Eric Tippin

            There is a cloud hanging over all of us. No! It’s not Marx’s specter of communism; do not mistake it for that. It is a ghost-filled misty mass casting its colossal shadow over every move we make. I only began to feel its damp effects recently, but since then, the cloud has been growing.

           My discovery began on a partly cloudy (I am referring to real clouds now) day in Oxford, England. I was on a double-decker public bus, headed away from the city-center in search of C.S. Lewis’s church and grave. My habit of flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants had led me there with no tour guide, no map and no idea of their whereabouts except that they were, “That way,” as directed by a bookseller. I followed my heart, and exited the bus at a stop next to a locally owned flower shop in what I figured was the general vicinity of the church.

            “How fortuitous!” I thought. Well, it may have been something more vulgar, but I like to think of my past-self speaking a semi-Victorian English. Anyway, “How fortuitous!” I thought, “I can purchase a flower to place on or next to the grave.” I entered the shop and bought a Gerber Daisy for a few odd pence in my pocket from a kind woman working there. She happened to know the location of the church, and provided me a map, and a penciled path on that map to the church. A narrow, winding walkway through suburb neighborhoods, under lush hedge-arches and along quaint stonewalls brought me to the church and its graveyard. It was a humble, stone Anglican building with a walled cemetery and a few leafy trees on the grounds. At the gate, I met an aged gardener, sitting on a stone eating a sack lunch with his calloused hands. We were the only two around, and after approaching him, I said, “Is it okay if I  . . . ? ” and pointed to the cemetery beyond the gate.

            “Sure,” he said indifferently, and I entered. There was no wind; I was completely alone, and everything growing in that graveyard was green. I walked from headstone to headstone, my little daisy in hand, looking for ‘the one’ and not caring how quickly I found it. At last, there it was! A simple slab with an empty flower holder at its base. I put my flower in it, stepped back and took a picture with my iPhone (see picture above). Immediately I felt like I had committed some terrible sacrilege or at least an embarrassing faux pas, so I put my phone away and blushed a little. When the shame had passed, I just stood there feeling overwhelmed. I prayed and thanked the LORD for His Spirit’s work in this man’s life; the allergens in the air may have forced a tear or two out of my eyes. I did not know then what was overwhelming me. I think I know now. The answer can be found in two passages—one from C.S. Lewis himself and the other from Holy Scripture:

            “You must not think that I am putting forward any heathen fancy of being absorbed into Nature [at death]. Nature is mortal. We shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive” (From The Weight of Glory).

            “Since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles” (Hebrews 12:1, NIV).

            The cloud! That ever-growing cloud of witnesses was swelling over me and I was feeling its cool mists.  The moment in that silent cemetery awakened me to one idea: C.S. Lewis is not dead. He has joined that ‘great cloud of witnesses.’ I did not have a false sentimental picture of him looking down from heaven smiling on me. No, I was thankful for God’s work in him, and felt the weight of that work—the weight of glory.

            From that day to this, the cloud has been growing, or rather my awareness of it has been growing. Every book I read, from McCullough’s John Adams to Metaxas Bonheoffer; From Beacher Stowe to Boreham; from Augustine to Ambrose; from Dickens to Dostoyevsky the cloud has been building to cumulonimbus proportions. God’s work in those men and women has continually reminded me of the fleeting nature of nature and the unwavering power of our creator, even in his flawed children.

            I left my flower there and made my way back to the bus stop, feeling thankful for that moment in the graveyard when I was surrounded not by the dead but the living. The weight of glory has been hard upon me ever since, as it should be upon all of us,

            “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith” (Hebrews 12:1-2, NIV).

R.Eric Tippin
May 11, 2012
Tippin Dental Group

G.K. Chesterton was born one hundred and thirty-eight years ago this month into the Pax Britannica and prosperity of Queen Victoria’s reign. He grew up a normal—if a somewhat absent minded—young man. But at a young age, God gave Chesterton a capacity for joy seemingly unmatched in any of his contemporaries.

He seemed to take nothing seriously, calling the cosmos cozy inOrthodoxy and writing lines such as, “Woe unto him that considereth his hair foolishly, for his hair will be made the type of him.” But this supposed flippancy was only his keen ability to prioritize the truly important from everything else. He took two things very seriously: friendship and the Christian faith; though it is refreshing that he was able to laugh through discussions of these things as well.  In his letters, in his essays, in his books, and in anecdotes told of him, he was consistently lighthearted and full of loving optimism. At a young age he pondered in all honesty, and maybe a bit of naiveté,  “I wonder whether there will ever come a time when I shall be tired of any one person.” He also found immense pleasure in life’s tangibles,

“I do not think there is anyone who takes quite such a fierce pleasure in things being themselves as I do. The startling wetness of water excites and intoxicates me: the fieriness of fire, the steeliness of steel, the unutterable muddiness of mud. It is just the same with people. When we call a man "manly" or a woman "womanly" we touch the deepest philosophy”1 (From a letter to his wife, postmarked 1899). 

Chesterton gloried in “The birthday present of birth,”2 and Christians should be truly thankful for the birth and life of a man with such an expansive mind and spirit-filled, joyous character. History’s geniuses have a poor record when it comes to joy and mirth. The celebrated genius of Edgar Allen Poe was drink-inflamed, and disturbingly dark; Nietzsche went mad; Alexander the Great’s violent mood swings are legendary; even Bernard Shaw’s hilarity was tainted by a vicious and unfeeling belief in eugenics. But Chesterton, his genius uncompromised, enjoyed life, lived temperately and used his powers for defending the faith he loved, singing (completely out of pitch) all the way.

As far as it concerned Chesterton, he acquired no personal enemies, but made a point to endear himself to those lambasting his person in the “The Daily Mail” or “The Times.” Men such as H.G. Wells and G.B. Shaw with worldviews diametrically and militantly opposed to Chesterton’s thought of him as a friend, and a dear one.

Cultural change and language mutation—the products of time passing—will eventually force most names into the choking mists of history, but the name of Chesterton should not disappear into that ancient fog uncontested. His perspective was unique and truly valuable to Christians. He brought mirth to the Gospel and joy to Orthodoxy—two traits that need a good dusting in Christian literature.

R. Eric Tippin
Tippin Dental Group Staff Lounge
May 3, 2012

[1] Ward, Maisie (2007-12-28). Gilbert Keith Chesterton (Sheed & Ward Classic). Oak Grove. Kindle Edition. 

[2] Chesterton, G. K. (Gilbert Keith) (2009-10-04). Orthodoxy. Public Domain Books. Kindle Edition. 

There is a new website that allows anyone to sell their intellectual property; it's called Gumroad. I have set up one of these pages and am selling creative knickknacks for (what I define as) reasonable prices. Please check it out.

HERE

but not here

Applewood Lane, Newton, Kansas
March 3, 2012

Dear Mr. President,

            It may or may not have come to your attention that it is ‘all the rage’ to send you an open letter with a petition of signatures attached. I have my theories on why this might be: to save the forty-five cents on postage, to save the secret service the trouble and paper cuts involved in opening traditional envelopes or—just maybe—to let the nosey among us have a peek at the esoteric world of presidential correspondence.  In any case, I will not be the one to buck the new social trend, so here is my open letter and petition.

            How is the weather up there in DC? Are the allergens out already like they are here? Do you have allergies? Does acupuncture work in treating them? I’m too cheap to try myself, and anyway, I am too much of a detail person to go in for holistic healing. Kansas is normally quite cold around this time, complete with the occasional icicle and snowfall, but this year has been different. February brought sultry days in place of snowy days; it almost feels like spring. I am hoping all the evil little insects that plague Kansas summers think, “Gee, It must be May already; let’s hatch!” and then the freeze of the century hits us. Please don’t tell my mother about this plan of mine. The collateral damage would reach to flowers, and I don’t think she could bear it. Now that I think of it, don’t tell the bees either.

            I bet you have some large televisions in the White House. Do you know who loses with these sixty-six and seventy-two inch screens? Entertainment centers; they are useless nowadays. My wife and I have to limit our TV to thirty-five inches—I know; I know, what a tragedy—because of this monstrous, beautiful relic of the eighties filling a sixth of our entire apartment. The way I see it, we have three options: hold out for square televisions to come back in, burn the entertainment center or write a letter of sympathy to the guy or gal who invented them in the first place, because I would guess his or her royalty check is shrinking rapidly every month. I suppose we could sell it. Hey! Are you looking for an entertainment center?

            You do a lot of traveling, do you not? Here is my question: how do you deal with all the jetlag? I just finished a biography of Mr. Churchill in which he seemed to be flying around the world on a weekly basis, at least during the war years; there was no mention of jetlag. Do presidents and prime ministers just have naturally strong constitutions—pun intended—or is there a wonder-pill you are keeping off the market? If so, that is fine by me. Jetlag has its advantages long after its effects wear off: “What was that, honey? Be a server for the Ladies Easter Tea Luncheon Extravaganza at church this Saturday morning? Oh, you know I’d love to, but this jetlag really has me beat down; I think I need more sleep, yeah, or more golf.”

            I really shouldn’t hold you up any longer from your presidential duties. Give all the best to your family, and tell Michael Jordan the next time you see him that he is not forgotten; I still buy Hanes® underwear to this day because of him.

Sincerely,
R. Eric Tippin

P.S. My petition is below. I got my wife to sign it, but I didn’t really want to leave the apartment this morning ask anyone else.

Petition from Robert Eric Tippin to President Obama

-R. Eric Tippin

-Heather Tippin

Today I pause and bless the Roman Catholic Church for a blessing it has given me. I should really say a Roman Catholic Church. It stands the midst of the local downtown, stretching its single shingled limb toward heaven every day of the year, reminding each passerby that the God of the heavens made his home among men.

It is a beautiful church, much more elegant and grand than any of its protestant sisters scattered around town. No doubt, their insides are filled with the beauty of truth and sound doctrine, but the very structure of St. Mary’s Catholic Church reflects the elegance of Christ’s bride. No other building downtown can match it. Cloudy days make all the other flat dirty-brick Main Street buildings look like dreary Atheists lining the street, but St. Mary’s stands tall, striking and strong, inviting storms—devil-conjured or otherwise—in the knowledge that the church will prevail.

It is a symbol of strength. The very word, “Catholic” brings to the imagination visions of vast and unordered peasant armies marching on the holy land, cross bearing knights and colossal cathedrals under construction for five hundred years. This is not a defense of the crusades or a praise of great church building projects. Antiquity’s crusaders and architects’ energy was tragically misdirected, but no one can deny the incredible volume and intensity of that energy. We castigate crusaders, but what do we replace the crusades with? Youth programs? Annual Christmas Cantatas? Is the same ardor put into our Sunday singing as they put in stain glass and sword swinging? Those questions are not rhetorical, and the answer may very well be yes.

At its core, my delight in our downtown Catholic Church is an aesthetic one, which may be scoffed at as weak and ‘surfacy’, but the beauty of Christ is never weak. It is substantive, radiating and even terrible at times when compared to our finite imperfections. I can and will be thankful for anything that reflects that radiance, so today I thank Saint Mary’s. The Council of Trent and sundry other traditions and edicts separate us. I may never cross the threshold of St. Mary’s, but I cannot help blessing the grandeur of its steeple, statues and brick: reflections of the Grandeur of God.

R. Eric Tippin
At Tippin Dental Group Newton, KS
February 21, 2012

This is the second part (you can find the first part here but not here) of a story called "The Mystery of the Lost Child" involving two close friends and amateur detectives named Edward Door and Jacob Edwards living in a tiny seaside village. 

 To read "The Mystery of the Lost Child, Part 1" click here but not here.

To read, "The Mystery of the Tossed Child" click here but not here.

     Seven o’clock sharp! The little church doors open and six people file in for the open house soon to take place. Let us observe them as they pass the holy threshold. The first to go by is a man with a precious few hairs on his head. A great rubbing of that shiny and barren land just above his face gives evidence to his consciousness of this shortage. Seeing the new pastor at the door greeting him with a friendly word and a full head of hair, this man immediately dislikes him as one given to putting on heirs, due to his vain and prideful habit of having a low hairline. Then again, the strong wrinkled jealousy betraying itself on this bald man’s face could have a deeper source. The pastor’s kind greeting is met with a “humph!” and two or three head-rubs. Next, two people enter, a short, aged woman and a lanky man of thirty five, looking much like a long train that is constantly jerking to a stop and then starting again with another jerk. The man’s demeanor also gives the impression that he has not yet flown his mother’s coop. But it is hard for the young pastor to even notice the presence of the man, for the aura of the tiny ancient matriarch dwarfs her awkwardly moving companion. Her face shows the clear understanding that very soon a ship will be named after her, and a grand ship it will be. She glides into the room in a whirl, giving the pastor a withering glance, and before he has a chance to greet her says to him with a royal flourish,

            “You are very welcome, young man. Patronage makes great art! Let us go, Arthur! Move!”

            “Y-Yes mother.” the son blurts out and jolts forward, closely followed by the grand woman, floating rather than walking down the isle, lapping every pew with her wake.

            Now two men come in, but what is this? Jacob Edwards and Edward Door step across the threshold! Their chins are up defiantly; their eyes are forward, and their foreheads are only slightly wrinkled, betraying an embarrassment, apparently at being in a church. They initially planned a boycott of the town’s new place of worship, but after long discussion they both decided that, in the name of tolerance, they would give the new pastor and his wife the privilege of their presence, for fifteen minutes. They respond to the pastor’s warm welcome with a breathy, “Mmm Hmm.”

            Finally, right behind our two detectives, a man sweeps in whom no one in the church recognizes. He is clean cut, with a well-trimmed beard, crow-black hair greased and combed back in waves. We could almost call him handsome, almost. Certainly, if hygiene is the basis of good appearance, he passes the test, but each person has an aura, and his is particularly hard to pinpoint. Nothing in his expression signifies activity behind it, and only one quirk stands out to the young greeting pastor: his lips. They are pursed to the point of pale whiteness, and seem to be trying to hide themselves and possibly something else. But in the spirit of Christian charity, the clergyman puts out his hand and says cheerfully,

            “Welcome. I’m glad you’ve come.”

            “Hm” is the only answer, and the hygienic enigma sweeps down the isle and turns into the second row on the right, right next to Jacob and Edward.

            “And now that we are all seated” began the young pastor after the company was seated and situated, “I’d like to formally welcome you—on behalf of my lovely wife Carol, and our eight boys (I won’t name them all, don’t worry)—to Saint Stephen’s Church.” At this, he pointed to the front row where his smiling wife and eight happy little boys sat in a line, largest to smallest, with the very smallest—a rosy-cheeked infant—in a little wooden cradle next to the pastor’s wife at the end of the row. At being pointed out, the boys twisted their faces into embarrassed half smiles and, needing to release the awkward tension, began hitting each other on the arm. “My name is William, and . . .”

            “Are you quite finished!” came a roaring voice from the third row. The grand lady cruiser had stood up, squared her shoulders and with gusto blasted out this inquiry.

            “M-Mother, please, let the nice man talk.” Her son jolted out, much louder than he expected to.

            “Talk talk talk, my dear boy! This government does nothing but talk. Words words words! Give me action. Suffrage!” Her last word came out like the blowing of a great foghorn of the vessel she envisioned her name painted upon.

“Oh dear . . . ouch.” Said the son, as his foot involuntarily kicked the pew in front of him.

            “Get him!” These words seemed to be directed at her son, but her finger was aiming straight at the young pastor standing in front of them. “Charge! Blast the bad man for his bald-faced calumny!” She began moving toward the pastor, like an angry ship’s figurehead with a finger thrust at the clergyman’s heart.

            “S-s-stop her, please” the young man choked out.

            “I say,” said Edward, looking concerned.

            “Baffling behavior,” said Jacob with exactly the same expression.

            “Throw him out of the nearest window! Whoop!” the grand lady proclaimed.

            The young pastor had a confused and slightly bemused expression on his face; the nearly bald man was rubbing his head furiously and looking uncomfortably at the pastor’s wife, and the eight boys, enjoying the uproar, joined in with their own shouts, laughter and foot-stomping. But the clean-cut man with good hygiene sat quietly, not moving, only watching, pursing his lips.

            The lady cruiser now began to chug toward the pastor with her great gun-of-a-mouth blazing in his direction. Her son now seemed paralyzed, and only sat in his seat, twitching and saying over and over, “Oh d-dear, stop m-mother  . . .” Edward and Jacob jumped up and tried to hold the indomitable woman back.

            Then, without warning, the nearly-bald man leapt from his seat and rushed to the pastor’s young wife, got down on one knee and in a desperate and pleading voice blurted out, “Oh, Carol, Carol! As I have sat in my pew, my heart and my brain have battled inside me. What fiery arrows have passed between them, leaving me helplessly wounded by their swift action? What shall I say? My hearts’ arrows were the straighter and hotter. They burn for you, oh but with such maddening warmth and fury. Marry me, Carol, Marry me! I watched you every day on the campus of King’s College ten years ago and loved you. Oh how I loved you! But still I held my peace. A curse on my heart for its cowardice! But now I break those bonds. Today I snap those fetters! Marry me, governess of my heart, my desire and my destiny, ma—rry—me!” Carol stood stunned, mouth slightly open, and without a word, she retreated behind her husband.

            “Dear?” the young pastor said in a voice of forced calm.

            “I don’t know,” was all she could force out. By now, the noise in small room was incredible. The grand lady was still yelling, “Throw him out the window! Whoop!” Her son now seemed completely deprived of control outside of twitching and blurting unintelligible words. The bald headed man’s protestations of love continued to flow unchecked; the seven non-infant boys were enjoying the clamor so much, they felt compelled to join in; and every now and then the post modern detectives could be heard saying, “Gracious!” and “What behavior!” and something about writing the pope a letter.

            Then, above the mad din rose a curious sound: that of a small bell being rung. Instantly the grand lady stopped struggling and whooping; her son ceased twitching and the nearly bald man stood up, quiet as a windless sea. The only noise now was the seven boys still laughing and whistling, but they soon caught the new mood and stifled their merriment. The young pastor looked confusedly around for the source of the miraculous calming ring. Then he saw it. The black-haired, hygienic man had stood up and was smiling—rather wickedly he thought—ringing a tiny golden bell with two fingers of his right hand. When he saw that all was silent, he stopped ringing and set the bell on the pew next to him gingerly. He stood up, finally un-pursed his lips and smiled. At once it became evident why the gates of his mouth had been so tightly shut. His teeth were brown, twisted and rotting like ancient, broken termite-infested slats of a fence no longer blocking the view to a now abandoned and overgrown yard. Instantly, his questionable aura was explained and his hygienic façade stripped away.

            “Bravo, bravo, wonderful stuff. Well done everyone; you can go,” he said.

            “Excuse me?” the young pastor almost yelled in confusion. Without heeding him the black-haired man directed the Lady, her son, and the bald-haired man toward him, handed them each a white envelope and sent them out the back door.

            “Ahem, now” the dark-haired stranger began again, turning to the baffled group near the front of the church, “You’re probably wondering who I am. Well, if you must know, I’m a criminal, and my name is Dr. Bennie Champion.” A gasp came from the two detectives.

            “You clean up very well, sir. You are unrecognizable,” said Edward.

            “Truly amazing what a shower and a shave will do,” put in Jacob.

            “Though, those teeth could us a good brushing!” said Edward.

            “I couldn’t have said it better myself, Edward. I’d advise him to brush them,” said Jacob.

            “Shut up!” Dr. Champion yelled, “You two are pathetic. Now,” he began again, addressing the whole company. Everyone, even the seven little boys were facing him now, listening incredulously to this madman. “You’re also probably wondering what in the world just happened. I believe every crime should have a surreal feeling, a mystic aura. In making the whole thing fantastic it distracts the victims from their moral judgments on the situation, puts them in a walking dream, if you will.”

            “I’d rather not,” Jacob muttered under his breath; Edward chuckled under his. Dr. Champion did not hear this and continued his monologue.

             “And we all know our consciences and our moral sensibilities are much weaker in dreams. For in dreams we sleep with that woman we wouldn’t dare touch in our waking moments. Without a qualm we kill that neighbor who keeps us up at night with their music. We jump off of skyscrapers without a thought about the evils of suicide. In short, I wanted this memory to have blurred edges, so I hired those wonderful actors, and didn’t they do a great job? Huh?! Worth every penny, oh, let’s clap once for them, come on, join me.” Dr. Champion gave a loud round of applause. No one joined in. “Well you’re all no fun. Anyway, on to the crime! I’ve decided to kill one of your children,” he said, looking directly at the pastor and his wife. She blanched and rushed to the little boys sitting in the front row, gathering them to her. The young pastor stepped between his family and Dr. Champion.

            “Over my dead . . .”

            “You’ve forgotten one,” the black-haired villain almost whispered.

            “William! the baby,” the pastor’s wife said frantically, rushing to the cradle at the front of the church.

            “No need to look; he’s gone.” Dr. Champion said matter-of-factly, “Oh, don’t cry like that, Carol. At least wait until I leave. It’ll just make me want to kill you too, which would ruin my plans for this evening. That’s better. Now, as to why I am committing this act (you would call it a crime or a sin, such arbitrary words) I can only say this: if God is dead, and I think he is or always has been, no one can tell me that any act is right or wrong, so I’m killing your child, that is, unless you can find him. You have . . .” Here he looked at his bare wrist like there was a watch there, “Eleven minutes to find him and save him from a terrible death.” Here he paused, soaking up the fear in the room, “Aaaaand go,” he laughed a terrible piercing laugh, spit, turned and walked out of the church.

            “Oh God, help us!” Said the pastor, going over to his wife, letting her burry her head in his shoulder. The seven little boys turned around and looked at the empty cradle, and then at their parents, still confused.

            “There they go again, Edward.”

            “I heard it too, Jacob.”

            “We’re sitting right here, two detectives with a history of finding lost—or in our case tossed—children, and they ask God for help,” said Jacob.

            “Shocking” said Edward. The Pastor’s wife, hearing this, lifted her head out of her husband’s comforting shoulder and with wide eyes looked at the two detectives.
            “Oh! Thank the LORD! Will you help us? Oh please, I beg you.”

            “But of course we will, good lady!” Edward said.

            “Hurry please!” said the young pastor.

            “With all speed!” Said Jacob.

            “All speed!” said Edward, “We just need you to answer a quick question.”

            “Anything, anything!” said the pastor’s wife.

            “How old is the child?” said Edward.

            “One year old yesterday, why?”

            “Oh, that is unfortunate,” replied Edward.

            “Quite,” said Jacob. “I would feel much more fulfilled saving a child with more worth to society. If only he were more developed! Even if he were two, he would have a two hundred-word vocabulary and sundry motor-skills that would make him a little less dependent and more worth saving for his own sake.”

            “Well said, Jacob!” said Edward, but seeing shocked and angry expressions on the faces of stolen infant’s parents he said quickly, “Of course we can’t believe in the intrinsic value of human life. That would mean having to defend it at every stage of development, even in the womb! Worst of all, it would force us to believe in a value giver—a higher power, if you will.”

            “I’d rather not,” replied Jacob, and they both laughed—it was more like a giggle.

            The look of righteous anger on the face of the young pastor toward the two post-modern detectives was withering. He moved his wife aside slowly and began walking toward the two men, his eyes wide and his face blazing red.

            “You uncourteous, inconsiderate fools! Don’t you see? Your pathetic worldview is putting a child’s life in danger right now. My child’s life! I’m no utilitarian, but right now you have a choice: save a child, or save your own weak theory of human value. If you choose the latter over the former, it will confirm in my mind that I am standing in front of two of the most morally dead individuals I’ve ever encountered. So what’s it going to be? My child, or your theory?”

            The room fell silent. All that could be heard were the muffled sobs of the pastor’s wife and fidgeting from the seven little boys who were in shock at seeing their father so angry. The detectives’ faces were two churning seas conflict at the dilemma placed before them. Finally, Jacob spoke.

            “Well said, pastor. Wasn’t it well said, Edward?”

            “It was! Splendid. And I believe our theories can be put on hold for the good of these lovely people, wouldn’t you say Jacob? I’ll take that nod as a “yes.” Shall we put on our metaphorical detective hats again and catch ourselves a knavish killer, even though we must reject our post-modern mindset to do so, Jacob?”

            “Indeed, indeed!” Edward said, nodding furiously.

            “Then there’s naught to do but solve this mystery, and quickly!” said Jacob.

 . . . to be continued

-Eric Tippin
On Appewood Lane Newton, Kansas
January 30, 2012 

      We had almost crossed the great Atlantic; the sun was coming up over the south of England, and when we looked out our tiny airplane windows at that new British morning dawning, we saw snow snow snow. It paved the roads, sat like icing on the roofs of what looked like little gingerbread houses and gave the trees a full head of white wet hair. It was a rare storm for that part of the country, and though the scene from above was serene and pastoral, chaos reigned on the ground. In spite of the fact that government spending on public works was at an all-time high in the UK, the men and women of the circumlocution office --though very involved in progressively seeking new ways in which to spend the public’s money and new paperwork to draft in order to spend that money--had not foreseen a snowstorm on January 6-7, 2010.

            The beautiful London Heathrow Airport terminal four, with its state-of-the-art design and accommodations, was piled with unsorted bags from delayed planes and crawling with angry internationals just trying to find out whether their flight would leave soon. I stood there in the midst of it with a green Banana Republic wool sweater I had worn for about twenty-four hours now and my little computer bag slung over my shoulder, very overwhelmed. I needed to get to Manchester, but--as I found out soon--there was no hope of flying there, and to leave the airport would be to leave my checked bag and to step out into London: the huge, muddy, polluted—and now snowy old-world city of Wilberforce, Dickens, Doyle and Churchill.

            The first thing I purposed to do was to locate and secure my checked bag. Making my way down an escalator to the baggage claim, I stood in a line for thirty minutes only to be redirected to another line, in which I stood patiently for another thirty minutes. Having reached the end of this line, I asked in a weary, but hopeful voice,

             “I’d like to know how I can find my bag; I just flew in from Houston, Texas on BA---7, and I can’t seem to find it in any of these claims.” The equally weary British Airways employee smiled and said something that gave me a glimpse at how near the situation was to complete anarchy,

            “You can have it if you can find it.” He pointed to a pile of luggage: duffels, rollers, and backpacks of all colors forming a mountain in the middle of the room. Maybe I should call it a volcano, for it was rising from the floor to greater and greater heights, as molten suitcases flowed down its sides and cooled in the ocean of onlookers surrounding it. “Aghast” is an old word, but it’s a good one, because I felt it’s full context in that moment. All order in Heathrow Airport seemed to be gone; my green Banana Republic wool sweater was getting itchy, and my suitcase was part of a bad volcano metaphor.

            Now, to save me the trouble of having to write it, and you the torture of having to read it, I will not here recount every detail of the next two days, but will give it to you in snapshots: Up to the main terminal full of hope, directed to a line that took two hours to get through, at the end of this line redirected to three hour line, itchy sweater, thousands of people, various languages all being yelled at frazzled airline employees, I purpose to enjoy this adventure, sleeping mats handed out, sleep depravation sets in, three hours sleep and a sandwich, morning at Heathrow full of hope, itchy sweater, four hour line, no flight, no bag, three hour line, no flight, no bag, still having fun, see a monk in full gear, itchy sweater, meet a nice Vodafone employee, meet a supermodel (not impressed), translate some French for a man in a turban (not much), no flight, no bag, sleeping mats handed out, sleep depravation x 3, itchy sweater, no flight, no bag, in desperation call English friend James Martin.

            I hope that felt like a flurry to you, because the reality it represents sure did to me. But the last event of the sleepless storm of events—the call to James Martin—was like the morning after a long night. James was a classmate of mine from Capernwray Hall—the school I was trying to get to—and a native of England. He lived nearer to London than anyone I knew, and as soon as I got his number, I dialed him using Skype credit on my MacBook, listened to the silly British ring sound and waited,

            “Hello”

            “James? Hey man, it’s Eric Tippin.

            “Eric! Hello mate, how’s it going?”

            “Well . . . I’m stuck at Heathrow. I’ve been here for a couple days.”

            “Right, okay, I’m here with some other people from school. Meet me at Victoria underground station at midnight. It closes then, so you better leave now.” (It was 11:30 p.m.)

            “Oh, wow! How do I get there? Is there a map?”

            “Yeah yeah, just get a ticket and follow the lines to Victoria. I’ll be waiting for you.”

            “Thank so much, man.”

            “See you soon, mate.”

            I stuffed my computer in my bag, slung it over my shoulder, ran down stairs, and just like that I was off. I had never been in the Underground alone before, and anyone acquainted with the labyrinthine system of lines, crossed lines and constant line closings due to construction, will understand that I was somewhat worried. But my determination and the thought of a friendly face at the end of my journey fortified my spirits. I knew that I was running against the clock, and if I were to take the wrong train, or miss a connection I may be stranded somewhere in the middle of London on a snowy, cold winter night with only an itchy green Banana Republic wool sweater to keep me warm. But with every stop, Victoria Station neared until I heard that wonderful British underground announcer lady say, “Next stop: Victoria Station.” I stepped out of the train and made my way up to a bench near the entrance to wait for James.

            In the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, Jesus tells the terrifying parable of the sheep and the goats, and in it he invites those on his right to come into his kingdom, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me . . . whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me’”

            At that moment, at midnight on a bench in Victoria Station shivering and hungry, sat “one of the least of these” in a green itchy thin sweater. And that night James Martin lived out his faith like Jesus commanded all of us to do. When he got there, he took my bag, gave me his coat, listened to my pathetic story and took me to a warm place to stay with friends from school. I have not felt the love of Jesus more directly than I did that night. James lived his faith without thought for his own convenience or plans, and I was the fortunate recipient. Just like his savior, he rescued me from a situation I had no power to fix, and that’s the gospel.

            My suitcase escaped the volcano metaphor and found me two and a half weeks later at Capernwray Hall in the North of England. I’ve forgotten now the things I so missed in it for those weeks, but I cannot forget the witness James Martin showed that night in London, or in his passionate Christian life lived every day at school. Let us hope, that when the opportunity presents itself to us, we won’t neglect our calling to offer help to our brothers and sisters, for, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these . . . you did it for me.”

-Eric Tippin
On Applewood Lane in Newton, KS
November 8, 2011

         Note: This is the second story involving two close friends and detectives named Edward Door and Jacob Edwards living in tiny seaside village filled with overly idealistic and intellectual people. These stories test Jacob and Edward’s idealism and post-modern worldview. The first of these short stories, “The Mystery of the Tossed Child” can be found here but not here. Though the story below can be understood as an independent short story, it would help to read the first one, found here but not here.

            Has winter crept up behind our little town and assailed it? Is Father Frost breathing down its neck? Has the mud of the street hardened, no longer spreading its proverbial wild oats onto every shoe and rug? Have homemade wreathes been cut, twisted, tied, adorned and hung on every door? Are friendly greetings between residents accompanied with a puff of momentary fog from blue lips?  Does smoke float lazily from eight little, oddly shaped chimneys? Is the occasional glass of piping cider drunk, its steam reddening the drinkers smiling cheeks? Yes, yes. But all is not well in the row of houses by the sea. An occurrence has shaken the postmodern residents, so that, even in this season of joy, dark whispers are heard on the street corners, and lowered voices haunt the fireside of the little inn at night. A young pastor has moved into the community and has built a church,

            “A church, I tell you” Edward Door exclaimed to his friend and companion, Jacob Edwards as they both sipped cider from steaming mugs at a back corner table in the cozy little inn next to their house, “And what will be next? Hmm? . . . Truth? Ha! I laugh at that, Jacob. Do you laugh at it?”

            “I do indeed Edward, Ha! But it’s not just the church that vexes me or even the young clergyman—though I am quite vexed by him, yes I surely am, no need to look worried, Edward; he vexes me, he does—it’s those eight urchin boys he brought with him.” He wrinkled up his pointy nose like a child would after being told to take out a particularly smelly bag of trash; Edward did the same. “I heard he took them in off the street—parentless, all of them.”

            “As did I!” put in Edward.

             “And he expects to live with all of them in that pathetically typical-looking church he stained our community with? Really! And that poor young wife of his, do you know, Edward, she doesn’t work, not at all. Oh of course they say she looks after the eight orphans, schooling bathing and feeding them, but I call that oppression, not a profession.”

            “Oh ho ho, wonderful stuff, Jacob. Keep it up.” Edward encouraged excitedly.

            “She positively has no profession, whatsoever; that’s what I say. She has to sacrifice a real job and real success to raise children, Edward, children!”

            “I believe it’s an impossibility for me to agree with you more, Jacob. No, I’ve thought about it; it is impossible. A woman should be able to have an honorable profession, a noble calling if you will, not raising loud, runny-nosed puerile little people. I won’t call it a career or a profession, Jacob. I refuse.”

            “That’s good of you, Edward.”

            “And what if she likes runny-nosed puerile little people?”

            Jacob and Edward jumped. The person who had just spoken was a woman standing next to their table smiling brightly and holding the hand of a small curly-headed boy hugging her knee with one arm and trying to ward off another small boy—slightly bigger than him—with the other. The woman was young, not over thirty, and though not divinely beautiful; she was bright-eyed with a cheerful, benevolent glow about her. She wore a simple outfit of inexpensive clothes: not the simplicity of hurry and negligence, but the simplicity that makes one think that she is a very industrious and prudent woman. Her brown hair was pulled up on her head, and she wore a blue bow in it. Her face was of the same good simplicity as her clothes, but with an added rosiness.

            “I beg your pardon, ma’am?” said Edward.

            “I’d like to beg it too” said Jacob.

            “I said” the woman replied in a wonderfully knowing and happy way, “I like taking care of these dear boys.”

            “An’ we like her” said the curly headed boy, matter-of-factly, “and candy.”

            “Thank you darling! And I believe I have the most noble profession in the world: motherhood.”

            A red tint had made its way into the cheeks of Jacob and Edward, not like that of the woman’s cheery glow, but the type that indicates embarrassment and the overwhelming feeling of being very silly at the moment.

            “Ah, yes, well uh ‘to each his’ er . . . I, I mean ‘to her,’ emmm—oh dear--their own, yes, ‘to each their own,’ you know. ”

            As Edward stumbled his way through this pathetically meaningless proverb, Jacob nodded furiously, first at Edward, and then at the woman, hoping to bolster his friend’s point with nonverbal positive reinforcement. To this demonstration the woman only laughed and said good-naturedly,

            “I presume you two are the detectives!”

            The two men’s faces now showed surprise and a hint of smugness. Edward waved off the woman’s recognition with one hand and said with an ill-disguised flippancy, “Oh that . . . you’ve heard of our little exploit? Well, that does embarrass me terribly. Does it you, Jacob?”

            “Terribly.”

            “We’ve all read it in the papers,” laughed the young woman, “Come on, no need to be shy about it. It’s a wonderful story—that poor child left in a closet; thank the LORD she wasn’t really thrown over that cliff. It’s obvious you both have incredible minds for reasoning.”

            Even redder in the face than before—though a more embarrassed shade—the two men simultaneously took over-zealous drinks of their cider and left little golden droplets on their chins.

            “There they go again, Edward.”

            “I heard it too, Jacob.”

            “I thought we had risen above the level of reasoning on a balloon filled with the warm vapors of skepticism and relativism,”

            “What a beautiful metaphor, Edward. Really uplifting.”

            “Why, thank you, Jacob. It came to me as wind through the Aeolian harp.”

            Now the two detectives turned to the woman.

            “My lady” they started simultaneously, stopped and immediately deferred to the other to speak, while wondering secretly to themselves whether it had been appropriate to call a pastor’s wife ‘my lady,’ and indeed whether it would have been much more proper to called her ‘my good lady’ or better yet just, ‘good lady’ leaving out the cumbersome—and possibly misconstrued—possessive pronoun, ‘my.’ This parallel thought process created and awkward silence, which the young woman graciously filled.

            “I am sorry to have offended you. I only meant to compliment you on your detective work, and . . .”

            “We would prefer ‘post modern detective’ work, good lady” interrupted Jacob; Edward nodded.

            Smiling, she went on, “Oh! of course, post-modern detective work it is! Anyway, we are having an open house at the church this evening, if you two would like to come. The boys’ll perform a couple songs we’ve taught them, and then cookies and coffee for all. It would be wonderful to have you there, the post-modern detectives of the town!”

            “We would now prefer to be called the PMDs, if you please.” said Jacob

            “Yes quite! We would.” put in Edward, still nodding.

            “Well then, I formally invite you, the PMDs of this village, to the Church’s open house and hope to see you there, seven o’clock sharp! ” The woman gathered up her young charges now wrestling at her feet, tightened her red scarf and was out the door and in the chilly winter air before the PMDs even had a chance to think,

            “And we formally reject your invitation, humph.”

            Now, let us leave this scene and walk down the street from the little inn with its close musty air and tangible cheer and, turning left, make our way down the crescent-shaped street of the village to the last house, slightly detached from the rest. But what’s this? Darkness hangs about its misshapen door and dirty windows. This house is indeed incredibly built like its neighbors but its aspect—rather than being invitingly silly or absurdly quaint—is grim, without humor. It is built into a small hill that rises in that part of the wood, and only its front and two small windows can be seen before the gaping mouth dug out of the ground swallows the rest of it.

            Inside this forbidding house sits Dr. Bennie Champion—a wheezing, hacking, dirty, scowling man—on his favorite stool in the darkest corner of his grime-smeared hut. If nature’s laws allowed for the heart of a man to fill the room it occupied with a color representing that heart’s condition, the room we are now observing would be filled with tar blackness consuming the weak fire in the grate and sliding out like coal smoke from the crack between the window and the wall. But because of matter’s indifference to the evil or good occupying it, we can see the twisted expression on his long face. He probably had a trimmed mustache or a goatee at one time, but now an unkempt beard hides the permanent frown lines surrounding his tightened lips, which, in turn, hide a rotted and putrid mouth always ready to spout hate and violence to mankind.

            I suppose a non-advanced and pathetically old-fashioned community would question such a character living among them, and the smells surrounding him, but absolute tolerance is their policy—though the young pastor’s advent has tested this resolve to its limit. But Dr. B. Champion has simmered in his vices uninhibited for the entire existence of the odd little village. When citizens of the hamlet hear Dr. Champion muttering things like, “I’ll take her liver” or “he must go out the window; blood blood,” they merely smile and marvel at the beauty of the inner workings of an obviously brilliant mind expressing itself in such a raw and honest way.

            So there he sits upon his stool, a withered and terrible sight. Let us not make the mistake of thinking he is mentally unstable, for he may be the most stable of his entire village; but hush now! He speaks,

            “The madman said that god is dead; so no one’s watching me. Ha! He’s gone gone gone. Dead, stabbed, bleeding rotten stinking gone, and no one’s is watching me. I’m a dirty speck in this ridiculous universe: a ridiculous stupid senseless silly speck of dust. No one is watching me!” Suddenly a mangy rat bolted across the room, seemingly frantic to get away from having to hear this pathetic monologue. Dr. Bennie screamed, grabbed a book lying open next to his stool and flung it at the creature; he missed, cursed and yelled, “You’re not sentient! You don’t count!” He sat back on his stool roughly and now seemed to address his statements to the rat he so recently tried to kill, “They all believe it too, don’t they. This life is meaningless; I’m like you, you flee-bitten bubonic low-life, dust, dust . . . But here’s the real question: what to do?” His tightened lips relaxed and formed a malignant smile. “The young pastor, oh filleting or skewering him would shake things up. His wife would make better company though.” Now he broke into a weak laugh that ended in a bout of violent coughing, “Then again, why not just go for his precious orphans, start small. Reduce the world’s population, one urchin at a time. It’s unsustainable, right? Right?! I’m doing nature a favor. You’re welcome!” more uncontrolled laughing and coughing, “It’s settled, then. You hear that, rat? No one is watching; I feel no fright, so I will kill an orphan tonight!” With this burst of verse, he pulled himself up off of his stool, God-like, and stalked out his door into the gathering darkness.

  . . . to be continued

-Eric Tippin
In my wife's chair on Applewood Ln. Newton, KS
November 5, 2011 

     I will begin by setting out an alternate and discarded title for this essay: “Andrew Peterson: the Meekest Guy on Stage, the Coolest Guy in the Room.” There are two reasons I didn’t chose this title as the official title: One, it’s too long. A preacher from Windermere, England I heard once said this about titles, “I never have titles to my messages; I never give titles. I just splather on.” I thought that was insightful. If one is to “splather on” let him do it in a sermon and not in a title. This leads us to my second reason for not choosing my alternate title: it gives away too much of what I want to say in this essay. Newspaper titles do that, such as, “Weather Gets Very Hot” or “Stocks, Snow Fall in New York.” Children’s book titles do that. A Story called “Jimmy Gets a New Bed” usually involves Jimmy getting a new bed and maybe some dialogue between Jimmy and his mother, nothing else. Essays' titles shouldn’t do that. So I chose the simple, “Andrew Peterson,” and I’m glad I did.

            I had the opportunity to have coffee with Mr. Andrew Peterson—the musician, singer, writer, and storyteller—on December 12, 2010. I am a large fan of his music and the essays he writes on The Rabbit Room. To see/listen to a sample click here, or here or here but not here. We were set to have coffee before a show he was playing in Topeka, Kansas that night. I drove to the appointed church and was greeted by his manager, who ushered me into the presence. I shook hands with him and said in a polite and casual way, “It’s a great honor to meet you, Mr. Peterson.” He made a joke about how silly it was to be honored to meet him and we were off to Starbucks with a couple of his friends. I wouldn’t call Andrew Peterson, uber-successful; of course I hope I never use the word “uber” to describe anyone. But as success goes, he was the most successful of our company of four going to Starbucks. It’s impossible to tell whether it was caused by this success or some force of character in him, but all the way to Starbucks, in Starbucks and on our way back from Starbucks, no matter who was talking, that person was talking to Mr. Peterson. And when he was talking, it seemed more profound because of the attention his words were receiving from the company, and not necessarily because of the quality of those words.

            I think that Andrew Peterson suffers from something I like to call, “Coolest Guy in the Room Syndrome” (CGITRS for short). Our current president suffers under its weight, as did Steve McQueen and Bing Crosby. This was the last thing I expected to encounter in the man I thought of—from my experience of him on stage—as a “humble, somewhat bumbling meek nerd.” But he was no meek nerd; he had control of the situation. I even remember thinking his jacket was cool. Now CGITRS can be used for good or ill. The immediate elevation of status it gives the ailing person may well be abused by over-talking, priggishness or silly looking sunglasses. But Andrew Peterson did not talk too much; he wasn’t priggish, and had no sunglasses on—though that jacket was right on. In fact, he spent most of the conversation listening. When he talked, he spoke graciously and clearly. The only indication I had that his CGITRS was affecting him was when he used the phrase, “my art” referring to his music and writing. That irked me, but I just told myself, “it’s the disease talking, Eric; it’s not him.”

            What did we talk about at Starbucks? Literature, former members of Caedmon’s Call, R.C. Sproul (who, I fear, is sadly misunderstood by Mr. Peterson), R.C. Sproul Jr. (who Mr. Peterson misunderstands much less), predestination and God’s love. At one point when I made a comment about how my older brother must have received all the quality DNA my parents had to give, he said, “that sounds like my brother and me!” What did he order? I think it was a tall white chocolate mocha, but don’t quote me on that, that is, unless you cite it properly.

            We returned to the church and Mr. Peterson kindly invited me to eat with the band and crew, though adding, “I’m not going to babysit you.” At this I said to myself, “Babysit? I just traveled Europe, fool! ” But then it became clear, by “I’m not going to babysit you” he meant, “you got your time with me.” I was being silly and vain and he was being a good capitalist. I had paid for the time, and anything more was metaphorical icing. I didn’t talk to Mr. Peterson any more that night, except to thank him, but I sat at his table during dinner. All my suspicions that he was infected with CGITRS were confirmed. He was surrounded by good friends and admirers alike who laughed heartily at every joke he told, granted, they were pretty funny. The last picture I have in my mind of the scene is him leaning back in his chair laughing, Ben Shive on his right, Andy Gullahorn on his left, and a meek roadie standing behind him waiting to have a question answered about the show that night.

            Yes, Mr. Peterson suffers from Coolest Guy in the Room Syndrome (CGITRS for short), but he’s no worse for it. He has what so many men his age lack, a solid group of close friends. What surprised me most was that he was their leader, like Tom Sawyer to his band of robbers or James Steerforth to the boys of Salem House in David Copperfield. But he is not more vain than is normal for a human. In fact, I would venture to say he is less. So when you see the humble, somewhat bumbling meek nerd on stage, you can rest assured that he is at least humble.

-Eric Tippin
On Applewood Lane in Newton, Kansas
August 20, 2011

The famous Joshua Slocum—1844-circa 1909 (lost at sea)—sailed around the world alone in his sloop, “The Spray.”  Then he wrote a book about it called, Sailing Alone Around the World. It tells of his adventures in the course of this trip: running from pirates in the Red Sea, running from natives off of Chile, running from great squalls, running from a great whale that unknowingly presented a great risk to his little ship, and singing his lonesome away on the open sea.

Had I read this book before I traveled to Crete, I would have thought of Captain Slocum on the twenty-second of March, 2010 on which my friend and I took a hike to the Mediterranean Sea. The trek began at Gouverneto Monastery, situated on the heights, and surrounded by rocky hills.  Our path lead us down and down to another, more ancient and disused monastery called Katholiko Monastery. During the descent, the sea came into view between the massive and stone-covered hills of the island. It was so blue, and sparkly as it moved with the wind and broke white along the shore. The second monastery, Katholiko, lay over a great gorge, which, if followed, leads straight to the great Mediterranean. It is said that the ancient structure was abandoned because of multiple pirate attacks. They landed their black ships—with their black sails—and ascended the gorge to attack and loot the great stone structure. The monks must have been unable or unwilling to defend themselves, for the pirates prevailed, and the monastery was moved to its current location on the heights. The older structure stands in ruins, but its magnitude and beauty are still visible. Green grass and white flowers grow on top of the buildings’ shells, and on the giant bridge over the gorge. It is all grand and beautiful as it slowly assimilates to its natural surroundings. I thought—as I stood there—that this would be a perfect place to read the Psalms: the ancient and poetic testaments to God’s glory and power. The caves peppering the hillside above reminded me of David’s caves of refuge from Saul, and the sound of goat bells softly ringing through the hills made me think of his time as a shepherd. I can imagine David sitting upon the great bridge, listening to these sounds and writing, 

 You make springs gush forth in the valleys . . .

You cause the grass to grow for the livestock

And plants for man to cultivate . . .

The high mountains are for the wild goats

After a time at the old monastery, we plunged into the gorge and walked where pirates had trod so many years ago, to the sea. And while King David did write about being a shepherd and the beauty of the land around him, he--or another psalmist--also wrote this:

“The seas have lifted up, LORD,

The seas have lifted up their voice;

The seas have lifted up their pounding waves.

Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,

Mightier than the breakers of the sea—

The LORD on high is mighty.

As we neared the water we could hear the surf crashing on the volcanic rock of the island. If I had read Captain Slocum’s book before making this hike, I would have known that we were on the windward side of the island. The waves hit the rocks and white foam sprayed up in our faces as we stood gazing out on the blue, blue Mediterranean. “The seas have lifted up their voice; the seas have lifted up their pounding waves.” And indeed they did! It was hypnotizing and wonderful. I sat down as near to the water as I could without the salty spray soaking me and was quiet. My friend did the same.  We sat there feeling overwhelmed with the splendor of God’s creation, and with the deep and dangerous power of His sea.  Though we were quiet, the sea continued its worshipful roar. Over and over again, the waves charged the rocks and broke on them, telling us over and over again how mighty our creator is, “mightier than the breakers of the sea!”

The sun was on its way down, so we made the hike back to Gouverneto Monastery, through the gorge, past the ancient monks’ home, and up through the cave-speckled hills.  That time of sitting on the windward shore of Crete, and witnessing the sea’s power brings me back to old Captain Slocum. Though the human eye would only see a man and his boat on the open waves, he understood what his true situation was, for in writing about sailing one summer day following a great storm he says, “All the world was again before me. The wind was even literally fair . . . Then was the time to uncover my head, for I sailed alone with God. The vast ocean was again around me, and the horizon was unbroken by land.” Captain Slocum did not sail alone around the world, but “alone with God,” the one “mightier than the breakers of the sea.” The storm in the night had brought Captain Slocum divine perspective on his adventure. He sailed with the “The LORD on high,” the God of David, the God of the windward side of Crete.

-Eric Tippin
Sitting on the Floor of Tippin Dental Group in Newton, KS
March 10, 2011

Without education, we are in a horrible and deadly danger of taking educated people seriously.

--G.K. Chesterton

One-eighth mile from the shores of a rolling sea, up a winding dirt path and through a damp, close forest sits a village, or rather a row of houses facing the unseen water, bathing day and night in the sounds of the great conflict between waves and shore. Its buildings are all made of wood and sit in a dusty semicircle of the path winding through the trees. The architects of this hamlet chose not to make a clearing for it, but—for the convenience of the local trees—built the houses in fantastic shapes around the ancient sylvan inhabitants. The post office of this venerable village has a foundation in the shape of an upper case “L,” and the house beside it has mimicked the nearest tree in its rotundity.  Others have tilted their walls to avoid lower boughs and even twigs jutting out from the aged trees—taking into account the average sway of a bough in the wind. As the trees grow, the houses are renovated to accommodate. If a root system surfaces directly below one of the homes, foundations are torn up to make room; if a rotting branch falls from the treetop onto the roof of an abode below, the abode’s roof is removed to facilitate the second half of the dead branch’s descent.

            Some have brought up the impracticality of such a town; others have questioned the longevity of such aberrant and fluid structures, but those naysayers need not worry, for the locals are nearly all post-modernists and therefore have no interest in practicality or longevity. The locals need only a place to think, discuss and be disgusted at the rest of the world for assuming that nature should accommodate them, for these are intellectuals: sons of Sartre and daughters of Derrida. It is true that they have been persecuted for their simple forest life, mostly by wandering branches, one of which forced them to make such a great hole in their outhouse that privacy became nearly impossible. But like the true suffering servants they are, they bear the slings and arrows with gladness.

            Now, let us say a woman stood on the nearby rocky littoral on the 16^th of November 20--.  We will give her long, dark, thick hair, for it is necessary to express how the wind was blowing that night. We will also give her a pale complexion, rosy cheeks and an expression of utter terror. The torrents of rain that came that night will be driving against her wan face as she stands gazing out on the open water. The fingers of the wind and the spray of the sea will groom her thick hair into wild black creatures behind her lovely head. She will be wearing a navy blue dress with a small tear in the shoulder as if she fell on a rock while running; her feet will be shoeless. Of course these details will only be viewable in the spectral light of lightening bolts striking the water at short intervals in front of her. Yes, we will say there was a woman like this on the 16^th of November, 20--, for there truly was. She had been running and now stopped for a moment on the rocky shore to scream at the tearing winds and giant waves churning from the black storm at sea. Having received no answer to this outburst but a sheet of salty stinging rain, she turned and ran hurriedly down the little path to the odd village.

            If the night had been still and chilly like the night before she would have heard voices floating from the third house from the left—shaped oddly like a piece of rhubarb pie—saying things like this:

            “I believe that if I set a rabbit here on this table you would call it a social construction!”

            “And I believe that if I gave you the same rabbit—assuming that it truly exists—to study, you’d find conclusive evidence for its behavioral patterns by studying a hamster.”

            “That’s a red herring and you know it, Edward.”

            “And we’re back to social constructions . . .”

            But this night was in no mood for listening—though how any night has the patience for such conversation, I do not know.  This bleak night afforded no sound to the woman’s ears as she made the final steps up to the front door of the third house from the left, followed closely by the biting wind and cold rain.

            Edward Door and Jacob Edwards—the two men sitting and talking in the third house from the left—were men of great intellect and understanding. Their superior minds had been in the brainstorm that had created the forest village years before. Edward had blue bright eyes, brown hair, a small nose topped by spectacles and a head crowned with a plaid bowler. Jacob had brown bright eyes, brown hair, a small nose topped by spectacles and a head crowned with a brown bowler. If you found these two descriptions frighteningly similar, you would find the true men even more frightening in that manner. One may as well attempt to describe the difference between a rock and a stone. Oh yes! Their minds differed in opinion from time to time, but mostly for the sport it created in conversation rather than for true differences in outlook. If you asked them about their wives Edward would respond,

            “Yes, quite. Yes I have a wife. Yes.”

            And Jacob would add with a glazed expression, “She’s in the city; what a . . . what a nice woman.” You might trace a hint of loneliness or even sadness flashing across their expressions before they returned to their books.

            On the night of the 16^th of November, as the mysterious woman was rushing up to their door, Jacob and Edward—following their examinations of Red Herrings, in which the poor herring was diced, quartered and crushed by a thousand strategies of rhetoric—were discussing detectives, mysteries and the like.

            “Edward?”

            “Yes Jacob?”

            “I’d like to move from the topic of the Red Herring now.”

            “That would be fine Jacob; what would you like to discuss?”

            “Oh, I don’t know, Edward. Policemen? Detectives?”

            “Why policemen and Detectives, Jacob?”

            “Oh I don’t know, Edward. Seems like a night for them. Listen to that wind! Hear that rain pound against the windows, Edward! I can almost imagine that Mr. Holmes is back on the streets of London tonight, oblivious to the rain, bent over with his hands behind his back, smoking his pipe and solving a case of international significance. Can you see that, Edward?“ Jacob shifted in his chair.

            “You let your imagination take you too far into the past. How about we discuss the possibility of a modern-day Holmes, or rather a post-modern day Holmes. Yes! What would he look like, Jacob? What would he sound like, Jacob?” Edward shifted in his chair. The fire crackled and the rain continued to spit at the windows.

            “Good gracious, Edward. I’ve thought about it and I’ve come to a conclusion: he would look like us. Indeed! Don’t look surprised Edward; I tell you he would. First of all, our brand of English is more like his than any two people in the Colonies due to our extensive reading—at times I fancied I sound like a Brit. Indeed! Just the other day I spelled color “c-o-l-o-u-r” without a second thought. Finally, Edward, I believe our knowledge of reality is much more advanced than his; it truly is. Yes, yes.” Having agreed with himself with these final words, Jacob waited for Edward to do the same.

            “Why, Jacob after spending some time considering, I believe you are right! What good detectives we would make. Haven’t we read every poem of William Carlos Williams, Jacob?  Don’t we know what DNA is, Jacob? Isn’t an Andy Warhol on our wall, Jacob? Haven’t we seen videos of Woodstock, Jacob? Did dear Sherlock himself have these privileges, Jacob? No, no he didn’t. In fact—and in conclusion—I’m surprised he could operate at all with his antiquated rationalist paradigm. The fact is, Jacob, we have every qualification to be . . .”

            But what they had every qualification to be had no time to come out of Edward Door’s mouth for the true door was flung open, and the ghostly figure of a woman was flung across the threshold, followed by a shriek of wind, a wave of rain and the door slamming.

            “My goodness gracious, Edward what’s this?” exclaimed Jacob,

            “I don’t know, Jacob; I don’t, but it wasn’t in our plans for the evening.” exclaimed Edward, not considering the thoughtlessness of his second remark. The woman got up quickly, her black hair and clothes sopping and her tears mingling with the raindrops covering her face.

            “My daughter!” she blurted, “My baby daughter is gone. Do you hear me? Gone! . . . cliff . . . evil woman . . . (sobs) . . . Oh God, help!” And with this she threw herself back on the floor and began to cry bitterly.

            Jacob looked at her curiously and said, “Oh, bringing God into it will not do for a start, not at all! Please, tell us your name and what you are doing here, my good lady; maybe we can help. Tell her so, Edward.”

            “Maybe we can,” said Edward.

            It took a few minutes for the woman to settle down enough to be understandable. Jacob fetched her some tea. Edward wrapped her in his second favorite bathrobe and gave her a chair by the fire. After a few more minutes of uncontrollable sobbing, she began:

            “I heard this was a town of smart people, intellectuals.”

            “It is!” interposed Jacob.

            “And my problem can’t go to the police; it doesn’t make sense; they’ll never believe me! People just don’t act like that!”

            “Good lady!” Edward interrupted, “In literature we don’t mind non-linear plotlines, but for us to understand your meaning, I feel it necessary to ask you to start at the beginning.”

            “The beginning, oh yes. I’m sorry. My name is Jean, Jean Bard. I was walking with my darling Emma Jane—my six month-old daughter—on the cliffs a mile up the shore from here; do you know them? We like to walk there in the evenings. Well, Emma was in her stroller, and I had her all wrapped up to keep her warm—oh my baby, my baby” Another round of sobs interrupted the story. While this was happening Edward and Jacob both adjusted their glasses and bowlers. Soon she continued, “We really like the place—not far from our house—where the forest ends and the cliffs begin and you can see the sun setting over the water so far out at sea. Well, as we came to this place in the path I heard footsteps behind me and someone giggling.”

            “Giggling?” asked the two simultaneously, quite taken aback at the detail.

            “Giggling, but I didn’t have long to think about that, because just as I heard it a lady rushed by me and before I had time to even scream she had my beautiful Emma in her hands and was standing at the very edge of the cliff, looking right at me and laughing hysterically. Emma was so scared she didn’t even cry, but just hung above the woman’s head. That terrible lady threw her head back and yelled “Haha, what a life! What a face!” and threw my Emma as far as she could behind her over the cliff . . . I screamed and ran to the edge, but I was too late, too late, too late . . .” She lapsed into more crying as the two men sat in their cushy chairs as stunned as if they had just found out that the Christian God had really created the world.

            “It sounds as though this woman is a victim, Jacob,” observed Edward.

            “Of course I am!” she said incredulously.

            “Not you!” said Edward, surprised “the woman who threw your child over the cliff—oh do stop crying—she has obviously been basely mistreated by someone, wouldn’t you say, Jacob?”

            “I’d say so, Edward; I would.”

            “But aren’t you listening to me?” screamed the woman, “My child has been murdered!”

            “My good lady, we are intellectuals and—I suppose you could say—post-modern detectives. We must do away with conventional wisdom, in all matters and question the conventions of this situation. Edward agrees. Look, he’s nodding his agreement. Conventional wisdom would tell us that you and your beloved child are the victims here, but why must we bind ourselves to such cumbersome standard thinking?”

            “Because I’m right here; and she has done a terrible terrible thing.”

            “Are you poor?” inquired Edward of the woman.

            “I suppose you could say that. But what does this have to do . . .

            “Ah Ha! Now, you would say you are poor because you don’t have enough money—wouldn’t she Jacob? I can see Jacob nodding his ascent. She would; she would. But we would say that you are poor because of the oppression of the bourgeoisie upon your class or the oppression of a ceiling made of glass. Oh goodness gracious, Jacob I’ve just made a rhyme. I’m in danger of being called a ‘bad poet’ like Tennyson or Cowper. Let’s not call it a poem, Jacob. Poems must be in free verse. No, let’s not call it a poem.” And with this final statement Edward sat back in his chair, having—in his own mind—given an argument to change the mind of a king. And from all the nodding and bobbing of the head coming from the chair opposite, Jacob was of the same mind. But the poor woman had now had enough. She rose from her chair slowly and with fury in her eyes and spoke with the eloquence borne only of a mother’s desperation,

            “You idiots! You stupid stupid idiots! My daughter was murdered this evening, and I came to you thinking that maybe, just maybe you could help me. I may not know very much, but I know that if brains like yours would be put to something useful and practical instead of this nonsense about breaking conventions and forgetting reason, a murderer could be caught tonight. You know what I think? Well, you’re gonna find out! I came here thinking that ‘intellectuals’ like you had answers or at least could find them, but instead I find two men who wouldn’t think in a straight line if a policeman pulled them over and told them to. Now, are you gonna help me? Please . . .” and now she softened, “Please, look at me; I’ve lost everything; she was my everything. Help me. Oh, my poor darling!” She lowered her head to cry.

            The wind picked up for a moment and whistled a sad song through the treetops above the little house, and the rain played along on the windows in a sad cadence. Jacob and Edward sat stunned and confused, staring meaningfully at everything in the room except the woman. The wind outside whipped down the chimney and played with the jolly little fire in the grate, and yet the two did not stir. The woman had not moved from her curled up position.

            Suddenly and without warning the two men jumped up out of their chairs and broke the silence with a simultaneous exclamation. The woman looked up surprised and disconcerted at the sudden action. Jacob ran to the closet and yanked out raincoats, Edward furiously rummaged for the Wellingtons in the closet. A string of nonverbal thoughts had rocketed through the minds of both men at the same rate, and—at the same moment in time—they had decided what must be done.

            “She has appealed to my pathos, Edward.” More mad rummaging.

            “And mine Jacob, and mine.” The raincoats were produced.           

            “I believe we must help her, Edward and use rational means to do it.”

            “You never said a truer word, Jacob; keep it up.”

            “And I have a theory as to what happened to the child, Edward” and turning to the woman with his Wellingtons on and one arm in his raincoat he said, “was your child particularly talkative during your ambulation this morning, good lady?”

            “Well, no she wasn’t. But I know what happened to my Emma; I want to know what happened to that awful woman who killed her.”

            “Jean Jean Jean . . . silly Jean” scolded Edward, “You asked us to assist you—yes, Jacob she did didn’t she—and you must allow us to munificently offer that assistance. Now, let us move out, and quickly I say! —Ah, yes, now Jacob has said it too. Off we go!”

            After finding a rain coat and some Wellingtons for the now thoroughly confused woman the trio set off into the inclement night. Their trek to the cliffs was wordless, windy and wet. The enthusiasm of the two men nearly filled the air as much as the rain falling all around them, and now hope shyly stepped into the woman’s broken heart. But she wouldn’t allow it; she couldn’t allow it; she had seen the woman’s ghastly face and her precious child flung into the deep. Quite abruptly, they stopped and the woman screamed over the wind,

            “This is the place. There’s her stroller. Oh my child!”

            “Let me see that stroller!” said Jacob, now almost feverish with excitement. “So you say the woman just snatched up the child?”

            “Yes, right out the seat!”

            Now Edward took over the interrogation, “And before you left on your walk did you leave the child alone in the pram for any amount of time?”

            “Um, yes. Yes I think I did. I had run downstairs to my closet to grab a scarf. It couldn’t have been more than a minute.”

            As chance would have it, just as the woman said this last qualifying phrase a great lightening bolt ripped the air as it struck a tree nearby. The noise was deafening, but when it ceased the woman heard laughter, great rolling jolly laughter, like she imagined St. Nickolas would laugh at a particularly funny joke told during a Christmas party. Jacob and Edward were standing on the edge of the cliff nearly roaring, patting each other on the back and smiling wonderfully large smiles. As the two men laughed the rain slacked; the wind put down its whistle, and the sea ceased its churning.

            “My good good lady” Jacob finally managed to say, “I will not hold you in suspense any longer.”

            “Nor I,” put in Edward.

            “He won’t. I can attest to that. No he won’t. My good good lady,” he began again, “Edward and I will not hold you in suspense any longer; you’re child is not dead, but—most likely—famished and feeling quite neglected.”

            “What?! But I saw her go . . .”

            “You saw a bundle of swaddling clothes fly over this cliff, but your baby was not in them. Do you recall what the ‘evil woman’ said when she performed her knavish deed? ‘What a life! What a face!” Now—save in the case of madness—people have meaning behind what they say. Upon searching my brain, I fail to find any motive for murder in these words. She was fascinated with the expression of your face, for indeed she could not see the baby’s. Unless she had a terrible vendetta against you and found joy only in your suffering, the only motive I can find—oh, and Edward seems to agree, ah yes he does; he’s nodding—for her deed is a most common pursuit of young people these days: thrill-seeking, adrenaline rushes, getting thrills. Unfortunately, you were the proverbial butt of her epic stimulatory jape. It is quite obvious from your story what truly happened, oh, but Edward why don’t you finish. Yes do.”

            “Ah yes, thank you Jacob, very kind indeed. What happened is this: our culprit—let us call her Elizabeth, Jacob. Oh yes let’s, beautiful name. So Elizabeth made her way into your house without your knowledge, replaced your baby with a plastic impostor child wrapped in your child’s warm blankets—neglecting to re-buckle the phony baby for the sake of speed and to lessen the risk of your intervention—and a few short minutes later dashed by you and threw her doll and your blankets into Neptune’s blue realm. You, madam are the victim of a simple . . .” But before he could complete his big-reveal, the woman had raced off down the trail into the woods and—presumably—in the direction of her home saying over and over,

            “Is it true? Oh, my darling Emma!”

            It certainly was true. All the two men had conjectured had come to pass. Mother and child were reunited in a flood of tears and not without a few moments of pouting from the poor child who had been left in a broom closet for the entirety of the adventure. The culprit—I too will call her Elizabeth—was traced using footprints and charged with trespassing and petty theft. When asked why she did it, she is reported to have said with a shrug,

            “Eh, why not?”

            The two men returned home to their rhubarb pie-shaped house—the one third from the left—took off their Wellingtons, hung up their raincoats, fell into their chairs by the now weak fire, and sat for a good long time without speaking. Jacob finally broke the silence,

            “Edward?”

            “Yes Jacob?”

            “Where does eschatology fit into an atheist’s paradigm?”

            “I believe it’s inextricably linked to theology and therefore has no place there, Jacob.”

            “Ah yes, Good. I thought so too.”

Let us begin the topic at hand by creating a character; I will arbitrarily call him Jason. He has lived a hard life: born, enlisted in the army, recruited as a part of a special CIA program turning him into a heartless killing machine, now suffers from headaches and severe amnesia. On a cloudy day somewhere in the former Soviet Union, fighting a headache and wondering who he is—his amnesia is especially bad today—our hero finds himself suddenly captured, blindfolded and flown around the world. But, being the specialized CIA killing machine that he is, he escapes and immediately runs to the nearest embassy official and poses a question under threat of giving that official a heady dose of his fist. The question is this: “Where am I? Huh?! Tell me!!!” If the embassy official does not oblige, our hero usually disposes of him and uses other means to figure his location.  I tend to feel a tinge of sympathy for the poor official being interrogated. How was he supposed to know this man is a rogue agent who has lost his identity, but not his mad fighting-skills? He could not know, poor man. Our hero, Jason finds that he is in Switzerland and in grave danger of being shot. From Switzerland he trains to Berlin where he finds that he is in grave danger of being shot. Form Berlin he flies to Morocco, where he finds two men with guns waiting for him, forcing Jason to conclude he is in grave danger of being shot. But alas, the rest of Jason’s story must to be shrouded in mystery, because he has served my current purposes, and done a beautiful job. To find out whether the grave danger of being shot proves a fatal one, go watch some movies; I am sure there is a story similar to Jason’s somewhere out there, maybe.

Jason and I share a common experience. Mine was less violent and more subtle in nature, but equally horrifying. My month of travels on mainland Europe was at an end, and I was spending two relaxing days in Oxford, England. I purposed to relax because of the stresses I had put my mind and body through by all the train rides, strange sleeping arrangements and lack of sleep expected from an economical traveling tour. I slept in despite my loud hostel roommates and spent the day seeing the antiquated sights of Oxford, exercising and eating good pub food. My traveling companion and I had parted ways in Bordeaux, France, so my time in the old university town was spent on my own, but I was not lonely. It was the evening of the first day; I had just eaten at a pizza shop downtown, and was making my way back to the hostel on a dimly lit street. This street was of the narrow, pedestrian-only kind, and I remember being one of the only pedestrians on it that night. Krakow, has many sections of down-town closed to cars as well. This creates the effect of the buildings surrounding you seeming older and much more grand. Nothing detracts from the romance of antiquity like a traffic jam. There was nothing unique about this street in Oxford except that I was on it, which becomes rather an important detail in the lines to come.

            Douglass Adams’ book The Restaurant at the End of the Universe tells of a chamber used to induce madness in which the subject is exposed to the vastness of entire universe and then shown a giant arrow pointing to the tiniest of miniscule dots in that universe’s midst. Above this dot there is a friendly sign reading, “YOU ARE HERE.” The realization of absolute insignificance in proportion to all creation is supposed to drive the individual mad, but I believe Mr. Adams had this chamber wrong. If I were to be exposed to the vastness of the universe, the first thing I would desire would be a personal location within that universe. Location creates identity. That miniscule dot would be the only thing standing between myself and madness; it could not possibly cause madness. Outside of that dot, I would be nowhere, therefore—logically—no one. Adams argues, "In an infinite universe, the one thing sentient life cannot afford to have is a sense of proportion." But I say that in an infinite universe, the one thing sentient life cannot afford to have is no location!

            As I was walking down this scantily lit street I forgot where I was. I did not just forget the street I was in, or the town I was in or the shire I was in or the region of England I was in; I failed to access every subconscious indicator of location in my brain. For five agonizing seconds I looked around me wildly trying to find a landmark that would tip me off. I knew that was a street lamp, and I knew those were cobblestones; I knew those were humans, and I knew the color of every building around me. But none of that mattered, because I had no place in which to put these things. I had no place in which to put myself. My mind raced from one place I had been to another, Krakow, Budapest, Bordeaux, Mechelen, Vienna. I stopped walking to focus.

            Every now and again I look up at the stars and wonder where I really am. But as a Christian I know. We learn so many truths about life from God’s revelation to man by the written word, but three that apply to my current thought process are these: we live on a material world created by a supreme being named I Am; it is surrounded by celestial bodies also created by Him; He loves us. The Bible has much to say about who we are, but it also tells us where we are. Where is the atheist located, and what comfort does it offer him? (Truly, He is falling, falling into the hands of the living God, and it is a dreadful thing). Humans have spent vast amounts of capital and energy to map the known universe, and yet we have no power to create reference points outside our own imagining. Every star and planet has a name of human fabrication, but we—as Christians—believe in a universe named by its infinite creator, not its finite inhabitants.  Our location is secure; in this we can find hope, comfort and a reason to thrive.

            Just as suddenly as I had forgotten where I was, I remembered. A flood of relief filled me. My tight nerves slackened, and I laughed out loud telling the cobblestones, “I’m in Oxford, England!”

-Eric Tippin
In Newton, KS
January 7, 2010

My school year in England has its many treasured stories, but one holds a unique and special place in my heart: the story of the pig-sheep, Damien. He lived on the farm connected to the Capernwray manor house and estate. His story is outlined in two letters I sent home during my days at Capernwray, Lancashire, England. I must warn you before you begin to read; this story is a tragedy; it is not for the feint-hearted or weak-minded. You may want to prepare your mind with a reading of Othello or King Lear. My first letter home came in the fall of 2009 . . .

Saturday October 24, 2009

“ . . . We are located in the English countryside, surrounded by green, rolling hills and a boatload of sheep—though that would be one large boat. One sheep in particular has captured my attention; we call him the pig-sheep. He was in a fight when he was a young, spry sheepling, which involved a lot of nose-smashing. I’m not sure how the other sheep fared, but the pig-sheep now looks—truly—like a pig with white, wooly skin. He also has pneumonia, and wheezes quite pathetically all day long. The farmer tells me he was expected to kick the sheep-bucket a year ago, but he’s obviously still a fighter—just not with his nose anymore. England obviously offers lots of inspirational stories, even if they do only involve sheep.”

Time passed, and one of the coldest winters in recent history struck the North of England. Brilliant white camouflaged the numerous sheep of the estate from being seen on the snowy hillsides. The Damien’s pneumonia worsened and the farmer worried. His pig-like face showed a longing to throw off the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” and the mortal imperfection of this earth (Shakespeare, Hamlet). Months passed and finally, news of Damien reached Kansas in the form of my second letter . . .

Monday February 1, 2010

“I have some terribly sad news . . . The world-famous pig-sheep has passed. His battle with pneumonia ended on a snowy evening of the Christmas break. The students of Capernwray put on a memorial service for Damien, as we called him. It was very respectful and, most likely, unprecedented in the history of the world, to date. There was an original song, a speech by the sheep farmer, and a slide show. He may be gone, but he is remembered in daily conversations and maybe even a few lonely tears."

Thus ends the story of Damien, the Pig-Sheep. These events have been recorded faithfully.

-Eric Tippin

At Home in Elbing, KS

January 4, 2010