Problems are for Solving

Tonight is the 5th Annual Night of the Burning Plum.

We’ll be feasting on ham and potatoes with salads and enjoying mead mixed with plum wine, and our traditional flaming plums and cherries over ice cream for dessert.

Then we will retire to the Plum Room for stories where many accounts of the legend of the Burning Plum will be presented.

In short, tonight we celebrate friendship, as we do every year at this time.

Let the Night of the Burning Plum commence!

My friend Seth is working on a role playing game (RPG) that is akin to an improv play called A Flower for Mara. He discusses the “why” of the game here. His post, and Adiel’s, and the discussion that is the context for the “quote from me” in that post, caused me to think about grief and stories.

Grieving is something that for a long time I never really did. Not much, anyway. Some of it is related to how I handle crisis situations. I move forward, the greater the stress the calmer I am. So in a situation where others are sad and grieving, I step up and let them lean on me. And when the crisis is over I collapse, never really taking the time to grieve on my own.

Another part of it is pride. “I can handle it,” I tell myself. “Death is a part of life.” While it is true that death, and someone you know dying, is inevitable: so is grief.

Grief looks different for all of us. Some grieve quietly, some wail and moan as in deep, powerful, physical pain. Some cry, some become quiet. But grief, and some expression of it, is inherently human. It is bound up in the image of God that is in man alone—it is not exclusively human because God grieves. He grieves over our sin. He wept at the tomb of His friend. He groans with His creation is it waits for complete redemption. He speaks in sadness to Saul of Tarsus on the Damascus road.

Like all other aspects of the image of God in mankind, grief is marred by sin. Without Jesus, we grieve without hope. Without Jesus, grief can be consuming and become an idol in itself. Grief is among those emotions that is inherently good (God grieves), but which only exists because of sin. One day there will be no more grief. While these truths are important to remember—they are not the purpose of this post.

What makes me say that A Flower for Mara (AFM) sounds worthwhile is the power of story to help us grieve. Role playing games, at least as Seth designs them, are a group activity of collaborative story telling. We have a family tradition involving story telling in our Night of the Burning Plum celebration that happens each fall on Orange Street. And in those stories that are told are glimpses of the people who tell them. Just as God is reflected in His creation, so are our personalities and quirks and desires and thoughts and feelings reflected when we create. When we create stories, and tell stories, we reflect who we are to those who share the story with us. And (saying this not having “played” AFM) the Mara storyline is a time of reflecting the grief of the participants to one another and for us to see the grieving process in others in the absence of crisis. It is this grief in the absence of crisis that is intriguing to me, because that can only happen in the process of story. When grief hits in “real life” it is because of something devastating—either death or illness or accident intersecting with a life absent of that death or illness or accident immediately prior.

The possibilities are seemingly endless for community in the role playing of AFM. We are able to know one another better. We are able to encourage one another in our “following after God” creativity. We are able to enter into the past and present grief of our brothers and sisters through a “safer” mechanism than the actual crisis. We are able to see (and therefore recognize in the future) how one another grieve. This will make “weeping with those who weep” easier—because we will recognize grief and weeping our friends even when it looks decidedly different than our own grief.

I may have some more to say about this in the future, but these are some initial thoughts to keep the conversation going.

I’ve been a bit under the weather this week (I had to take a day off in fact) and so I’m looking forward to our annual celebration of the Night of the Burning Plum. I will, Lord willing, get a post up in the next couple of days detailing this year’s event, but for now:

A Road Less Travelled » The Night of the Burning Plum (Gabrielle)

A Road Less Travelled » Thoughts on the Burning Plum (Raquel)

A Road Less Travelled » The Night of the Burning Plum 2006 (Gabrielle)

“What is it?�

The same thought was wandering through all of their minds. The music was beautiful. Somehow more beautiful than anything they normally heard in their own worlds. So beautiful it was that it caused Mr. Abernathy to begin reconsidering how he thought of beauty.

“Beauty is only skin deep.�

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.�

These are sayings that he had heard since his youth—‘truths’ that he began to question. This music is BEAUTIFUL. So beautiful, he mused, that it must be objective—it must be beautiful to everyone. To deny the beauty of this music would be to deny truth exists.

As they walked the music changed. It got louder, of course, because they were getting closer to it. But it also slowed down and sped up. Dischordant phrases of the music were followed with resolution. And something new became audible—voices.

There were voices singing. Voices laughing. Voices shouting with joy. Young and old, boy and girl—this wasn’t a concert, it’s a party.

At this point I need to stop and tell you that the Abernathys had not been to a party in years. Not since Frieda was born, in fact. But that party had been very different from this one. That party had been men and women standing around in formal dress—men in tuxedos and black ties, women in long formal elegant dresses punctuated by shiny jewelry. The party was formal in every sense—there was no relaxed conversation at all. No laughter. There were hors d’oeevres (these are small appetizers that can usually be eater in one bite) that were handed out on trays.

But this party was nothing like that one. They had never in their lives been to a party that involved singing and dancing. As they grew closer they could see the people. Young and old all together, people were having a party. It was simple in itself, but everything still was beautiful. In the middle of the gathering was a large, beautiful carving of a swan—made of ice, glistening in the sunlight as it slowly melted. Other decorations there were obviously not extravagant—but were yet beautiful.

People were talking with each other! Not about the weather, or work, but about the music, about art, about books, about each others’ lives, and about Jesus. And they were happy! There was obviously a great deal of love among these people. Children were playing with one another and the adults were watching with enjoyment. Never had any of them seen quite this kind of gathering.

At this point—one of them saw the Abernathys and Jack coming down the beach. He alerted some others who appeared to be leaders among them and a small group of men walked towards them. But for what happened then—you’ll need to wait for another story.

Note: This is as far as I’ve written so far. I have a title for chapter 4, but I’ll have to brush Elsie’s hair again to actually tell it and then write it down. If you nag me it’s more likely to happen. :0) Chapter 4 will be called, People, Parties, P’s and Q’s.

Chapter 2: The Lake That Used to be a Wall

Dad felt out of shape quickly as he began to row the boat out into the lake. It took some time to get used to the oars and the oarlocks on the boat—and the muscles he was using were ones that he hadn’t used in years. After a few minutes, though, he got into a rhythm. A slow breeze picked up and blew the boat about—and very soon they lost their sense of direction. They glanced around hurriedly—but none of them could see Frieda’s room any longer.

Dad, refusing to be afraid (and still not sure this wasn’t a dream) encouraged everyone not to fret. “God is taking care of us, “ he reminded them. As they looked and looked and still could not find whence they had come finally mom spotted a beach—only a mile away in what seemed to be a westerly direction. They, of course, were not sure which direction was west because this was not a land with which they were at all familiar.

Dad rowed hard towards the shore that they could see, and the wind began to blow them in that direction, aiding their journey immensely. As they drifted up on the beach they noticed that this is not the typical sand beach—but one made up of small pebbles, much like the lawns you would see in front of homes in Arizona.

Still filled with adventurous spirit, dad climbed out of the boat and began walking around the beach. The spirit of exploration was contagious, though, and soon all of them were venturing around this new beach in the land that used to be a wall. Instantly they all noticed that their shoes and legs were still wet from wading around in Frieda’s room. When they noticed that, mom and Frieda began to be instantly homesick—wondering if they’d ever see their three bedroom ranch in central Indiana again. Dad comforted them, and they continued to search to see what could be found in this undiscovered land.

All of a sudden they came upon a huge conch shell. In fact, Frieda almost tripped over it. “Wow!� they all thought. “What a huge snail or animal must have had that shell.�

Dad picked it up and after making sure there wasn’t a live animal still in the shell, did what any of us would do—he put it up to his ear.

What he heard, though, was not the air echoing in the shell like the ocean—but a voice!

“HELP! HELP! I’m stuck in here!�

Sure enough, stuck inside this huge shell, was a little man no more than four inches tall.

Dad helped him get out of the shell. I’m still not sure how he did it, but right there in his hand was this little man.

“My name is Jack,� he explained. “Four days ago I was in my bedroom and my wall turned into a giant shell. I went over, still unsure, and touched it. The next thing I knew I was stuck inside of the shell. Until you came and rescued me, of course.�

The Abernathys (had I told you yet what their last name was?) told their story to Jack and they agreed to explore this strange but exciting land together. Jack rode on Frieda’s shoulder since he was small enough to do so and wouldn’t get lost that way.

The four companions came upon a tree that looked jus like a coconut tree. Knowing that Jack hadn’t eaten for days, Mr. Abernathy looked up to see if there were any coconuts in the tree. As he looked up he was amazed at what he saw, for it wasn’t coconuts in the tree—but APPLES. After getting over the initial shock of seeing apples in what otherwise was a perfectly good coconut tree, they decided to try to harvest the apples. It turned out that Jack was a fantastic climber and climbed up the trees and used his tiny pocket knife to cut the apples from the tree and the Abernathy clan caught them all before they hit the rocky beach. One apple, which was almost as big as Jack, was enough for him to be full—even after a four day fast. They thanked God for the food, and Jesus for His grace, and feasted upon the serendipitous apples.

Off in the distance now, they could hear something. Drums! And what sounded like fifes or flutes and some sort of stringed instrument. They all expressed surprise that they had not heard it before—since the sound was loud enough that they should have heard it sooner. Maybe, they agreed, the music had just begun while they were eating.

So they all got up from their feast, having eaten apples to fullness, and walked slowly towards the distant music, wondering what they would find. That story will have to wait for another time.

NOTE: This is one of many things I’ve written some time ago. I hope to get back to finishing many of these projects, but I found this on my hard drive today and thought I’d share it with you in chapters and maybe be inspired to continue it.

My daughter Elsie asked me to tell her a silly story, as she is wont to do while getting her hair brushed. Her hair is very snarly at times, and we have adopted this ‘silly story’ practice as a way of taking her mind off the pain that comes with the hair brushing. Elsie, you may want to know, is four years old, and is the fourth of five children in our home.

On this particular occasion I was feeling more creative and imaginative than I have in the past and began a story that didn’t end quickly. Because the story is still going on in the telling with my children (who have all joined in on the listening now) I wanted to put down on paper (or binary digits, as the case may be) what I have told them, as best I can remember it, before it fades as my memory does.

At some point, I am sure that this story will teach us something of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I say that not because it is the main aim, but because I believe that all creative endeavors by Christians who love Jesus will reflect at some level His Gospel of Peace. As I begin here there are only two chapters. I am looking forward to what will come next. I am not typically very creative—and so this is an early endeavor for me into the imagination.

Elsie: Please tell me a silly story, daddy.

Dad: Let’s see now. How does that story begin?

Elsie: I don’t know. It’s your story, daddy!

Mom: Is it, ‘Once upon a pig?’

Dad: That sounds close, but it’s not qute it. The ‘Once upon’ part sounds right.

Mom: Maybe, ‘Once upon a fish?’

Dad: No, that’s not it.

Elsie [interrupting]: ONCE UPON A TIME!

Dad Oh, yes. That’s it. Thank you Elsie.

Here is the story that followed:

Chapter 1: The Wall Is a Lake

Once upon a fish, err time, there was a little girl named Frieda. Frieda was 6 years old, just this past week, and she was sitting on her bed, playing. Something today, though, seemed not quite right. Finally, she figured out what it was: the wall of her room had turned into a lake.

Surprised as she was—she was not as surprised as we grown-ups might be at the same sight. Children, we all know, roll with life’s changes more easily than we do. And of course where you and I might see this as a large inconvenience, Frieda was intrigued. Still she knew that she must inform her parents of this change in her room. After all, she didn’t want to be blamed for the hall carpeting being wet!

“Mom!�

“What is it dear?�, her mother answered sweetly.

“My wall turned into a lake and it’s spilling all over my floor!�

Of course we know that lakes roll rather than spill, but please remember that Frieda is only six years old. Of course her mother knows that, and instantly thinks this is a game of Frieda’s imagination. Being a good mother—she follows along,

“That’s nice dear. Please try to keep the lake out of the hallway, though.�

“Mom—I’m serious! My floor is all wet! HELP!�

Mom comes in and sure enough the floor is drenched with water. And not clean, filtered drinking water but smelly, fishy water. Mom, of course, being a grownup notices only the water on the floor is oblivious to the missing wall.

“Where did this water come from? Did a pipe burst? Oh, dear! Do I need to call the plumber? What will happen to the new carpet in the hallway?�

I may have neglected to mention that it is Saturday, and so Frieda’s father is home as well. Mom calls out to him—“DEAR!!!??â€?

Dad rushes in, knowing the voice Mom used was the serious, big trouble voice.

“What happened here?!� dad exclaims.

Frieda, beginning to be frustrated that no one sees the most important feature of the room, yells out, “My wall turned into a lake!�

“Frieda, walls do not just turn into lakes,� dad and mom reply almost in unison, immediately.

“But LOOK! There! It used to be a wall and there’s a lake there now!�

Sure enough, mom and dad finally notice the lake that used to be a wall. Speechless, they stare at what used to be a perfectly good wall which is now a lake that stretches as far as they can see. Waves roll up and down and continue to splash into the bedroom like a high tide. After the initial shock wears they notice a boat, and old fashioned gray rowboat floating towards them. In order to be sure that this is not a dream, and filled with a youthful, adventuresome spirit that had not graced him in years, dad says “let’s check this out!�

Mom is unsure, but dad and Frieda convince her to wade out with them to the boat, now just a few yards from Frieda’s bed. Still filled with some shock and disbelief, the family of three climbs into the row boat and gaze around. What happens next will have to wait for another time.