...a poem contemplating what is over my head

Above

O edgeless sky
so blue in day, so black at night,
your wonders fly above my head...
I want to cry
in savage tongues, in learnéd tongues,
beholding you with swelling heart,
watching your vast containment,
crying out in joy
and dread.

O weightless clouds
in looming march, in mystic march,
you meet and scatter at your whim...
Your flight confounds
my wayward mind, my tiny mind,
beholding you with drifting cares,
wanting your grace and freedom,
tempted to compose
a hymn.

O crystal stars
all beacon flames, all known by names,
beyond all sanity you spin...
How tame you are!
for with your power, I’d be a horror;
but there you burn, there you turn,
brilliant, obedient watchers
singing agelong songs
for Him.

Mark N. Aikins
July 10, 2014

Of Rabbits and Dreams

Leonard Starski pedaled his old Schwin bike down the path that bordered his farm, a wide grin on his childlike face. George had promised him a big surprise for his birthday, and the day had finally arrived, and George had never, ever, broken a promise.

He loved riding his Schwin around their property--really loved it!--loved it almost as much as petting the rabbits. And, of course, the best part of the ride was when he stopped at the front gate and got to admire the sign one more time. Lenny was as “dumb as a fence post,” as George was fond of telling him, and couldn’t read or write. But George had learnt him by heart what was on that there sign:

HAPPY HUTCH PET FARM...GEORGE HUTCHINS & LENNY STARSKI, PROPRIETORS

Lenny got off the bike and gaped at the fancy black lettering with pleasure. He read it slowly, out loud, holding his outstretched pointer finger close to his eye and moving it back and forth as he pronounced each word. He had to start the last word three times before he got it right. Big words like that one were hard to learn by heart, but George told him it was better than putting OWNERS on the sign because fancy words made them more respectable. Respectable meant important, and their farm had to be important so that the government men would come and buy the special rabbits in the metal barn where Lenny wasn’t allowed to go in.

Lenny frowned for a minute. He didn’t like the government men much, and he resented the metal barn he wasn’t allowed to enter. No matter how many times--maybe a thousand times--he asked George why, George wouldn’t say. That was the one subject that put George in a bad mood. Once Lenny had asked, “George, when are you gonna tell me why them metal barn rabbits is so special?” George got in a bad mood and said, “Someday when pigs fly to the moon, you big ox! Now, quit asking me about them!”

Lenny didn’t mind when George called him “big ox” or “meathead” or “dumb as a fence post,” ‘cause later George would feel bad and would give Lenny extra fun chores to do around the farm to make up for calling him names. Lenny was a hard worker--always had been--even on all the farms he and George worked on during Depression. He couldn’t remember much of that...just the misty memories of walking long roads, working long days, stoking soft little creatures...and, of course, George’s sweet, shining promises that one day they’d have a place of their own.

It was only after the operation that Lenny’s memory became clearer. He’d woken up in a hospital filled with strange people, funny smells, and scary gadgets that buzzed and chirped and coughed and wheezed. He thought he was having a bad dream until George came in with a pretty lady in a yellow sweater. When he saw them, he stopped shaking and yelling and trying to break the straps that were holding him onto the hospital bed.

George acted kind of funny that first day Lenny woke up from the operation. He looked different, too, all dressed up like for church or a special party. But when he saw Lenny was calming down and smiling at him, George smiled back and pretty soon they were talking back and forth like old times.

The lady in the yellow sweater said her name was Agnes and that she wanted to ask Lenny some questions. He was nervous at first, ‘cause maybe he wouldn’t know the answers like in school when other kids would laugh at how dumb he was. But the lady, Agnes, she was so pretty that he didn’t mind talking to her. She sat right up close and talked to him soft and her voice was like a gentle song that Lenny remembered from when he was sleeping and dreaming. Lenny told Agnes this and she said, “How sweet!” Lenny didn’t tell her that she smelled as pretty as a big flower shop, though; he was too bashful to tell Agnes that.

The questions she asked him weren’t hard--just ones he could answer yes or no, like did Lenny remember this or that name, or this or that farm they’d worked on, or what happened that caused him to need an operation. Lenny felt bad that he could remember only a few things from before the operation, but Agnes said it was normal that he forgot things from before.

Lenny liked Agnes a whole lot. She was the only person who’d ever called him “normal.” Lenny had nice dreams about her but that was the only time he’d gotten to see her. When he asked George later about seeing her again, he told him she’d gone away somewhere, he didn’t know where, and she was awful busy helping other people having other operations.

That first day after the operation was a new beginning for Lenny and George. George said they’d been paid a lot of money by the government because Lenny’s operation was special--it was “sparrow-mental.” Lenny didn’t know what that meant, but because he woke up and was okay, the government would be able to help lots of other people who’d been hurt and maybe would die without the operation. Lenny asked George, “Will Agnes be with them other people when they woke up, like she was with me?” George said he didn’t know. But Lenny kept imagining Agnes being there with the others and wished he could be there with her too someday.

Those days since waking up in the hospital were one exciting day after another.  First they cashed the big check the government gave them and bought Lenny a bunch of new clothes. Then they stayed in a fancy hotel for days and days and ate like kings on a holiday. While they were at the hotel George got some special papers that they both signed to change their last names to Starski and Hutchins. George said that was so they could move to a new area that only the g-men would know about and bad people from before that operation couldn’t find them and make no trouble. Then they rode on a train and got to eat in a club car and sleep in a Pullman car and the engineer even let Lenny blow the super-loud train whistle when they came to their new town.

Back on his Schwin and wearing his wide grin once again, he let out a piercing “woo-woooo!” as the wind whipped by him on his way up the drive to the farmhouse. It was Sunday and soon George and Mrs. Baker would be coming home from church. He would sit in the parlor with the Sunday paper and she would go to the kitchen and fix their lunch. She’d keep on her good dress with the purple flowers, but put on an extra big bib apron to keep it from getting messed on.  George would be quiet all day and take a nap in his ratty old armchair. Then after sundown they’d listen to Lone Ranger and Fibber and Molly in the rec room.

Lenny didn’t like church much and almost never went. He enjoyed the musical part but George wouldn’t let him sing along ‘cause he said Lenny had a tin ear. Anyway, most of the talking and reading parts were too hard to understand, and lots of the folks there would look at Lenny in a funny way, like they were afraid he might blow up or something.

“George, you go to church every Sunday,” Lenny said once. “You sure must like it, huh?”

George took a deep breath and smiled a sad kind of smile. “I go ‘cause I need it, Lenny. Not ‘cause I enjoy it.” Lenny cocked his head and blinked at him.

“Look at it this way,” George went on. “You had to learn a bunch of things about farms and rabbits and all, so you’d be ready when your dream came true, right?”

Lenny nodded. “Yeah. I learned real good about them rabbits.”

“Well, said George, “there are things people like me need to know--things to learn about another place we dream about. We learn those things in church so we’re ready to go there.”

“What things, George? What dream place you talking about?”

George reached up and mussed Lenny’s hair. “Don’t worry about those things, Len. Believe me, you already know all you need to know.” Lenny just walked away scratching his head. How could it be he knew things those people in church didn’t? He sure wished he knew what those things were.

He hurried through the house to the rear porch where the pet hutches were attached. On the way he grabbed a couple carrots from the vegetable bin near the back door. Popping the cardboard lid off the barrel of rabbit feed, he filled the pouches of the cloth feed belt he wore around his waist, and stooped down low to enter the first hutch. Calling the rabbits by name, cuddling and caressing them, rewarding the most eager ones with a piece of carrot, scolding them gently when they refused their food, humming and crooning to them with his booming monotone--these were the moments Lenny cherished. He was in Paradise...living his dream. Methodically moving from hutch to hutch, he repeated the ritual a dozen times, finally unfastening the feed belt to hang it on the hook by the back door...

And then he heard a scream. High, shrill, piercing like a jagged blade...a rabbit scream.

“Lenny, stop! Lenny, dear, wait!” a voice chased him as he leapt from the porch in the direction of the metal barn. Mrs. Baker’s voice. She and George had returned. Lenny didn’t stop or look back. George’s blue pickup was parked by the barn next to a large black van with a long green stripe: the government men were here. They never came on Sunday.

Lenny stopped short at the metal barn’s side door, hesitating. He wasn’t allowed in here and didn’t want to break any rules on his birthday. But that scream...and he could hear voices arguing inside...and one of them was George’s. Lenny couldn’t make out what they were saying. He cracked the door open and put his ear to the crack. He smelled a sudden aroma...one that reminded him of music. His eyes widened and he almost called out her name. But the voices were clearer now and he forced himself to listen, still unwilling to enter the forbidden barn.

A voice he didn’t recognize said, “Relax, Hutchens, there’s no need for him to know...as long as we’re all willing to be reasonable.”

“Cut the crap, Billings.” George’s voice. “The point is, I would know. Our agreement was for medical specimens. Medical. We’re interested in finding cures...saving lives. Not improving baby food and beauty products.”

“They’re dumb animals, Hutchens...they don’t know what the experiments are for. You think they care why they’re being killed?”

“I care...We care--Lenny and me. This kind of research...it saved his life. When we thought he was a goner....”

“Right--when YOU pulled that trigger after he killed that woman--”

“Shut up, you bastard!”

“Hey, take it easy, Hutchens! Like I said, no need for anyone to find out about you two. That was the deal, right?”

“Right. But this order...it’s outrageous!”

“Why? The little brutes multiply fast enough, don’t they? You’ll recoup your numbers in no time.”

“But...what’ll I tell Lenny?”

Another voice, a woman’s: “You’ll have to tell him something. He’s been listening at the door.”

This was too much. Lenny opened the door wider and shuffled into the barn for the first time.

“Agnes,” he said, looking around and trying to smile, “are you my birthday surprise?” The barn was lit with bright overhead lights that buzzed like swarms of angry bees. The walls were lined with shiny wire cages, each cage with its own rabbit. There were shiny metal tables and cabinets here and there. It smelled a little like the hospital where Lenny had his operation.

“You shouldn’t be in here, Lenny,” George said, but he was staring at the floor.

“I know, George. But I heard one of them rabbits screaming and...”

“Go on, now. Go back to the house.”

“No. No, George. I been listening. I been hearing what you and the g-man been saying. And I been thinking about this here special barn...and them special rabbits. I think I know some secrets about them. I think they’re like me...sparrow-mental. Agnes is right, George. I wanna...I gotta...

“You have got to tell me the truth. I want to know...what you know, George.”

“Lenny...” George slowly raised his eyes to fasten them on his friend. The g-man turned away shaking his head and began looking at some papers on one of the shiny tables. Agnes was looking on with a sympathetic frown, her yellow sweater seeming to glow in the bright lighting.

“Lenny...” George began again, taking a step toward him, “remember when I told you that you know all you need to know about that other dream place--the place the church people dream about?”

Lenny nodded.

“Well all those church people are scared, Lenny. They’re scared they’ll never make it to that dream place because of things that they’ve done...bad, wicked, despicable things. They go to  church to get rid of those things. They go there to get washed...to get cleaned up. Otherwise God might not let them into that special place...you understand?”

“But, George...why do YOU go there? YOU ain’t done none of those bad things...right, George?”

George looked like he was about to go on talking, but Agnes walked up and took his arm, stopping him.

“Lenny, it’s really good to see you again.” Her eyes were glimmering with moisture like dew on morning grass. “It’s been three years since your operation and I’ve been checking up on you during those three years, even though you never knew about it.”

Lenny frowned and reached up to scratch his head. “But, Agnes...George said...he told me you was gone away somewheres else and--”

“George was telling you what I told him to say, Lenny. You see, you are such a special person, and the operation was so new and special, that someone had to follow up and observe you to make sure that nothing went wrong--to make sure you didn’t get sick or...”

“...or die?” Lenny squinted at her and quit scratching. He stuck both hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet.

“...or die,” she agreed. “Lenny, you had to be protected in a way that you wouldn’t know about. That was why I couldn’t visit you or let you know where I was. George had to tell you some lies so that you’d never suspect that you were being observed. If you knew you were being watched, you would have behaved differently and my observations wouldn’t have been worth as much.”

“So, now that I know you been watchin’...now...you can’t watch me no more?”

“Well, we’ll have to see about that. It’s been three years and nothing has gone wrong yet. My employers will have to determine whether or not to continue the observations, with or without my involvement. But...if they leave it up to me, I would want to be allowed to follow up your case personally, with your knowledge and permission. I would want to be your friend, Lenny.”

“That’s what...Wow! That’s what I’d want move than anything, Agnes. That’s my birthday wish...my biggest birthday wish ever!”

Then Lenny frowned and glanced around. “But...George...Agnes...I wanna know why that there rabbit was screaming. I don’t want any of them rabbits getting hurt none, George.”

“That was my fault.” Suddenly the g-man--the man George called ‘Billings’--spoke up. George and Agnes turned and looked at him nervously. “I can see I had the wrong idea about the nature of this place. Of this farm. I accidentally hurt one of the speci---er, one of the rabbits, that is. I’m sorry, uh, Mr. Starski...it won’t happen again.” He sidled up to George and whispered something to him Lenny couldn’t catch. George nodded and turned a smile back in Lenny’s direction.

“You...you gonna make sure nobody hurts none of them special rabbits no more, George?”

“Sure. Sure, Lenny. You can count on me. You don’t have to worry about them.”

“Right! And Agnes...Agnes is making sure that I’m okay from that sparrow-mental operation...”

Agnes and George nodded and glanced at each other, smiling.

“And me...” Lenny continued, his happy spirit returning, “I’ll keep on taking care of all them pet rabbits. So now we all know everything we needs to know.”

God's Will Made Simple

Knowing God’s Will

The problem with approaching theological issues as a fallen human being is really pretty simple: as a fallen human being, my default mental setting is always, "it is all about ME."

Take God’s will as an example.

Whenever I start thinking about finding God’s will, I automatically focus on such questions as “Which person should I marry?” or “What job should I apply for?” or “Where should I go to college?”.

Those are all crucial questions in my life. Why? For many reasons, but chiefly because they all deal with my personal happiness, fulfillment and success in life. To be fair, people do ask such questions because they are concerned about knowing God’s “perfect plan” for their lives. But there is a deeper issue here.

Desiring to know God’s will for a specific person (myself included) is a time-honored, traditional desire among Bible-believing Christians. But...it is a desire that has no Biblical basis. 

You read that right: wanting to know God’s individual will for your individual life is not a Biblical idea, and it never has been.

The “traditional” and faulty view I’m talking about is that which assumes that God has a perfect plan for every person--a plan that is possible to discover for oneself by spiritual and/or experimental means such as reading “signs,” claiming Bible promises, seeking godly advice and analyzing one’s own personal desires. This perfect plan is also one that it’s possible to miss out on by making the wrong decisions along the way: marrying the wrong person...attending the wrong college...choosing the wrong career path, etc.

The two things in the previous paragraph that make the view a faulty one are these:

1. God’s perfect plan can be discovered for oneself, and

2. God’s perfect plan can be missed out on or thwarted by one’s own choices.

I was brought up on this traditional view; in fact, this approach was often used as an incentive for me to make the “wisest choices” possible, so as to not miss God’s best plan for my life. The problem was not the need to make wise choices, but the idea of being able to thwart God’s best plan. Eventually, it became clear to me that the picture the Bible paints is far less ME-centered and far more GOD-centered than I had imagined.

Does God indeed have a perfect plan for every person’s life? Yes. Our God is the sovereign Ruler of the universe; He has complete control over His entire creation, ruling perfectly over all of His creatures and all of their actions, all of the time. That is what it means to be God. We are all the beneficiaries of His kind, benevolent rule, and ought to be supremely thankful to be so.

Does God instruct me to know what His individual plan for my life is in advance and stick to that plan by making the correct life choices? No. That is an idea that is foreign to the teaching of the Scriptures. When God revealed his individual will to individuals written about in the Bible, He did so by audible, verbal, extraordinary methods such as visions, dreams, angelic announcements and words from heaven. Such methods were limited to times and situations where God’s word was being delivered or authenticated. They were never used to give directions for believers’ individual life choices unless those believers were advancing God’s revelation or His redemption. And whenever those situations occurred, it was God, not the individuals, who took the initiative of revealing His will. The believers never took it upon themselves to discover it.

In fact, we are warned in the Scriptures not to try and discover God’s secret plans for our future. Deuteronomy 29:29 reminds us, “The secret things belong to the LORD our God, but the things revealed belong to us and to our children forever, that we may follow all the words of this law.” When King Saul went to the witch of Endor and attempted to receive direction by consulting the dead, he was violating God’s will and was disciplined accordingly. When Peter asked Jesus about the future plans God had for the Apostle John, Jesus, in effect, answered, “Peter, that is none of your business. You must follow Me” (John 21:22).

There are things about our future--most things--that God has planned out, but which it is none of our business to know in advance. People who assume that they can discover that secret will of the Father for their lives are playing a dangerous game. At best, they are hankering after signs and other extraordinary revelations apart from the perfect revelation of Scripture. At worst, they are delving into mysteries similar to those sought by sorcerers and soothsayers.

So, what HAS our God permitted us to know regarding his will for us?

Even more important than that question is this one: What reason does God give us for knowing His will for us? Is it to satisfy our own curiosity? To assure us of our own security, fulfillment, happiness, success?

God’s will for us is to “be filled with the knowledge of His will” (Colossians 1:9b) so that we will grow into the likeness of His Son. In other words, He gave us His word to instruct us in the ways of holiness--to teach us to obey Him in the same way Jesus did. God saves us. He gives us new hearts to believe and obey His gospel so that we are justified by the work of Christ. And once we are justified, His will is for us to be sanctified--made over in Christ’s likeness as obedient servants of the King.

And if you are not yet saved by God’s grace through Jesus Christ, it is God’s will that you repent and believe the good news. Turn from your sins and surrender your life to the Lord Jesus, your King and your God. Begin your life anew with Jesus as your Master, His word as your instruction manual, and Heaven as your ultimate destination.

That pretty much sums up all of God’s plan that He means for us to know. If we are living our lives in obedience to His word, by faith in His promises and His power, then believe me, none of our choices will ever depart from His perfect plan for us.

May He bless you all abundantly this coming week!

A Poem in the Style of Lewis Carroll

The Bopple of Kelly and Quinge

The frontier of Denck was bosso that day
when the prisoners of Pewn were released...
for the sun was as hot as a Hockafool’s pot
after all of her floogs have been fleeced.

The Choon moon was rising, so it wasn’t surprising
that Kelly Tacktelly came forth
from his lodge at Blue Blenck and flew down to Denck
to cross sabres with Quinge of the North.

It was well-known that Quinge used to poach and impinge
on Tacktelly’s rectigulous land
and had made off, it’s true, with a pluckwuck or two,
which had cost Kelly T. half a grand!

So, with sidge sabres drawn, the bopple was on
as the other Pewn cell-mates were scattered;
how they jeered! how they jooted! They huckered and hooted
as their humbusky heroes got battered!
(Who would win? To them it hardly mattered.)

Just then like a shroud came a cunimjus cloud
that just snawffled the sun quick as thought...
so the bopplers peered ups as the rain came in cups,
maybe leaving their flay-fest half-fought.

Still they hated to scrawn with their mates looking on,
so they plunged one more lunge at each udder;
but the sabres bedewed by the rain went askewed
and the heroes got schnocked in the mudder!

Tacktelly and Quingie were dopey and dingy
when suddenly Sun shined again...
and their sabres were senck in the hard earth of Denck
so they both of them counted to ten...

“Maybe that was a sign,” growled the Quinge, with a kind
of regrievulous glower on his phizz.
“I agree,” grunted Kelly. “And although you’re still smelly,
guess it’s best to leave things as they is.”

Now, the Choon moon has set since the two bopplers met
on that plain where two sabres are stuck,
telling all: “Wars shall cease, and in Denck there’ll be peace
long as Kelly and Quinge mind the muck!

The Prince of Peace

Do we not yet know what will calm the waves--
What will make the wind's howling cease?
His head is on a pillow in the bow of the boat,
Or He may be approaching,
Through the whitecaps walking;
And He calls for courage as He wakes, as He walks,
Courage given by the Prince of Peace.

Do we yet ask 'why?' when the storms are fierce,
Even longing for death's release?
Our Master weathered tempests mightier than hell,
Thorns of man enduring,
Demons' dance defying;
And He shows His wounds ever open, never healed,
Wounds of mercy in the Prince of Peace.

Do we cry 'how long?' when the wars rage on,
Ever hungering for victory's feast?
Our Victor sits enthroned far above any strife,
And He left His promise
He will soon come for us
With all those who died dressed in white by His side,
Bright companions of the Prince of Peace.


4.29.14
MNA

Flash Fiction (stories of exactly 25 words)

Love Larceny  by Mark Aikins

I only found Camille’s headstone,
having tracked the little thief to Athens
--not for my wallet...for my heart.
Another lover had found her first.





Day of Vengeance  by Mark Aikins

Hovering spectres crowded Cutter’s Glen,
gleeful over the blood-soaked ground.
Lightning, not tomahawks, had ended
the hundredth anniversary picnic of
the Indian War Victory Society.





Shore Leave Interruptus  by Mark Aikins

Communicator now slick as his palm,
“Enterprise!” he shouted, “report!!”
“Klingons disabled,” Chekov panted.
“Thirty casualties...torpedoes depleted...shields open.”
“Beam me aboard,” Kirk whispered.

At Long Last - short fiction

Dreams are funny things, he thought. Dreams are funny, tantalizing, tragic, magical, maddening things. They’d kept him going for a long time--longer than he cared to remember. Dreams of other places, of moving out, up and away. Dreams of doing more, better, greater. Dreams of being someone other than ordinary.

He looked down at Mary’s sweet, sleeping face, wisps of dark honey hair veiling one prettily lashed eyelid. Through the curtained full-length windows of their suite he could make out the muted, unending thunder of the Falls. Finally they’d made it to one of the picture postcard places he’d been reading about all his life. Finally he’d lassoed a honeymoon.

Oh, not all by himself, he’d have to admit. And that in and of itself roped one of his dreams and dragged it down to earth. Always the fierce advocate for neighbors helping neighbors, at least when it came to the calamities others were facing, when it came to his own crises, accepting outside help had always seemed an admission of defeat. Until that crazy Christmas Eve when the unimaginable had happened.

Harry’s medal ... the whole county decked out and poised to honor the Bailey name ... Uncle Billy’s memory lapse ... the missing money ... the bank examiner ... the frantic search ... the meltdown at home ... the fear in the faces of the ones he loved ... the insurance policy ... the river...

Help was certainly there when he needed it that night. The night he ceased to exist and his whole world changed.

“‘Morning, George.” The music of Mary’s voice drifted to him on the fog of memory and stirred a warm pool at the base of George’s spine, sending misty rivulets throughout his lanky frame.

During the last six months he’d spent more time with his wife than usual, watching her work, learning her ways, her habits, her likes and dislikes--studying her closely. She’d asked him why all the fuss once or twice, eventually getting used to his hovering around her.

“‘Morning, Mary.” He joined her on the bed already in his corduroys, sport shirt and tennis shoes, reached over and gently smoothed back the stray locks of hair out of her eyes, eliciting a contented “mmm” sound. “This place has a coffee pot in the corner nook; I made you some.”

“You can make coffee?” she teased. He rubbed her shoulder and she began stretching out her limbs under the covers.

“Yes, and you missed that feat of culinary prowess by sleeping half the day away.”

“Oh come on, when do I ever get to sleep in at home?”

George chuckled. “Never. You stay right where you are and I’ll bring you a cup.”

“Nonsense. I’m wide awake now. Hand me my robe--”

When she said that, a funny recollection struck both of them simultaneously. Their eyes met and the unspoken joke about locker room clothes, broken glass wishes and hydrangea bushes rushed up to their faces in wide mirrored grins.

“I should’ve grabbed you then and there and kissed the daylights out of you.”

“Would it really have put hair on that poor man’s head?”

George laughed explosively. “Ha! Maybe so...he certainly was askin’ for it!”

Their mirth settled like dream-dust around them as his memory continued on to later developments. Giving his wife a gentle pat, he rose, crossed to the sunken closet in three long strides, returned with the terry-cloth robe and held it open for her. Mary emerged naked from the covers and wrapped her body up in one fluid movement.

George encircled her shoulders with both arms from behind. “I sure do miss him.” He said it simply and sadly. He felt her hands on his arms squeezing and her head turning to press her cheek to his chest, giving him her support.

“Somehow, I’m sure he misses you, too, Darling.”

“Never knew his grandkids...never knew what a dynamite daughter-in-law he was getting.”

There was a long, lingering pause.

“Coffee smells good,” she said.

That was it for the stroll down memory lane, at least for that day. Sam Wainwright, Mr. Gower and Harry had all conspired to cover George’s duties at the Building and Loan, and over at Bailey Park housing development, so that he and Mary could get away. And after weeks of hemming, hawing and protests, George had finally admitted that the world could get along without him for a week or so. Harry’s wife Ruth, and Marty and Doris, were all looking after the kids--that is, when Mother Bailey and Mother Hatch could be pried away from them.

Up in Heaven, Peter Bailey was enjoying long talks with his new friend Clarence, who was very happy with his shiny new wings.