A quote: “I would suggest that faith is everyone’s business. The advance or decline of faith is so intimately connected to the welfare of a society that it should be of particular interest to a politician.” ~~ William Wilberforce
I’ll start with a story …
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It was the brick through her front window that finally convinced her. She swore to her grandson she wouldn’t need it, but now she sent the message through a system he set up.
She stood in the foyer and wept. Her own great-grandparents had built this house from a kit. Five generations– she was born in the front bedroom, which became her sons’ room when, as a young widow, she returned home to take care of her cancer-stricken mom.
She had raised her own children in a neighborhood where families knew each other, helped each other, while The City grew up around them.
And the last ten years? The front yard roses were gone. Trashed or stolen she gave up on replacing them. Her picket fence kicked down, she just removed it. Even watering the lawn to a healthy green seemed to enrage someone, somewhere, so she let it die.
Resentment ruled. To keep your yard clean was putting on airs. To live alone in a big house was hoarding. Even to live too long was to take up space that belonged to the young.
She was ready when he came to get her. One small bag of memories to take, one last look over her shoulder as they left and the house burst into flames.
It would be as her great-grands found it. Empty land. Let’s see them do better.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, modified and cropped, Adobe Stock Standard license
The man looked around the house in satisfaction. “I’m so glad the house is in such good shape. Your family does very good work.”
I smiled at the compliment. “Thank you. Did you look over the quotes I sent over?”
He nodded and looked a bit uncomfortable. “I don’t mean to be rude but the price seems a bit-“
“With respect, when was the last time you hired someone for services? So yes, sticker shock is going to happen. Frankly, that’s what you get from holing up in a monastery for so long. You lose touch.”
“Forgive me. I am still unaccustomed to how things are done after being away for so long.”
“It’s fine. My family has a lot of experience dealing with Methuselahs. For what it’s worth, the amount being asked is not only reasonable but it will barely make a scratch in your finances.”
“I see. Such a shame about losing the wallpaper.”
“You’ll think otherwise when the contractor shows you what things will look like.” I handed him a card. “Mr. Preston is much older than you and he’ll be happy to assist you with adapting to the world again. Now, let’s talk about the kitchen…”
Nicholas Yates seldom gives interviews, so I was surprised when he invited me to speak with him, not at his laboratory, but at his North Shore home. He proved surprisingly personable, and we chatted for some time about his various inventions. The Picker was obvious, given that it was the final wedge that broke the power of the Southern planter aristocracy. But the Bombsight was also critical, given how it compensated for the change in buoyancy caused by the bomb’s release, so that strikes could be targeted in rapid succession.
From there our conversation drifted to the Turkish War itself. He’d personally commanded the airship USNS Abraham Lincoln in the latter part of the War, as US forces were hunting the worst of the criminals involved in the massacres of Christians and Jews in the Carpathians. I was already cognizant of the atrocities of the latter part of the War, so I did not probe for details. Instead, I asked how he, a good Irish son of the Catholic Church, felt about defending the various Orthodox Churches of the Balkans.
Yates gave an awkward little laugh. “I’m not sure how well the label ‘good Catholic’ applies to me, not when the Holy Father effectively called for the Turkish War to be made into a new Crusade. Personally, I think the wisest thing America’s leadership did was to specifically refuse to make it a war about religion.” He paused, frowned. “You do know I’m a survivor of the Great Hunger — what the sassenach call the Irish Potato Famine. I probably would be an indifferent Catholic at best if the British Crown hadn’t made religion such an issue. ‘Want relief? Renounce the Catholic Church’ — that’s what they told us. That’s the reason why I felt so much joy in renouncing all allegiance to Queen Victoria. And I expect America’s refusal to make religion an issue is part of why missionaries of all stripes are finding so much interest in the Gospel in that land.”
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