From: emery@tc.fluke.COM (John Emery)
Subject: Letters to Tom [7 of 10]
Organization: John Fluke Mfg. Co., Inc., Everett, WA
Date: Tue, 7 Apr 1992 18:08:45 GMT


For the first time in so many years Sally had trouble calculating
the number--she finally figured it had to be about twenty five--
she held in her hand a volume she had blamed for the world's woes,
belittled as an overrated anthology of myths, resented for its
narrow views on morality, condemned as oppressive and authoritarian,
and ignored as an outmoded, stagnating lead weight around the 
intellectual ankle of mankind.

It was one of Sara Barker's Bibles.

She found the book of Psalms immediately.  It was in the middle of the
Bible.  "Just open your Bibles right to the middle," came a voice from
her past.  "Psalms is right there in the middle."  What was that woman's
name?  Oh, Mrs. Gunderson, that's right.  She was an older lady.  She
was old as long as Sally ever knew her, as if she'd hit a peak in years
and just stayed there.  Every Sunday morning, Sally would clump down the
church stairs with all the other seven-and-eight-year-olds and gather
in Mrs. Gunderson's Sunday school class in that cold church basement, in
that small, echoing classroom with the hard wooden chairs and the 
chalkboard that still bore the unerasable traces of lessons from weeks
ago.

Then Mrs. Gunderson would tell them a story, placing paper Bible 
characters on the same green-grass-and-blue-sky flannel background.
Even now, as Sally lay on the bed with the Bible in her lap, she
could remember those stories: the wee little man who climbed the
sycamore tree, the fishermen who fished all night but caught no
fish, the disciple--she thought it was Peter--who walked on the water
to meet Jesus, the man named Lazarus whom Jesus raised from the
dead, Moses, Noah, and of course Jonah who was swallowed by the
fish.

Strange.  She'd put those stories out of her mind as far back as
junior high school, but now, thirty-six, she remembered not only
those stories, but also the deep feelings of conviction and
morality she always had after every Sunday school: I want to be
good.  I want to do good things and love God.  I want Jesus to
come into my heart.

Such old memories, such long ago feelings.  But the memories
were pleasant, and the feelings they evoked were warm and comforting,
which caused her to pause and reflect.  How many pleasant memories
did she really have?  Not too many.  Maybe these, some of her oldest,
were her happiest.

Psalm 119. Hmm.  It was a long chapter.  She read the first verse.
"Blessed are they whose ways are blameless, who walk according to
the law of the Lord."  That first verse was enough to grab her
attention, and she read on.

Verse 3 said, "They do nothing wrong; they walk in his ways."
Verses 4,5, and 6 continued the same theme: "You have laid down
your precepts that are to be fully obeyed.  Oh, that my ways were
steadfast in obeying your decrees!  Then I would not be put to
shame when I consider all your commands."

How did that pastor know?  She'd asked him the toughest questions
she could think of, but he came back with the answer she needed,
the one perfect for her situation, right here and now, the very
next step in her musings.

She continued to read, and the words spoke to her over and over again
about something she'd fled from for years, denied, fought against, and
finally lost...but perhaps needed most of all.

Absolutes.  A genuine right and a genuine wrong.  A fence, a point of
reference, a way to know something for sure.

She couldn't let these ideas get away from her.  She hopped out of bed and 
hurried to the closet for her duffel bag.  The few clothes she had were in 
the laundry at the moment, so the bag was a lot emptier, containing a still 
frightening amount of freshly minted cash, her notebook, which she set aside, 
and ... the rosters from Professor Lynch's office.

She felt sick at the sight of them, as if there was an evil attached
to them, as if an invisible, poisonous stowaway had come along to 
haunt her.  They frightened her; they gave her the same stomach-turning
fear and disgust one feels while waiting for something horrible to jump
out in a late-night horror movie.