Sermonette (class assignment contest entry--2nd place in state) community colleges

                                                          SERMONETTE
                                                     Nancy Stafford Griesinger
   

      My husband volunteered to give a talk from the pulpit one Sunday, and six months later, the congregation voted for him to be installed as their new preacher, and let me tell you this, I think Jerry Charles purely loves the attention.   He is a master when he's up there, just speaks in his low sweet voice, sometimes even whispering out a line as he gazes into that throng of worshipers.  I watch his backside from my place in the choir.  He stands to one side of the pulpit, tanned fingers placed sensuously on the Bible and leans his handsome face toward the crowd and one by one, the ladies in their voile dresses reach for cardboard fans.   Jerry breathes his message out like a sigh and everywhere you look, you see fluttering pictures of shepherd and sheep bouncing around the room like the inside of a kaleidoscope.

      After the sermon, I stand at the door with him and watch the lingering handshakes and cringe at the sly smiles.  I smile too, but I feel weak and wonder if they can tell how much I hate this God who took my husband away.   He's a good preacher, Jerry is.  Fixes those blue eyes of his right on them. Just sort of locks them in and whispers. "God is Love..."   He draws out the word love until it hangs in the air and suddenly the pews are full of squirming females fanning to beat the band.

      "He casts a spell with his sermons," Mary Ellen Foster says, smiling and feeling something she can't quite put her finger on.  "Feels like a re-birth," she sighs.    More like a hormone frenzy I'd say.  I don't know what I could have done about the problem with Jerry and his preaching.  The signs were all so subtle.   Lannell says if she were me, she'd lay into him good.    "Tell him how much it hurts watching him cut the fool like that," she said.

      Jerry is not too pleased with our friendship, but Law me, I don't know what I'd do without Lannell and her dress shop. Wednesday night prayer meetings are bearable now that I work for her, altering dresses.   Fitting bosoms, waists, hips.    Ammunition to shoot in Jerry's direction, and him such a willing target.   When I confront him with any of this, he lays the blame on me, claiming my imagination is working overtime.

      The ones who come for fittings at Lannell's have short and fluffy hair and their eyes are perfectly shadowed and plucked.   Lannell wants to chop off my hair and give me a permanent.   "A little more color wouldn't hurt," she says.   "No, not yet," I told her. "I'll know when the time is right."

      Lannell closes her shop at noon on Wednesdays.   It's my favorite day of the week.   I can get through the rest of them, if I can go to the shop on Wednesday afternoons.  We lock the doors and turn the radio up loud and talk about everything, and we act like we don't have a worry in the world. Most Wednesdays Lannell pulls out the bottle and pours herself a drop in her R.C. Cola.  I take a little once in a while, but I try not to overdo because after all, it'll be prayer meeting in a few hours and I can't embarrass Jerry again... like I did that one time.

      It was a Wednesday and we were all caught up, so Lannell decided to fix my hair with rollers.   She said she thought I needed a new look and poured a splash of whiskey into my glass.  There was something about the place that day that took on a glow.  It didn't seem to matter that it was a Wednesday, and just a few hours from prayer meeting, or that I was the preacher's wife.  That part just seemed to fade away and I felt like I was a kite let loose in the wind.  I looked around that room with its dusty bolts of cloth, and thread fading on the spools, and thought, "we're all just dust anyway aren't we."

      It was easy to nod yes when my friend held up the bottle for my second go 'round.   Lannell took my pin curls down and combed out two of them together and rolled a brush roller underneath, sticking it with a pink plastic sword.  She swallowed a slow, long drink,   "Now lookie there!" she said.    I glanced in the blurry mirror and could see I looked better already, cute now, and fun-loving.   I felt downright flippy and I blushed wondering what Jerry and his Lord would think when I walked down the aisle and took my place in the front row of the choir.   Lannell and I drank the afternoon away and she told me all the things she did as a young girl.   Things I'd never even dreamed of thinking about, much less doing!  What a blessing, I thought, to be able to just be your wild old self whenever you felt like it!    No preacher's wife could ever hope to be that free is what I thought, and that made me sad and then I cried, but Lannell got me out of it soon enough.   She's a lot of fun, and fun is one thing I haven't had too much of... since Jerry Charles got the Lord's call.

      Jerry blew his top when he saw me that evening and started yelling something about what was I trying to do to him!  I felt so relaxed due to the whiskey, I didn't even try to give him an answer. I just smiled and picked up my baked goods for the social hour and walked on over to the church.   The stained glass windows beamed out across the parking lot as if trying to reach every passerby.  Those pieces of colored glass shining up there in the shape of our Lord and Savior can speak volumes because of two things: The way they find themselves arranged, and the place in which they are set.
     With that thought in mind, I pranced up the steps with my pecan tarts and bouncing curls.  Jerry didn't like the way I was arranged that evening, and it was clear he wished I had not come to that holy place, at that holy time.  He gripped my elbow tightly, pinching hard, digging his fingers into my arm, as he escorted me to my rightful place, all the while smiling and nodding to his audience.  I stumbled, but caught myself before my ankle turned all the way over.
      Jerry pushed me down into my chair, and glared at me before brushing his lips across my cheek.  I smiled and tossed my head enjoying the way the curls tickled me on my face.   Jerry's voice rose and in his most serious and pious tone he said,  "Let us pray."  He bowed his head dramatically then placed both hands on the front of the pulpit and around the open Bible like a guardian.  Probably protecting the Word from me, I thought.  Trying to surround the Holy Book with his great spirit so that the spirits which I now exuded could not contaminate that sacred script.
      His voice rose in an exaggerated call,  "Ower Fatha, Gahd All Mighty, we beseech thee this evenin' to come and dwell among us and cleanse us oh Gawd, bring us to our knees, Lord......"    I daydreamed through the long prayer session and opened my eyes to peek at the congregation.  The cardboard fans had stilled themselves like sleeping birds and Mary Ellen Foster's eyes were closed and her peach colored lips were pursing as if waiting to be kissed.  Jerry's voice reached out toward her and caressed her blush of autumn cheeks.  She parted her lips and touched her breasts all the while keeping her eyes closed and flaring her nostrils in an exaggerated sigh.
      I decided to do a little praising of my own, so I fluffed my springy curls and stood, being careful not to wobble. I raised both hands in the air, keeping my open palms facing out toward Mary Ellen as if pushing her away from Jerry Charles.  In my loudest, most worshipful voice I praised God for drops of whiskey poured into R.C. Cola that could lift a person's spirit and bring a peace which passeth all understanding.   I shouted, "Hallelujah" for a friend with brush rollers and creme rouge.
     Jerry's startled voice halted and he stared over at me like a scared rabbit, as my own voice rose until it was squealing.   It was the most fun I had had in a long, long time.  Jerry sent me home. "Go to bed," he said, "and stay there!"   So I went home, but I didn't go to bed. I put the country music radio station on and boogied around the living room in my night gown.  Jerry, all the while next door making excuses for me, blaming the Devil, gleaning as much sympathy as he could out of the situation, and turning everything around to suit him.   Later, when he walked into our darkened house, the music had stopped, but the radio was still warm and I was in bed with a cold washcloth on my forehead, and vowing to see if I couldn't get Lannell to buy me a bottle of that whiskey for my own house.

**Lost the ending sentences while transferring 9/2013

Won second place in state. (community colleges) Paid for Grand Rapids Amway hotel & meals; honored and  spoke at dinner; name on plaque at Capitol in Lansing.

The Empty Room

The Empty Room

The cheerful nursery though filled with a bed, an oak chest and a multitude of toys, is empty. The rocking chair, silent. Stilled forever like a sculpture cast in stone. The handmade quilt lies cold and properly folded at the foot of the crib.
Lace curtains hang motionless, the window closed tight. The panes, polished to a bright sheen, wait behind the curtains and the woodwork glows and gives off the fragrance of oil soap. The whole room sits like a broken casement clock never to chime again.
The pale, melon colored carpet has a shine to its fibers. Nylon. Practical. The scent of baby powder embedded deep into the backing, causes those who enter this room now, to sob.
The wall paper, which has not been changed in two years, sports a cheerful riot of animals and today the antics of those mute animals look obscene. They are tumbling over each other playing leap frog, and peeking out from under blankets and they are smiling. Too happy, too bright.

A vibration jars the music box. Ping... Strains of tinny music echo from the walls. Thrumm... The tune plays in slow motion, as if aching to be remembered, until the music box runs itself down. Drummm...drum.

For two years this room was the center of the household. Not the warm kitchen where sounds of laughter wafted up through the vents. Not the living room with its straight legged furniture, nor the other bedroom with its huge bed that was wonderful for snuggling and jumping upon.
For two years it brought light to the grown-ups eyes and their voices held joy and raised noticeably, and they found themselves uninhibited and jabbering and sometimes even crawling on the floor pretending to be ponies.
And sometimes, they sat very still in the rocking chair and hummed, and waited for sleep.
The nursery was a room where plush animals were flung from the crib into far corners, and plump pointy fingers demanded their return, and when the furry creatures were retrieved, squeals of laughter filled the room.
Laughter filled the empty room.

Two...short...years.
Peek-a-boo and patty-cake years, and books with thick pages, and tops that spun and dolls that cried and peals of laughter...always laughter...and now this:
Next to the row of framed pictures, a top the chest of drawers, a somber card now stands. Etched on the front of the card are praying hands poised over a delicate cradle.
Inside the card, printed in cursive letters are the words "infant daughter..." and then her name. Her tiny two year old name.

John Pahl's Class Assignment: Describe a space where something has happened. Let us know that something has happened at the space without using dialogue. 1993?

Dream

Creative Writing Assignment for October 27,1994
DREAM Nancy Griesinger
　
The wind is rough... moving swift around me...swirling me. I am floating. Like a leaf, I am floating. Down the river I swirl holding my curled feet to my hands. I am brown tinged bliss.
Darkness covers me, and dry dead leaves rustle in the shadows. My legs are scurrying, running along the edge of a wood. I turn myself into circles as I run, gathering speed, I am jumping, leaping, springing. Springing my legs up out of the tall grasses. Springing my legs like pogo sticks. My arms flail about and then become quiet. My body spirals up toward the night sky. When the wind slows, I float on the stillness. The air is dry and warm, then cold and wet. I drift, then soar in the dark invisible world. I float over black hills and deep valleys. The air around me does not move. There is no sensation of heat or cold. Just quiet. A peaceful quiet I can touch. I feel at home. A fog settles around me and I float happily, moving wherever the moist air is leading.
In a sunlit valley below I can see a house. I float down closer and turn my body in order to see its shape against the deep grass. The grass is swaying back and forth and growing up over the house. I float closer still. The roof is tar paper, black against the sky. It is dappled with the shadows of leaves. I see an object on the rooftop. A light colored outline. It clings to the roof, pressing itself against the black tar paper. I drift in a circle around the little house. Morning is creeping over the horizon and I can see the object clearly. It is a frozen kite.
The windows of the house look warm, glowing with yellow lamplight. They look pale and diffused as if they are melting out of their frames, oozing out into the night. There is movement behind the windows. Cheerful movement, and I long to float inside. I will myself to float through the warmth of the windows, but... cannot move.
There is a sound like knocking. A demanding hammering of sound. I want to speak but can only cry. I try to free myself. I want to answer... I need to answer... the knocking. I begin to sob and the tears are on my cheeks, flowing warm and salty and dripping down into my hands. The knocking stops.
Grey smoke, soft and swirling, pumps out of the chimney. Rays of sun wink above the horizon. The sky is pink. I float toward the rooftop and the frozen kite. I can see frost in a glistening sheen on the roof. The kite remains perfectly still. The kite is waiting, its long, cloth tail stuck in the ice crystals.
　
My body stops floating. All is still... quiet. The windows are suddenly red with fingers of fire reaching out into the night toward me. The soft, grey smoke turns black as coal and comes rushing, bellowing, thundering toward me. The people running from room to room are frenzied, frantically looking for a way to escape.
I reach my hand to touch them and feel ...ice...