Me. Ow. - John Rosenbaum

Dear Reader, this is John's 3rd (and 4th) submission to the Fire Bowl.  What follows are two pieces that I have posted together for your thoughtful perusal.  Please note that the Fire Bowl is a creative writing community that explores variations on a theme.  The current theme is stories about bad times that turn out for our good.  John's two short submissions here contain some...ahem...honest language and for that reason, we are warning you ahead of time.  Thanks, John, for these posts...rated PG-13.

Me.

Ow.

God, I’m disgusting.  Look at me, practically wallowing in my own filth.  Not that I would have to, but that jackass hasn’t cleaned out my box in days.  It’s like he even enjoys my filth, despite all the ruckus and insults he throws my way about the stench.  Always demanding perfection, cleanliness, even “shit that doesn’t stink.”  Guess what, dude!  I’m an animal!

Man, I’ve gotten so fat.  This comfortable life is my own gallows.  I can leap small buildings in a couple bounds, and I can do it with perfect balance and grace.  If I wanted.  Oh sure, I will cry and wail wanting to go outside, stare out the window for hours, and try to weasel my way out the door given the opportunity, but you know what I do once I get out there?  Immediately regret it.  These four walls have made me soft.  With all my fur and the pudge around the middle that I pass off as fur you would think I’d be able to stand even an afternoon in the cold, but no.  The life given me by this jerk has even ruined me of my own nature.

Damned if you do!  Sure as hell damned if you don’t!  What a lot is this?

Somehow I picked up this A-load of fleas, these parasites crawling around my portly body like anxieties that won’t shake.  Fleeting little buggers!  Every time I think I got a hold on one (and there’s plenty to choose from) the little bastard slips through my teeth, vanishes like a whisper, and I’m left chewing on my own flesh.  Not that that is a deterrent from trying and trying again.  It’s like eating away at my own flesh, creating my own open sores which are infinitely worse than the pricks caused by my tormentors, is somehow control.  I am not accomplishing anything save gnawing off parts of who I am, but it’s the only thing I can seem to do.  Not that the tyrant would have to expend any energy on my behalf—a couple drops of medicine once-a-fracking-month and I would be free from torture, freed from my own destructive behavior, the sin of self-mutilation under the thinly-veiled guise of comfort.  It’s in that jackass’s power, but what do I get?  A few sympathetic comments thrown my way and hands that prod my self-inflicted wounds.  Agitation, not restoration.  Wow.  Thanks for caring.  I’m treated worse than a pet, but you will parade your progressive self flouting the term “animal companion.”

With all this ranting I think I’ve worked up an appetite.  Or not, but I’ll eat anyway.  And commence with the routine: I jump up on your precious countertop and cross the proverbial line.  You spray me in the face with that squirt bottle of yours and after a couple of rounds of that I’ll get what I want.

God, you’re worse than the Dursleys.

Meow and Forever

Oh, you little cat!  Why do you keep jumping up there, forcing me to spray you?  How I wish I could explain to you that your last owners did you a disservice by leaving out a bag of dry food for you to just munch on as you saw fit.  Not only is dry food bad for you, but you shouldn’t graze; you need set meal times.  We got to get that extra pudge off of you!

Speaking of pudge, I got a string here that I can wave in front of your face if you’d like.  Man, I could do that for hours, you’re so cute.  You don’t seem to want to go outside, even though I’ve done what all the cat experts have advised—I’ve helped you chase off those other cats so we can establish your territory.  So until you learn to trust my perimeter we got to get you exercise some how.  Remember: I got yo back, cat!  Now chase the string!

Come here!  I know you don’t like when I comb through your fur picking off fleas one by one, but what choice do I have?  It breaks my heart to see you chewing yourself to bits, but I can’t afford flea medicine until I work off that vet bill; I’m still not sure what was causing you to throw up all the time, but I’m sure glad your tummy has been doing better.

Ow!  I’m not sure if you know this, but your front paws are wrapped around my wrist and your hind legs are ripping my forearm to shreds and your little, razors-for-teeth are sinking deeper and deeper into my tender, nerve-ridden hand.  Oh, man.  You’re bringing me to tears!  I’m going to wait it out, though.  Whew, I want to smack you so you get off!, but that isn’t going to help you; your little instincts will interpret that struggle as a challenge, but I want you to know you are safe and loved and don’t need to protect yourself from me.

Now please remove your claws because I got to clean out your box.  Your shit stinks.

What God Arranges - Mark Barrentine

This is Mark's 2nd post in the Fire Bowl (read the 1st one HERE)

In Eugene Peterson’s The Message, Galatians 3:11b states, “The person who lives in right relationship with God does it by embracing what God arranges for him.” I think this statement sums up the current Fire Bowl topic beautifully. 

At the beginning of this year, I took a test to become a supervisor at work. After passing the written and oral portions of the exam I placed 3rd on the hiring list. I was in excellent shape to be promoted, because there were 4 open positions. Administration interviewed the top 7 individuals on the list. 

Well, I was not selected. As a matter of fact, I was jumped twice to hire number 4 and number 6! I was very upset. I began to suspect some sort of conspiracy. I racked my brain wondering what went wrong and why administration didn’t “like me?” I became bitter and disgruntled. I kept telling myself, “There’s a reason for everything.” But I didn’t really accept it.

Shortly after the promotions were made, my wife got real sick. Her illness required me to take off several days from work. My wife really needed me. Not just as moral support, but on a couple of occasions I had to act as her advocate to be sure her voice was heard. After a couple weeks she recovered, and I was able to return to work.

A couple months later, I was pondering the promotions again and asking God why I hadn’t been promoted. I explained to Him how embarrassing it was to have been passed over twice. I shared with him how desperately we could have used the raise. I told God how upset I was with the arrangements He was making. Then our most gracious and loving Father reminded me of my wife’s illness. I was able to see, that if I had been promoted I would have been unable to take the time off that my wife needed me to take in order to care for her. And quite possibly, I would have been away at Supervisor’s school when she suddenly got ill. He did not grant me favor with the decision makers, so that I could be the man and husband He created me to be in a very crucial time.

I have a new found respect for how God arranges things, and a greater desire to embrace those arrangements. I am still slow on the uptake, but He is patient.

Peace and all good, my friends.

Drama in the rain - Chris Whitler

In May of 1991 I was in Romania.  This was my second trip to the freshly democratic country that had undergone violent revolution just two years prior.  Missionaries were sounding the call.  The time was right for the gospel in this hurting nation.  People were hungry for hope.

I was there with a Youth With A Mission (YWAM) team of 20 or so in response to that call.  We were serving full time missionaries and churches by doing what we could to gather people together and communicate the story of Jesus to them.  It was the early 90’s, it was YWAM and that means drama.

Not drama as it has come to be referenced these days with indignant bobbing heads and snapping fingers and a “I can’t believe she comes in here and creates all that drama!”  I’m talking about mime make-up, costumes, a translated sound track and some amateur thespians acting out the great story to the best of our ability.  We were performing a play called ‘Toymaker & Son’, an allegory with dance, physical theater and colorful costumes that was part Nutcracker, part Cats and part Shields and Yarnell.

As people gathered into the soccer arena for the “spectacol” so did the storm clouds overhead.  We had set up the sound equipment and the props.  We had marked the dirt square as our stage area.  And now we were afraid of those dark, heavy clouds.  So, we started to sing.  We didn’t want rain to drive people away and postpone their chance to see this story.  We sang, we prayed, we asked God to move the storm along.  People still gathered.

As we fervently beseeched like we had never beseeched before for that storm to pass, a beam penetrated those clouds and the heart of the storm was shot through with light like the birth of a Thomas Kinkade painting.  It happened suddenly and we all exclaimed excited praise and thanks.  The show would go on!  God is good!

Infused with faith and adrenaline, we took our places.  I sat in the dirt, awaiting my cue.  The music began.  On that introductory trumpeted note, the rain began to fall - a sprinkle, some drops and then a full on shower.  The dirt became mud.  We all started laughing.

We carried on.  We slipped through creation.  We splashed through man’s rejection of God.  We slid through Christ reaching out to his broken creation.  We sloshed through the crucifixion.  We splattered through the resurrection and the ultimate defeat of evil.

At the end, a local pastor invited people to the hope that Christ offers and many responded, coming forward to pray.

As it turns out, storm clouds break apart and storm clouds gather.  God is still good.  Sometimes rain is an invitation to have a little more fun.