Lord, Thank You

I woke up at 8:15. Today, as usual, my first memory is me staring up at the ceiling, wondering what that awful knocking nose must be. Then I try to remember where I'm at. My bedroom. Jordan is gone. Then I try to recall what day it is. oh, yes, that awful noise is my phone, it must have fallen off my book... Friday, its my work day.

I jump in the shower, knock my head against the shower wall. It's my daily wake up routine.

I scrounge around looking for my clothes, books, and work shirt. Today I even have time for breakfast. As I drive the ten or so miles to work I think about how beautiful the day is. It's not too warm. not too cold. The sky is blue, my car windows are down. The sun is a bit bright, but it's one of those California mornings where you roll down your windows, blast the music, put on your shades, smile, and say, "Thank you Lord for another wonderful day."

But as I pulled into the parking lot for work, I felt today was going to be terrible. Not words, mind you. It's like a little shadow being cast over you. The felling when your dad shuts teh door in such a way that you know only bad news is coming. I shrug it off and say, "Lord, whatever today brings, I want to be thankful for it."

... And today was a stacked deck against me.

It began a few hours into my shift, just as my first break came around. I brought my coffee to the front and had my friend ring it up. No wallet. Somewhere I forgot my walled and I pray it's nowhere but home. I never forget my wallet. So I wallow back to isle eleven and put my life-line back on the shelf.

I think to myself, well it's payday so my check will come in later today just in time for lunch. I'll make it up to myself. Lunch comes around and no check. This is the first time it's happened to me since I began working at this grocery stoe. They don't know when they expect it either because they just started using a new courier service. Well, thank you Lord that I have a job that pays well.

I must have food because, especially when it's about 104 degrees and I'm constantly running about, I'll become shaky. I call my mother and she says she's at Costco. Great! It's right down the street. Oh... It's the one in Lodi - opposite direction. So my only option is to drive to the opposite side of town to my dad's work fro a few bucks in lunch money - just like the good old days. Thank you Lord for parents.

Just as I'm leaving my dad's work, my dad relays great but terrible news. Great for him, terrible for me. I've been expecting it for some time and have experienced it many times before, but now it's here. I shrug it off and grab my lunch lunch to go. Don't worry, I grabbed a much larger burger to comfort myself and digest the news. And I make great time as I rush back to work. But of course, a freight train has stopped on the tracks and is blocking my way to work. I arrive twenty minutes late from lunch. Thank you Lord that I have a running car.

The rest of the day goes particularly expected. The head clerk is keeping great tabs on my where abouts (which usually I don't mind at all) and I drop a bag of our customer's groceries on the floor (which I have done only once or twice over the three years of my services). At one point I was walking through the parking lot thinking, "Lord, I know what would be the next thing that could make this day worse. A van needs to pull up full of people who try to pull me into their car at gun point. But do you know what? I already have a come back. I'll say, 'I'm already having a bad day, so you'll just have to shoot me.'" But no worries, I hit a new all time low as I closed-out my shift by getting into an argument with one of my coworkers over orca rights. I know, perhaps telling my coworker that Sea World is perfectly justified in putting Shamu in a chlorine tank because on a daily basis we harpoon whales, drag them onto ships, and hack them to pieces isn't a great idea.... I've had better, more sympathetic arguments. Well, at least the day is still nice and I thank the Lord for having wonderful coworkers.

On my way from work I'm reminded that the five dollars I borrowed from my dad as some of the money we set aside for bacon for our upcoming guys camping trip. But I need to purchase the special bacon from a special store, so I drive back across town. It's already 6:30pm which will make me late for the 7pm movie. Oh... my brother text me and told me that I miss-scheduled and told everyone the wrong show time, we can't go until the 10pm showing. Well, who needs friends, right? My brothers and I will have a wonderful time watching Guardians of the Galaxy with ourselves. Thank you Lord for my brothers.

Well... The movie was wonderful and The Hobbit trailer etched a smile on my face. But what can I say, it's about 1:30am and I'm sitting on the side of the freeway with two of my brothers waiting for AAA. Front tire blew out. I work at 7am later today. My mother just arrived.

Lord, I really can't say I'd like to do this again, but thank you for being there the entire time. I pray someone was laughing. ^_^

What is Truth? - Part 1: Introduction

I've desired for some time to teach this topic in one of my classes which has been so dear to my pursuits in life and as a philosophy major in college, but, for lack of time, energy, and opportunity, I believe it best to write down my thoughts so in time I'll be able to properly furnish what I have thus far been prohibited from accomplishing.

For as long as I remember, the question, "What is Truth?" has alway made my spine shiver with wonder and fear. I always find myself glossing over the passage where Pontius Pilate asks Christ, "Quid est Veritas?" And I imagine the feeling he must have experienced in knowing he had met someone who knew the answer.

But if this question fails to provide even the slightest reverberation, I cannot say you are without hope; for long ago we have not only ceased in searching for the answer but have stopped asking the question. We find what is true, or what truth may exist, but these are all object dependent. They all point to something; they fail to ask why. The sky is blue, the sun is white, roses are red, and all's fair in love and war. Western Civilization was prodded by this question, Christianity grew because it dared to provide an answer. But I think our age has lost its way. What I intend to do, as briefly and coherently as possible, is outline where we started, where we tried, where we stopped, and what an answer to such a question would mean for us.

But before I begin, by way of necessity, I must add a pedantic note. For those who have studied systematic theology (natural or revealed) or had a cursory introduction in hermeneutics, will find this redundant; for those who have not, please allow me the benefit of the doubt. As we study the Bible, and I'm afraid this also can be carried over to the study of language in general, the doctrines we extrapolate are under-determinative. What we often mean when we say 'it is obvious' or 'it is explicit' we mean to say 'it is with our best understanding.; And when we arrive at the fineness of a truth, where the road seems to suddenly dampen in the silence of a misty bog, we must remember we have not arrived at the end without hope and in despair, but at the beginning with wonder and fear, knowing the road is yet finished and work yet to be done. For whatever follows, there will be room for debates, challenges, and questions - all which are welcomed and encouraged.

Furthermore, it has often been said that in the halls of our theology departments we hear the footsteps of Aristotle more often than we hear the footsteps of Jesus Christ. While I believe this is an ill-founded accusation which derives its thrust from the fame of one to slander the fame of another, I will admit that in the course of philosophy and theology there are many over-laps. But the chiefest of these which I am concerned is the apparent similarities between The Philosophers and the Truth of Christ. I will not pretend that The Philosophers preached the same gospel of Christianity, as they are vastly different, but I will admit that the greatest of minds, given the glory of God revealed through nature, were on to something. And whatever that something may have been, in this vast search for truth, I'm in no doubt we have heard similar echoes.

Mr., I have a question.

While sitting at my desk, I fell upon this question. I had last revised it on January 11^th of 2013, but I'm afraid, by the incompleteness of my second point, this question never found its man. I'm disappointed because I think it would have been a wonderful question and I believe the man who was intended to receive it would have given me a run for my money. It's a shame what a critical mind will do to an incomplete work, but it is infinitely more wonderful to experience the fullness of time's decay upon everything but that which is worthwhile.

Before posting this question, I completed the second point. It is to the best of my memory and produced with the greatest care as to reflect the missing threads of whatever it was that bothered me so long ago.

---------------------------

What does it mean, as a Christian, to find beauty? And is the heart the best communicator in its acknowledgment and appreciation?

But before I leave you with this question, I would like to take the liberty in explaining and clarifying it.

First, why an abstract question. In the past few months, which I hope isn't the start of a trend, people speak of “theological matters” as if it pertains to something external and unimaginative. Almost like a chess match for the religiously convicted, theology students tend to move pieces with slightly more animation than the chessmasters themselves. What theology has become is quite a cold game of riddles which end up being more concerned about everyone else than the people playing. But those aren't the questions I stay awake for. I'm committing myself to ask a question of abstraction because it forces one to think about the pieces in a different light. Instead of seeing theology has a course for the logically gifted, in which laws are pitted against laws, we find convictions. And, in a way, we see less and less queen gambits.

And second,

(What follows are my added thoughts...)

in the long and winding road of retractions, we arrive at the core dilemma which I hope this question strums. It is this: who is to make the first move? It is not a game of white on black or black on white, but a movement of one of two virtues. Does the mind begin constructing the citadel by which the heart follows soon after, padding the seams; bringing vitality and warmth to the walls; and making the chilling dampness into a home? Or does the heart begin the journey along this winding road with the ever-watchful mind following after; An eternal sentinel to guard those who become lost?

My question could be thus stated: Who makes the first move?

A Picture To Burn

On the way home from Ultimate Frisbee today, I was listening to the song A Picture to Burn by Taylor Swift. But it dawned upon me that no reason is given, no clue provided, as to what her boyfriend did that sent her upon this rampage of hating his truck, calling upon her father as a defense, and threatening to date all his best friends. And so I think we naturally assume the worse to fill this void. He must certainly have cheated on her, or could have lied about how much he loved her. However, I think we assume too much. I think I know what he did.

There are three real-world possibilities:

1) He left the toilet seat up.
2) When he asked to go out with his friends and she replied, "I don't care," he interpreted it as, "I really don't care." (Notice that 'really' was added in his mind.)
3) He used "the" hand towels - you know, the hand towels you can't use for your hands... or anything else for that matter.

But since we are on the topic, let me continue. The first two can be sent to the wash. Guys, you need to be considerate. But number three is totally defensible. What is a hand towel which is never used? What is a soda which is never drank? What is a candy bar which is never eaten? To speak in the feminine tongue, what is the sake of purchased chocolate if it is only used for visual appreciation? By drinking the soda, by eating the candy bar, by enjoying the taste of chocolate, we are adding meaning to the existence of that object - however inanimate.   Likewise, by using that hand towel, not as an object of visual appreciation, but as an object of its intended function, we are providing meaning to that hand towel, fulfilling its purpose.

Buy a painting of hand towels, and, if need be, look at it all day. Let it inspire, let it dazzle, for that is the function of a painting of a hand towel.

... And this is why being out of school is bad for my health.

Cheers!

Theology and Comfort

"For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us. We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed; Always bearing about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our body." - 2 Corinthians 4:6-10

It is often said of theology that what it lacks in passion it has greatly gained in offensive reason. What it has gained in knowledge, it has lost in comfort. But as I conclude my study of God's omnipotence, I cannot help but dwell upon these verses and hope to be filled and strengthened by their resolution.

We are not promised a life without strife, but promised compassion. We are not promised a life without hardship, but promised deliverance. We are not promised a life without persecution, but promised companionship. We are not promised a life without death, but promised resurrection.

We are promised that whatever land we may be found or whatever act we are placed, it is not a path beyond God's all encompassing power. The God who spoke the universe into existence is the God who has promised to be with us until the end of the age. If that is not comfort to any degree, then I'm afraid there is little left to be found.

"For all things are for your sakes, that the abundant grace might through the thanksgiving of many redound to the glory of God. For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal." - Corinthians 4:15-18

Final Draft of the shortstory entitle 'Ryan' (Title was altered in final submission)

Before anyone commits their time to read this final submission for my first short story competition, there are a few things you should know. First, it would not have come about without the brilliance of my friends. If it were not for them, I would not have come close to what I produced (errors and all). And second, it was the silent cooperation of my entire family which allowed for the last forty-five minutes of frantic editing and self-derogatory comments about how procrastination is the father of my frayed nerves to produce my final submission within the last minute.

Enjoy.

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Title: A Walker for Two



Synopsis: A Doctor of a well-established reputation seems to have everything a career could demand except a family life. But when his only son falls ill to the flu, his priorities shift – perhaps too late.

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"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Grandma Gene began, hitting her hand on the table, "The chicken is already dead."

"You can never tell these days," replied Dr. Leale, "you cook them so raw."

"It wouldn't be so raw...”

If you happened to have known the Leale family, you would have become quite accustomed to this sort of behavior. Dr. Leale was hardly ever home, and when we was, it was to be at his dinner table fighting with Grandma Gene over the quality of her chicken dishes. Mrs. Leale had learned to block-out most of the conversation and pretended the disagreements never occurred. But tonight was different because her son Ryan, whom she usually spoke with during dinner, was in bed and ill.

“Charles,” began Mrs. Leale, “Do you know what Ryan asked for at church today?”

Charles and Grandma Gene were too far off in arguing about who's right it was to do what to hear Mrs. Leale. So she began again, “My day went quite well, thank you for asking,” she continued as though everyone at the table was earnestly paying attention, “We went to church today and your son stood before the congregation to make a special prayer request.”

Before she had approached a lull, she stood up and yelled, “Ryan! Your son!”

Both Grandma Gene and Charles stopped in mid sentence.

“Ryan?” started Charles, “Where is that boy? Tell him dinner is about over.” He smiled, “I would say it's almost cold, but...” he began to trail off as he realized his wife was increasingly disapproving his behaviour.

“Well,” she promptly resumed, “Your son stood before the congregation and asked if God could make an extra long day, as he did for Joshua.”

It was silent, neither Charles nor Grandma Gene seemed to understand the importance.

At this, Mrs. Leale hit her hand on the table, causing all the silverware to respond with a momentary applause, “You promised you would make another walker for him so he could take it down to the orphanage. His prayer request was that God would make more time in the day so you could help him while not missing any work.”

Tears began rolling down her cheeks, “And you know what he talked about all day today?” She took a moment to glance back and forth between Grandma Gene and Charles. “He was talking about how God was going to answer His prayer today and that his papa would make another walker.” She abruptly cleared her dish and went to bed for the night.

The next day would have made you at once shudder and then wonder why you were shuddering. The glances that Grandma Gene and Charles and Mrs. Leale all passed to each other were as penetrating as any dart into the deepest crevices of the soul, but because nothing had since changed, you wondered if this was as normal a greeting as anyone does when passing another on the road.

But the following day Charles had a wonderful idea and told his wife to dress extra spectactular. "Honey! Honey!" shouted Dr. Leale as he came through the front door"We must be on our way!" Mrs. Leale was in the kitchen when he arrived and didn't respond. "Honey -" Dr. Leale stopped, "What's wrong with Ryan?"

"I'm sure - it's not much - his stomach is a bit upset and his hands are a bit cold." said Mrs. Leal as she held Ryan's hand in one of her's and pressed her other against his forhead.

"Well, we best be on our way," I don't want to miss the president.

"President?" replied Mrs. Leale, "Weren't we going to see Our American Cousin?"

"Oh yes, Oh yes. Surely, you can watch the play, I'll be watching the president." Dr. Leale continued as he looked down Ryan's mouth as he briefly examined him, "I've heard the president give wonderful speeches and would like to know his facial expressions when he's watching a play. It is just as well?"

"I'm not sure what has gotten into you - looking at another man when you're with our wife - but let's try to have a nice evening." she clasped his hands, "Please, take off work until tomorrow."

Then a knock came at the door. Mrs. Leale hurried over, "It's Grandma Gene, I told her yesterday to come over, with Ryan sick and all."

When Mrs. Leale barely had the door unlocked, Grandma Gene came bursting in, “Oh! Oh for heaven's sake, look at you too.” Charles had been wearing a suite that was well over the looks of the most handsome doctors in town and Mrs. Leale had put on an evening dress that flowed out, down, and around her with the elegance of the British Aristocracy in which the play they were to see would poke fun. With a few quick hugs, and without giving anything beyond a few courteous goodbye's to Grandma and Ryan, the doctor and his wife were out on the lamp-lit street of Pennsylvania Avenue to Ford Theatre. No one could tell, but Dr. Leale probably understood the far-off muffled yelling of Grandma Gene to mean something along the lines of, "And what is so important that no one notices I'm here?"

Inside Ford Theatre, the seats were a bit disappointing. Dr. Leale had a wonderful view of the President from the ground floor, but it was off to the side where it was much too difficult to see the entire stage.

"Charles... Charles?" asked Mrs. Leale

"Yes honey?" answered Charles as he was looking around the theater with a bit of unconcealed worry. "The president isn't here and the play is about to begin."

"The theater is full, maybe he's late." And with a smile Mrs. Leale really did regret, "Or maybe he isn't coming? A president is a busy man."

Meanwhile, the the actors had been introduced (none of which the doctor knew). Charles sat down with a very ill-attempt at concealing his feelings of what it would mean to waste a night without seeing the president as the play begun. It went swell, and Dr. Charles was enjoying it more so than he imagined. And perhaps, on more than one occasion, he cast a few smiles to his wife as he did when Anne and him first met. But before the play had entered the second act, the orchestra starting playing 'Hail to the Chief'. Everyone turned round and noticed Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln as they entered their box.

If it weren't for the standing ovation, the yelling and shouting, and the orchestra playing, Dr. Leale would've been heard as far as the northern docks of the Potomac,"He made it!" as he grabbed and shook Mrs. Leale, “He's made it!”

A few moments after, the audience fell silent and awaited the play to resume. A loud bang echoed through the theatre, and a man fell to the stage – brandinshing a small knife. He yelled something no one quite understood, and then ran out the back of the stage. Looking back to the Presidential Box, Dr Leale saw people shuffling about and heard screams. He jumped from his seat, pushing a few people to the floor and ran for the presidential suite – forgetting about Mrs. Leale.

When Charles arrived, Mr. Lincoln was slouched over on his wife. Mrs. Lincoln was crying frantically and yelling, "Oh doctor! Do what you can for him, do what you can!" He swept his hand along his back and found no knife wound. But when he cradled Lincoln's head, he felt a smooth hole in the back. A clot had already began to form.

By this time the audience began yelling, "The President is assassinated! The President is assassinated!"

Two other doctors had arrived and they began carrying Lincoln outside. Across the street a man was found yelling to bring him over. It wasn't more than a seven hours later that the president had belonged to the ages.

When he arrived home, he was stopped at the door by Mrs. Leale.

“Where have you been?” before he could explain, she continued, “You left me! You left me! You left me!” By the third time she had began stomping her foot on the ground and waving her fist at him. “Did you even know I was missing?”

Dr. Leale responded, “The President it dead.”

Mrs. Leale took a step back, “There's no time for that!” as she grabbed Charles and pulled him in the house, “While you've been gone Ryan has become worse – vomiting all over. And no one would let me in to speak with you.” They were continuing to the back room where Grandma Gene was found sitting next to Ryan, “He can't hold anything down, and I don't know what to do.”

When Charles approached him, his little body was laying in his bed - so limp, so weak.

"Mama, I'm so thirsty." he moaned just above a whisper.

"I know honey, but I can't give you any water." Tears began swelling in her eyes. "It'll come right back up."

"Papa?" the boy began as he looked around the room, "I know why God didn't answer my prayer,” Charles sat on the bed next to him, “And why is that?”

“Because we don't need to make another walker – just give him mine. I won't need it anymore.”

Charles pressed the boy's head to his chest, "You're going to be okay. Papa will keep you healthy." Tears began flowing down his cheeks, "And you know what? We'll build walkers together

and give them to all your friends."

The next morning Charles awoke to the sounds of crying from his wife. He rose, pulled on his coat, and left the house.

A few weeks later, Charles had spent little time at work and much less at home with his wife. He could often be found standing outside his son's grave or on a hill overlooking the orphanage where his son often visited. No one knew for sure why Ryan had passed, but many had begun to call it the flu.

One night, as he was walking, Grandma Gene stopped Dr. Leale.

"Charles..." pleaded Grandma Gene, "Your wife still loves you."

He pushed by her and continued on. She tried to keep up as fast as her fragile legs could carry her.

"Charles! ... Charles!" Grandma Gene continued, "You can't save everyone!"

At this he stopped, turned, and looked long and hard at Grandma Gene. And then with a failing voice said, "Every day I pray to God that I could have had one, extra long day with Ryan."

Ryan - Rough Draft #1

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Grandma Gene began, hitting her hand on the table, "The chicken is already dead."

"You can never tell these days," replied Dr. Leale, "you cook them so raw."

"It wouldn't be so raw if I was told you were coming further in advance than a few hours," she smiled, "You are so very busy."

The doctor continued to pick the chicken which he hoarded to his side of the table.

"Well?" Grandma Gene continued, "How's the family?"

The doctor continued picking at the chicken, "Fine. All fine."

"And your son?"

"Never better."

"They aren't here today, are they?" Grandma Gene began reaching for the chicken.

"No, they're off to some play at Ford Theatre."

"And you didn't join them?"

The doctor glanced up, "Obviously not. I have an appointment in about three-quarter hour."

At that moment the door swung open and in came the smallest red-head you could find just north of the Potomac. His head barely peaked over the kitchen table as he hobbled over to Grandma Gene.

"Grandma, Grandma!" the boy said between breaths, "how long have you been? We've been down to the orphanage. Mama said we should go as often
as we can." And then the boy stopped.

"What's wrong?" asked Grandma.

"There was another boy who couldn't walk very well, and when i tried to give him my walker, mama told me that papa made it for me." The boy
looked up at Grandma, "Why are there other boys who can't walk?"

Grandma took the little boy in her arms and said,"Oh little child, you're such a sweet boy! It's becuase there are other children who are just as special and loving as you. And I bet there
is a father out there who could make a walker for him just as your papa has made one for you."

At this the boy smile and hobbled over to his papa and huged him. "Do you think you could make one for him?"

"Not today, Ryan. I'm a very busy man and I really can't spare the time - I'm trying to speak with your grandma Gene."

"Oh!" exclaimed the boy, looking at grandma gene, "What are you talking about?"

"Just about how good your father is."

"To be sure!" replied Ryan. Then he began to whisper in such a way that children often do which allows everyone in the room to hear, "Mama talks to papa about that almost every night. Don't
tell them, but I think the neighbors can hear them if they aren't already asleep."

The boy left the room, and Grandma Gene gave him cunnying look which said something like, "Oh, is that so?"




Scene 2 - Doctor's Office

The doctor arrived at his office which was situated a few blocks down and around a few corners. It was as small one room wooden building with a area to sit out on the porch. The office was operated
by him and his assistant, however, his assistant was always late and so Dr. Leale had the please of letting in all the fresh air. But today, when the Doctor
arrived, the door was already open and John, his assistant, came running out to greet him.

"Doctor! Doctor! It's Madam Fam again - Said she can't breath."

"Did you ask her how she traveled across town to see me?"

"Well, yes. I - er - No. I didn't think to ask that."

The doctor walked into his office and saw the woman pacing back and forth.

"Oh, Charles! It's so dreadful!" she began as she paced towards him, "I woke up and couldn't breath. In fact, I haven't been able to breath all day and it won't do to be at church and not breath.
What if I'm called to pray or sing a hymn or anything?"

"That is a dreadful problem, madam."

"Dreadful! Dreadful, I tell you."

"No worries, I have just the thing." The doctor seemed to be rustling through his desk, "It came in last night some time, so it's quite potent-"

"Doctor, I'll need the strongest you've got," she began, as she walked over to his desk, "It's quite dreadful not breathing all day."

Charles turn over and gave her a bottle of clear liquid. "Now Madam, you'll need to drink this slowly. Let me know how you feel tomorrow."

With that Madam Fam rushed out from his office without barely saying, "Such a wonderful man, such a wonderful man."

"Charles - Er? Wasn't that water?"

"Well now, Assistant, you've earned your keep. You know water when you see it." And they began to laugh.

The day had continued on as usual. A few clients came and went without a problem. It wasn't until about five o'clock that while Charles and John were cleaning up the last few
tools and counting which medicines they should go looking for tomorrow morning, in came Joe Bellum. He was a husky man and stood just above most doorways. It was particularly humouring to see
him try to push his head below the door while sucking in his stomach.

"Doc, I'va felt better than today."

John had left to make sure the back door and the medicine drawers were all closed for the evening. Dr. Leale was looking through their inventory to make sure they matched up with John's
account.

"Doc, I've felt better than today."

"Yes, Joe, Yes, I've heard you. What's the matter?" Dr. Leale began without looking up from his paperwork.

"I'va felt not too good."

"You know, you have a habit of coming just before closing." The doctor continued vacantly, "And you may consider washing yourself, you smell like you haven't bathed in days."

"I'va, I'va..." and then there was a muffled thud.

Charles looked up and found Joe on the ground, sweating and barely conscious.

"John! John!" yelled Charles as he began feeling Joe's head,"It's Joe!"

Dr. Leale began pulling off his shirt and rolling up his pants. He was sweaty and blood was on his hands and legs. But He pulled up Joe's pant legs just as John came running in.

"Oh!" John lurched back.

Joe's leg was gangrene. It was just below the knee in a cut that stretch a few inches across the shin. When Charles tried to inspect the wound it burst with puss and slime.

"Oh Joe! Can you hear me!" Charles yelled. There was no response.

"John, it's gotta come off."



Scene 3 - Family feud

Dinner had been served over an hour ago and there was little more noise than the clinking of silverware.

"Well..." began Dr. Charles, "Do you remember Joe?"

"Joe?" asked Mrs. Leale, "I can't recall any one your clients. You're never around when you're with them."

"Yes. Well," continued Dr. Leale, "I had to cut his leg loose."

"Charles!" yelled Grandma Gene, "We're eating!"

"Just think of that chicken leg as Joe's," He grabbed his knive and split the leg right off chicken and plopt it on his plate.

Grandma Gene glared at Dr. Charles. The conversation resorted back to the clinking of silverware.

Then Grandma Gene broke silence, "What's with you and tormenting dead chickens?"

"Charles!" said Mrs. Leale a bit too loudly as to cut off Grandma Gene. "Today was Sunday, you promised you wouldn't go to work on Sundays."

"People are sick on Sunday's as well as any other day."

"You can't spend a single day with this family can you?"

"Next time I'll tell Joe to schedule his illness on another time."

"The point is you're never with your son," continued Mrs. Leale, "And today he rose in front of the entire congregation to ask for prayer...."

"And?" asked Dr. Leale, his attention being drawn away from his dinner.

"He asked for a day like Joshua's," whispered Mrs. Leale as she started to tear, "An extra long day so he and his papa could build a walker for his friend. An extra long day so you wouldn't
have to miss work and still be able to help him out."

At this moment, Grandma Gene interjected,"And for all we know the dead chickens have had more of your time than Ryan." Whether or not Charles had heard any thing else that night, or the few nights
following, it was well known throughout the house that Grandma Gene had gone too far.



Scene 4 - Presidential Call


"Honey! Honey!" shouted Dr. Leale as he came through the front door, "We must be on our way!" Mrs. Leale was in the kitchen when he arrived and didn't respond. "Honey -" Dr. Leale stopped, "What's
wrong with Ryan?"

"I'm sure - it's not much, his stomach is a bit upset and his hands are a bit cold."

"Well, we best be on our way," I don't want to miss the president.

"President?" replied Mrs. Leale, "Weren't we going to see 'Our American Counsin'?"

"Oh yes, Oh yes. Surely, you can watch the play, I'll be watching the president." Dr. Leale continued as he looked down Ryan's mouth, "I've heard the president give wonderful speeches and would
like to know his facial expressions when he's watching a play. It is just as well?"

"I'm not sure what has gotten into you - looking at another man when you're with our wife - but let's try to have a nice evening." she clasped his hands, "Please, take off work until tomorrow."

Then a knock came at the door. Mrs. Leale hurried over, "It's Grandma Gene, I told her yesterday to come, with ryan sick and all."

And without giving as little as a nod, the doctor and his wife were out on the lamp-lit street of pennsylvania avenue to Ford Theatre. No one could tell, but Dr. Leale probably understood the
muffled yelling of Grandma Gene to mean something along the lines of, "And what is so important that no one notices I'm here?"

Inside Ford Theatre, the seats were a bit disappointing. Dr. Leale had a wonderful view of the President from the ground floor, but it was off to the side where it was much too difficult to see
the entire stage.

"Charles... Charles?"

"Yes honey?" as he was looking around the theater.

"What's wrong?"

"The president isn't here and the play is about to begin."

"The theater is full, maybe he's late." And with a smile she really did regret, "Or maybe he isn't coming? A president is a busy man."

The the actors had been introduced (none of which the doctor knew) and the play had begun. It went swell, and Dr. Charles was enjoying it more so than he imagined. The humor of an American
before the taut behaviour of the English Aristocracy wasn't so bad. But too soon after the play had begun the orchestra starting playing 'Hail to the Chief'. Everyone turned round to face the
presidential box as the Mr. Lincoln and his wife were introduced.

If it weren't for the standing ovation, the yelling, and the orchestra, Dr. Leale would've been heard as far as the northern docks of the Potomac.
"He made it!" he yelled as he jumped up his seat.

A few moments after the audience fell silent and awaited the play to resume, they heard a loud bang, and a man fell to the stage - brandishing a small knife. He yelled something no one quite
understood, and then ran out the back of the stage. Looking back to the Presidential Box, Dr Leale saw people shuffling about and heard screams. He jumped from his seat, pushing a few people to the
floor and ran for the presidential suite.

When Charles arrived, Mr. Lincoln was slouched over on his wife. Mrs. Lincoln was crying frantically and yelling, "Oh doctor! Do what you can for him, do what you can!"
He swept his hand along his back and found no knife wound. But when he cradled Lincolns head he felt a smooth hold in the back. A clot had already began to form.

By this time the audience began yelling, "The President is assassinated! The President is assassinated!"

Two other doctors had arrived and they began carrying Lincoln outside. A man was found yelling to bring him over. It wasn't more than eight hours later that the president had belonged to the ages.



Scene 5 - Chicken Dinner

In a single day the country had seemed to have lost their hearts and their souls. People where in the streets, papers where being sold. It appeared
everyone had somewhere to go or something to tell but Dr. Leale. He hadn't slept and Grandma Gene had once again made Chicken.

"Aren't you going to see if it's still alive?" asked Grandma Gene.

"What's the point, it's already dead."

"You know, you can't save everyone."

"I don't want any more chicken," the pushed the dish across the table, "You can have it." And he left the room.



While Dr. Leale was gone, Ryan's illness had continued to become worse. He began vomiting hours before his return. When he arrived home both Grandma Gene and Mrs. Leale were tending to him
in his room. Charles examined him when he could spare the time, and tried everything he knew. Three days later, after Charles had come home from work, he found Grandma Gene and Mrs. Leale
at his bedside. His little body was laying in his bed - so limp, so weak.

"Mama, I'm so thirsty." he moaned just above a whisper.

"I know honey, but I can't give you any water." Tears began swelling in her eyes. "It'll come right back up."

"Papa?" the boy began as he looked around the room, "Can you give my walker to that little boy? Mama knows who he is. I don't think I'll be needing it any more."

Dr. Leale held his son to his chest, "You're going to be okay. Papa will keep you healthy." Tears began flowing down his cheecks, "And you know what? We'll build walkers together
and give them to all your friends."

The next morning Charles awoke to the sounds of crying from his wife. He rose, pulled on his coat, and left the house.



Scene 6 - A short time after


A few weeks later, Charles had spent little time at work and much less at home with his wife. No one knew for sure if he did this out of self-punishment but in any case, he could often be found
standing outside his son's grave or on a hill overlooking the orphanage where his son often  visited. One night, as he was Walking, Grandma Gene stopped Dr. Leale.

"Charles..." pleaded Grandma Gene, "Your wife still loves you."

He pushed by her and continued on. She tried to keep up as fast as her fragile legs could carry her.

"Charles! ... Charles!" Grandma Gene continued, "You can't save everyone!"

Grandma Gene had caught up to Charles as he stopped. He looked back at Grandma Gene and said, "Every day I pray to God that I could have had one Joshua day."