we could only use 2 adjectives per sentence. “What is the minimum number of words you can use?”

I raced the numbers through my head and my hand shot up almost before his question finished. “Yes, Miss Hartman?” He was not surprised.

“Eighty.”

Delight illuminated his face. “No,” the emphatic reply shot out of his mouth before he had a chance to think. I sat forward, looked at him, my brow furrowed, and thought back over my answer. Surely my math and grammar were correct. 40 adjectives at 2 adjectives per sentence would mean 20 sentences. Each of those sentences would need a verb and a noun. 20 sentences at 4 words per sentence equals 80 words.

Mr. K stared into the air in front of him, contemplating his response. “Wait a minute,” he pressed his finger to his lips as he thought. He looked back at me. “You’re right.” His crestfallen face displayed his disappointment in my correctness.

I leaned back and relaxed. Challenge accepted.

Tune in Friday to read the resulting product!

*Initial changed

Untitled War Story I

I wrote this story based on one of the few stories my grandfather would tell about WWII. He was in Germany at the very end of the war, so I tried to add a bit of German. It comes straight from Google Translate so I can't vouch for its accuracy (and would go so far as to say, it's probably wrong). If you actually know German, and what I have written sounds stupid, please feel free to correct it.

Untitled War Story I

They approached the farm house from the west and knocked on the door. John shielded his eyes from the rays of sunlight piercing into his eyes and inhaled as they waited. The odor that had tickled their noses on the walk up the mountain had grown stronger. “What is that smell?” he wandered to himself.

A moment later the door opened. “Ja?” a short, stout woman answered. Her faded red shirt and patched skirt were dappled with dust, broadcasting they had caught her during morning chores. Pieces of gray-brown escaped from the yellow cloth which encased the bulk of her hair. Her eyes darted between the men suspiciously. She held a broom tightly in her hand, and John fought the urge to step back out of its reach.  

“Um, ehem,” the translator fumbled for words, “Grüße Fräuline, wir sind mit der U.S. Army. Wir müssen ihrem haus nach waffen zu suchen.”

The woman looked consternated. John’s confidence in the translator began to waiver. The translator repeated himself. Finally with narrowed eyes, she snipped, “Ja, aber nicht mit a käse durcheinander.”

The translator cocked an eyebrow. John stifled his annoyance, “What did she say?” The translator turned and said, “She says not to disturb her cheese, sir.”

“What?”

“She says…”

“Yes, yes, I heard what she said. What does she mean?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

John faced the woman, who still blocked the doorway, but spoke to his translator. “Tell her we need to come in now.” The translator spoke; the woman continued to stare, unmoving. John was unsure if she had understood the translator until finally, the woman acquiesced and shuffled out of the doorway.

John stepped inside and halted. He felt a thud and was thrust forward slightly as his men ran into each other behind him. He had never seen such a sight. He now knew the origin of the strange smell and the meaning behind the woman’s enigmatic statement.

Cheese. It was everywhere. White cakes buried chairs and Limberger bricks created barriers around the bed. Only a small corner of the table remained free from the dairy imprisoning the rest of the surface. John glanced up and saw the rafters decorated with blocks of cheese.

“Uh, sir?” an incredulous voice come from behind John, “what do you want us to do?”

John swallowed his emotions, not taking the time to determine if it was laughter or tears he was suppressing. “Search for weapons,” he kept his voice as level as he could.

“Yes, sir. How, sir?”

“Move the cheese.”

“All of it, sir?”

“Yes. The whole house.”

John saw the man’s jaw clench as he struggled to keep his composure. The mounds of cheese were a daunting sight and would at least triple the amount of time they must spend at the house.

The woman stood in the corner and scrutinized the men as they moved to the fortress on the adjacent side. They hefted the first wheels of cheese.

“Nein, nein, nein!” The woman began yelling.  

They stopped moving, confused by her sudden torrent of refusal. “She did say not to disturb her cheese” the translator proffered an explanation for her behavior.

“Well, we have to move the cheese. We’ve got to search the house.” John was terse. “She can move it herself if she wants, but we’re staying until the search is done.”

The translator relayed the message to the woman. Her face contorted with anger, fear, and annoyance. John was grateful looks don’t kill because he and his men would have been dead three times over. Finally the parade of emotions on the woman’s face ended with a look of grim resignation, and she grudgingly said, “Feine, können sie helfen.”

“She says we can help,” the translator reported.

“Good,” John replied, “let’s get started. I don’t want to be here all night.”

They began dismantling the walls of cheese. The woman riveted her eyes on them, making certain they did not damage any of her goods. The day grew hotter as they moved around the house, carefully lifting each slab, checking every nook and cranny for weapons. After they examined each crevice of the dwelling, they restacked the hunks, rebuilding the edible fort that guarded the woman’s possessions. 

Orange, fuchsia and purple streaked across the sky as they walked back down the mountain.

The smell of her house still clinging to their clothes, John wondered if he would ever be able to face another piece of cheese and hoped the laundry woman could make his uniform smell normal again.