​The life of a prosecutor may look squeaky clean and dignified on the outside, but let’s face it, I knew every prostitute, drunk and petty criminal in the city.  Curiously, I liked most of them.  I understood that the prostitutes didn’t have much choice if their family was going to have money to survive.  I saw the drunks as lost souls beyond my help, and the petty criminals were for the most part, like the prostitutes, people trying to survive with the odds stacked against them. 
 
A few months before my twenty-fifth birthday, my friend Kato got arrested. I’d recently convinced a judge to convict the emperor’s cousin of rape and murder, so I wasn’t surprised when my supervisor dropped a file on my desk saying, “Jaconovich, bring me a conviction on this piece of scum.”
 
I thought this would be another rape/murder case.  I opened the file to see charges for arson against one Kato T’KU. I saw red and my heart ached.  I wondered how I could recuse myself.  I shuffled through the file to determine that the arson occurred at a laundry then grabbed my suit jacket and stormed out the door ready to kill or at least bellow at Kato.  I walked from my office to the jail hoping to cool down before I actually got my hands on the man. 
 
The guards at the jail knew me and waved me through doors and down to the cells in the basement of the building.  The place stunk of urine, excrement, vomit and blood reminding me of the tenement I grew up in.  I took a deep breath anyway then yelled, “Kato” I had no intention of looking through cells for the man I wanted.
 
“Jake!”  Kato’s voice rang with pure joy.
 
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
 
“They said I set the fire at the laundry, but I didn’t do it.”
 
My heart softened, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  “Where were you at the time it started?’
 
Kato turned red and looked at the floor.
 
“He was at The Pleasure Palace with a woman who calls herself Cleopatra.”  One of the few men I didn’t know snarled.
 
I looked at Kato and raised my eyebrows.  “Cleo, will vouch for you.  She’s honest enough.”
 
Kato looked me in the eye, “Thanks Jake.  You know me.  I’ve got a good job in security for Soyet.  Common, I walked home from school with T’SU’s son.  Why would I hurt a friend?”
 
I knew Kato as one of the most easy-going and compassionate persons I’d ever met. I suspected his list of friends included most everybody in the city.  My gratitude for his quiet friendship the year after Kaylee died ran deep. “Come on.  Let’s get you out of here.  Do you know who set the fire?”
 
Kato shook his head. 
 
I turned to the waiting guard and nodded for the cell to be opened.  The other men in the cell pressed forward so the guard hit at them with his stick.  I drawled, “Guard, it’s okay. I need some exercise and those fellows look like they could use a little nap.”
 
The men watching the scene who knew me as more than Prosecutor Jaconovich laughed and shook the bars of their cells yelling, “Let ‘em out. Let The M’TK Sewer Rat at ‘em.”  They laughed when the men in the cell with Kato fell back against the back wall dragging their ignorant cellmates with them.
 
Kato laughed and assured his cellmates, “He is, you know.  I went to school with him.  Saw him take down three big bullies when we were ten.  He walked back into class looking so neat and tidy the teacher thought everybody lied about him fighting.”
 
I laughed at the memory as Kato escaped his cell.  “I need this man over here, too.”  I pointed at the stranger who said Kato had been at The Pleasure Palace.
 
Alas, the stranger had never heard of The M’TK Sewer Rat.  When the guard opened his cell, he pushed the guard aside and made a run to push past me.  Anybody could have tripped him.  I caught him in front of his hips with my right leg, lifted him off his feet then dropped him. He stretched out flat on the concrete floor.  Men in the cells whooped and hollered.  I scowled at them. “Hold it down or next time you’re in my office, it won’t go so easy for you.”  I held no illusions that they wouldn’t be in my office soon, and they knew it.  The noise level dropped.
 
I figured the prisoner on the floor might decide to give me more trouble so I removed my jacket and handed it to Kato.  The men in their cells cheered again.  I hauled the stranger up off of the floor.  “Do you have any other stupid ideas?  If so, we can settle our difference of opinion, now.”
 
The man shook his head more to clear it than to answer my question. 
 
I snarled, “Now, you are going to come along to my office, peacefully and give a deposition.  This little outing will give you an hour or so out of this stench.  You cannot escape me.  Do you understand?”
 
The prisoner paused.  He looked at Kato grinning and bouncing at my elbow while holding my coat.  He looked at the other men in their cells smirking at him.  He looked me in the eye and nodded.
 
“Good, let’s go. You look like a laborer.  What are you in here for?”  I thought to keep the man talking in hope that I wouldn’t have to chase him down later.
 
The witness turned out to be a laborer who’d come from the capital looking for work.  He’d gotten picked up for brawling after leaving The Pleasure Palace.  He told me he’d been in jail for two weeks and hadn’t been processed.  After he gave his deposition, I sent him off to our holding room to wait to be processed and released.  I decided he’d served his time for brawling.
 
I released Kato.
 
My next step made visiting the jail a picnic.  Male criminals I can handle.  I needed to work up my courage before visiting The Pleasure Palace, which is a grand name for an encampment of tents and shacks on the outside edge of the city limits.  It had sprung up after the day I’d bellowed in frustration at the women filling our holding room, “Take your profession outside the city limits so I don’t have to process you every week.”  Now, I must face the prospect of going out there.
 
I had a good idea how this chore could go.  I’d started processing women picked up for prostitution as an intern well before my twentieth birthday…I guess age is no excuse.  The problem remained that the women liked to see me blush or sweat.  I thought about sending a police officer after Cleo, but The Pleasure Palace is outside the city jurisdiction.  I would go.
 
I needed to walk the last few blocks from the trolley past the city limits to the encampment huddled under the trees beside the river.  Walking toward my destination, I endured knowing looks and snickers along with some remarks about my disgusting nature from people on the street.  The humiliation I endured walking toward The Pleasure Palace proved to be nothing compared to what happened when the women saw me. 
 
I’d timed my arrival for mid-afternoon hoping that most of the women would be asleep or busy with day jobs and chores.  I entertained a fantasy of quietly sending someone to bring Cleo to me.
 
I didn’t recognize the voice of the woman who sounded the alarm, or call to attack as it was.  “It’s the young prosecutor come to visit.” She yelled.
 
Women poured out of their tents and doorways.  A woman with improbable red hair reached me first and draped her arms around me.  “Come with me dearie.  I’ve got just what you need.”
 
“Don’t listen to her.  She dyes her hair.  It’s plain black down there.  I’ll give you some real pleasure.” The second woman jostled me as she also draped an arm around my neck.
 
“Listen, those girls just want your money and will give you the clap.  Now, I’d be happy to have you between my legs just to get my hands on your body.” The third woman blocked my path.
 
I remembered my training in martial arts and tried to breathe and concentrate only on my errand.  I held up my hands.  “Ladies please, I’m here on business.  I need to see Cleo.”
 
“We’re all about business here.  Forget Cleopatra.  She doesn’t have anything I don’t have.”
 
I kept my eyes focused on a tree branch just above the women’s heads as the safest place to look.  “I need her to come to my office and make a desperation, uh deposition.”  Inspiration struck.  “Actually, I need all of you who were here the night of the laundry fire to come to my office and make depositions.  A man named T’KT claims he was here, a stranger from the capital, couple inches taller than me, scar on the inside of his right hand.”
 
The women backed away and began to eye me warily.  Angel asked, “What do you want with T’KT?”
 
I answered, “He’s a good enough man.  Claims he was here and that you all watched the fire together.  I need the person he was with to make a statement he was here.”
 
Angel sidled closer to me.  “He was with me.  Will I get arrested if I come into the city?  Or if I say what we were doing?”
 
“No.  You’re free to walk through the city.  Just don’t work there.  You’ll be safe enough.  Where’s Cleo?” I let my eyes rest on Angel’s eyes.
 
“Not here.  Her mama’s real sick so she went to Sylvana to get her.”
 
My heart sank.  “I need a statement from Cleo as soon as I can get it.  Listen, I’m willing to pay one of you to go get Cleo and bring her and her mama back.  I’ll give you rail passes.  Angel, can you come back to my office with me now?”
 
Thus it was that I returned to the city in the company of five prostitutes, willing to state that T’KT and Kato had been at The Pleasure Palace when the laundry burned.  As we walked toward the trolley, I endured more ribald comments and a few slammed doors.  I think the worst encounter occurred when the shoe repairman stared at me with open-mouthed envy.
 
***
In the end, we completely cleared Kato.  We eventually determined that he’d been accused because he’d overheard something of value that his innocent heart could not understand.  Months later we caught the real arsonist, and that adventure is detailed in M’TK Sewer Rat: End of Empire
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Timmy hosts the monthly meetings of the local writers club in the banquet room of his restaurant.  Timmy, himself is the most prolific of the writers.  He specializes in stories about fishing published in regional magazines with two stories having graced the pages of Field and Stream. 
 
Enid serves as chair of the group.  She traditionally published a Regency romance novel some twenty years ago but hasn’t completed anything since.  Her short fingernails testify that she spends most of her writing time having anxiety attacks over which word best suits her character’s personality.
 
Carl self-published twelve Sci-Fi novels, none of which have sold more than five copies.  He keeps trying while attempting to argue with Enid over the merits of self-publishing versus traditional publishing.  Unfortunately, Enid always wins these arguments when she mentions her royalty checks that keep trickling in but never amount to enough to buy cat food.
 
No such group would be complete without a poet.  Jane fills that role exquisitely.  Her husband is a supervisor at Willits-Manion which means he works long hours and brings home a paycheck that allows his wife to dress well, write bad poetry and attend conferences as a representative of their group.
 
Occasionally, Hannah finds someone willing to stay with her children and visits the group to read one of her slice-of-life stories, which leave her hearers with tears of laughter running down their faces.  They eagerly encourage her to send her stories to magazines.  She promises to send this one off then gets busy with her children and nothing gets mailed. 
 
Larkin the local English Literature teacher from the high school attends the meetings occasionally.  He has appointed himself the official critic of the group.  He often monopolizes half a meeting admonishing Timmy to stop using the Oxford comma and telling Enid that she just needs to set a certain time each day to write, and scolding both Enid and Carl to stop writing “Genre Trash.” 
 
If asked, Larkin can spend the second half of a meeting detailing his research on the definitive compilation of the events leading up to World War Three.  Should the unthinkable happen, Larkin will be the first off the press to detail the greed, manipulations, misunderstandings and nefarious acts of sabotage leading up to the horrific events of the war. 
 
On this particular evening, all six members of the group huddled around the table at the back of the banquet room.  Enid despite her writing anxieties made a good chair.  When Larkin tried to open the meeting with a comment on using a single space after a period, Enid cut him off.  “Larkin, that argument can take all night, and we all know Hannah’s babysitter can call her away at any moment.  Hannah, do you have one of your delightful stories for us tonight?”
 
Hannah produced a piece about her five year old son toilet training his siblings, the dog, the cat, a neighbor boy, and an assortment of dolls and teddy bears in a display set up on the front sidewalk.  The project involved the family potty chair and an assortment of makeshift containers from the kitchen cupboards.  The police had been sympathetic.
 
The other writers wiped at their tears at the end of the story and declared that their sides hurt from laughing. 
 
Larkin announced, “Your little stories are always so amusing, but of little commercial value.”
 
Timmy countered, “It’s just a matter of finding the right audience.  There are lots of parenting magazines and women’s journals that would pay for that story.  Can I have a copy of it to show to Maude.  She’ll love it.”  Timmy thought Hannah’s stories should be lighting up the lives of other people.
 
Enid returned from the restroom and admonished Hannah. “You almost made me pee my pants with that one.  You have a gift of finding just the right word.”  She returned to the business at hand.  “Jane do you have a report on the conference in San Francisco?”
 
“Yes, I read my poem, Oyster, which was well received and met with a group who want to publish an anthology of the poetry that was presented.  I distributed our business cards to twenty agents, so be sure and include one of our cards when you send your writing off to an agent.  I attended seminars on marketing poetry and another one on self-publishing short stories.”  She turned and nodded to Carl.  “I didn’t find a niche for Hannah’s stories, but they are so good, I’m sure we’ll find someone to pay her for them.”  Jane flung her scarf over her shoulder catching the fringe in Hannah’s long hair.  “I have a new poem I wrote on the airplane coming home.”
 
The group dutifully applauded when Jane finished reciting her latest work of dubious art.
 
Carl read a short piece about his latest alien cat-like creature and the rest of the group praised his efforts.  Most of the rest of the group praised his efforts.  Larkin commented, “I couldn’t tell if this cat was supposed to be good or evil.  Cats have long been an evil archetype, so you need to make the character more sinister and dark.”
 
“The cat is my protagonist, and I want to avoid clichés and archetypes.”
 
“Then you need to find a different animal all together to represent your protagonist because cats are always evil and you will confuse your reader.  Why don’t you try something like a magician or a warrior as your hero, something that people will know is good without you having to tell the reader that the character represents good. 
 
Enid interrupted, “Thank you Carl.  Your description is excellent.  I wish I could manipulated words like you do.”  She smiled at Carl hoping Larkin’s inane criticism wouldn’t discourage the others.  “Larkin, have you written anything you wish to share with us?”
 
“As you know, I am not to the writing stage yet, but I did find a source I’m excited about.  I found this book called Lies That Bind.  It is about this third world country that looks like it might be Eastern Europe or South America, but it could be in Asia or Africa.  Anyway, the author appears to be doing the same thing I am and has documented several events like the drought in Syria and the latest recession.”
 
Timmy’s forehead wrinkled,  “Um, does the author name these places and the people involved.”
 
“Oh no.  It’s written completely in code.  Only those of us who really know what is going on can understand the message behind the story.  But, the author proves that some important people are manipulating us into war and even names the people who will be killed to provoke the war.”
 
“That sounds dangerous.  Does this author come out and say that the British Prime Minister will be killed or anything like that?”  Timmy’s frown wiggled at the corners.
 
“Oh no, but she has a character named Elizabeth so you know England is involved in the plot.  Some of the names of her characters like Anne, Sarah and Mariah are the names of people who have actually died in accidents in the past year.  All you have to do is do a search on the names of the people in her book and you will see that they died in ‘so called” Larkin made parenthesis signs in the air with his fingers,  “accidents or are actually high ranking officials in governments.”
 
Carl held his head and stared at the table.  Without looking up he said, “Right.  Do you Google on just the first names or on the whole name like Anne Kimbal?”
 
“I use combinations.  I wrote lists of the names of every character in the book.  One list is just the first names another is just the last names, and the third list is first and last names.  Apparently, the author has some mathematical algorithm for combining the names.  I don’t know what that is, but I’ll figure it out.  I knew I was onto something when I combined the first names into groups of five and started Googling the groups.  That is when I discovered that these are the first names of people who died in accidents.”
 
Timmy rubbed his face with his hands.  Carl rushed out of the room.  Hannah grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and announced that she had to leave.  Jane hummed as she looked at the ceiling.  Enid’s voice broke when she said, “Mm, very interesting.  I’m glad your research is coming along.”  Enid nodded several times before concluding.  “I think our time is up. Thank you all for coming and keep up the good work.”
 
A few minutes after Larkin left the building Carl emerged from the bathroom.  “Is he gone, yet?”
 
Timmy chuckled as he nodded. 
 
“That book he mentioned, isn’t that the one written by Pastor Maude’s friend?”
 
Timmy snorted, “Oh yes.  Maudy donated a copy to the fundraiser to put sod on the new playfields.  Believe me, it’s nothing but a love story.  I had wondered who bought that.”
 
Carl waved at Timmy and shook his head as he wandered toward the door muttering, “…grouped the first names and Googled on them.”
 

​Pere Phillipe lived in the beautiful valley with his son Trevung and the S’TOs and their neighbors for five weeks.  He spent long hours baptizing all one hundred twenty-five residents in the valley and from the mountainsides above the valley.  He’d performed forty marriages and recorded all the details in a small black book. 
 
Holy Week approached and Pere Phillipe debated whether to return to the cathedral a triumphant missionary or send back a message that he’d been eaten by wild dogs and stay among the valley people.  He’d fallen into a routine of helping Gervung and Trevung in the school every day.  He’d helped to build another room on Trevung’s house and helped plant gardens around Gervung’s house.  He saw that the valley people could produce more food with better varieties of fruit trees and seeds. 
He sighed as he stood beside Gervung and waved goodbye to their students.  He wondered if he would ever see the students again if he returned to the cathedral. 
 
“Pere,” Gervung touched the older man’s arm to get his attention.  “Let’s sit beside the creek and talk a while.  I know you plan to return to the cathedral for Easter.  I have some questions that need to be answered.”
 
The older man nodded with a good idea what those questions might be.  He didn’t know how he would answer those questions.
 
The two men sat down at the edge of the creek and Gervung began.  “I think you loved my mother.  Tell me about her.” He’d asked the one question the priest wanted to talk about.
 
Pere Phillipe brushed a tear from his cheek.  “We will start at the beginning.  My family name is Soyet.  Our family is very rich with many servants.  Mama often hired girls from the country to come work for us while they went to school in the city.  Your mama came to live with us and work while attending school.”
 
The older man paused in his story and looked inward through the years.  “I think I fell in love with her the first time I saw her.  Mama was strict that us boys were not to talk to the servant girls.  Usually we didn’t bother they were only servants.  But your mama, she was special.  She moved through a room with grace, not like the other servants who scuttled.  Mama never found reason to scold her, but often commented that she was different.  Her work was always excellent.
 
Mama soon decided that Y’NiD should become a nun because she excelled in her schoolwork and in her work in our home.  I’d started making time to see her regularly by this time. 
 
I knew Mama intended me for the church, but I wanted a wife and family especially after meeting your mama.  I had no idea how determined Mama was that I should join the priesthood. 
 
Y’NiD tried to tell my mama that she could not become a nun because she had been promised to someone.  Both of us knew better than to acknowledge our love to Mama.  Finally, Mama took Y’NiD to the convent and told the Mother Superior to take her as a novice. 
 
I felt heartbroken for about six hours until I decided to go get your mama and run away with her.  I went to mass.  She was there.  I wasn’t supposed to be allowed to speak to her, but the old nun in charge of the novices allowed me a couple minutes with her thinking that I had messages from Mama.
 
We ran away right then and returned to her family.  Her papa took us to the old village priest immediately.  We were married in the church and the marriage was recorded.”
 
“But, if you married Mama, how did it come to be that you are a priest?”
 
“The simple answer is due to the shear evilness of my family.  We lived together with your mama’s family.  I tutored the ignorant sons of my peers to support us.  We were happy.  The whole family celebrated with us when we learned that you were on the way.”  The priest coughed and paused in his story.
 
“Before we’d been together for a year, my parents found us.  I thought they’d simply disown us, but mama was set on me being a priest.  I don’t know how many people they bribed.  Papa’s servants tied me up and carried me in a farm cart back to the monastery and had me locked me up.  After six weeks the abbot came to me and told me that Y’NiD had died in childbirth.”  The priest paused and watched the water in the creek for a few minutes before he continued.  “In black despair, I knew I could never love another woman, so I took my vows to become a priest.”
 
“Almost five years after I last saw your mama, I became ordained.  I requested some time to work among the poor. Really, I wanted to visit your mama’s parents.  They told me that she was still alive that you were strong and healthy and they gave me her direction.  I went to her immediately.  Now, we both knew the church would kill her and our child if they knew of our marriage. I stayed with her for five days. Our love was as it had always been.  It was during that time that Trevung was conceived.  We made plans for our future. Your aunt had married the local shopkeeper by then and he became our go between when I returned to the cathedral in Portlandia.”
 
“Uncle N’RS?  I thought he hated me.”
 
The priest shook his head.  “He hates the church more.  He hated the whole business, but maybe he thought he was doing the right thing or maybe he wanted to get back at the church.  Anyway, he befriended us.  Citing my desire to work among the poor and the natives, I requested a transfer to the cathedral near your mama.  The transfer came through when Trevung was six months old.  From that time, we lived a half life, always wanting more time together and afraid of the church if the truth came out.”
 
“Was there no way out?”
 
“Don’t you think I researched that question?  The church is not a forgiving mistress.  I read.  I talked to church scholars. The answer according to church law is that I would lose my ordination, which I care little about.  The practical answer was that you, your mother and I should all be executed for apostasy, heresy and a half dozen other charges.  We didn’t have money to leave the country, so we continued as we were.  I did the best I could for my family, but our enemies were too great.  Remember that we faced not only the church, but my family.  My mama still rules the family.  She is cruel and ruthless.  We needed to hide not only from the church, but from Mama.  Even now, I fear that if I do not return on time or even earlier than expected, your lives and those of your wives will be in danger.  The church has forgotten or never known of my love.  My mama will never forget.”
 
“And yet, you came among us as a priest baptizing us and marrying us by the laws of that monster, the church.”
 
“No son, I baptized you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  I married you before God and the witness of your community.  I will serve God, but not the greedy church.  The two are not the same.”
 
Gervung sat and stared into the water for ten full minutes before he lifted his head.  “Life is as it is.  We will make the best of what we have.  I think my neighbors are in great need of a missionary.  Can you return?  You will be welcome in my home.”
 
“I will come as often as I can.  My heart has been at rest with my sons nearby.  I see your Mama in the way you stand and hold your head.  Trevung has her laugh.  I cannot stay away.”
 
***
Abbot Paul looked up from Pere Phillipe’s report.  “A hundred and twenty-five converts, you have done well, brother.  I have often criticized you as a priest.  You are indifferent in your duties.  You do not give penance as you should.  Your homilies are dull.  You put me to sleep when you say mass.  But, a hundred and twenty-five converts in six weeks.  You have done well.”
 
“That is a hundred and twenty-five baptisms.  The people need more instruction.  Many do not know their prayers.  I hope to return next year.  There will be new babies and new weddings and they must learn their prayers and celebrate mass.”
 
Abbot Paul folded his hands as if in prayer.  “No, what I am trying to say is that you are not called to serve in the cathedral.  You are called to be a missionary.  You will stay with us during Eastertide, but on the first day of Pentacost you must set out on another missionary journey.”
 
Pere Phillipe bowed his head in submission so the abbot could not see the joy in his eyes.  For the first time since before entering the priesthood, he would be free to live with his sons.
 

​Pere Phillipe hung in the shadows of the cathedral garden and watched Trevung and Gervung leave the city with women at their sides. He leaned forward to devour the sight of Trevung’s broad shoulders and how the young man tenderly swung a small boy up to his shoulders.  He knew the boy could not be Trevung’s child, but had Trevung married?  The priest shook his head knowing that Trevung’s marriage could never be blessed in the church.
 
Pere Phillipe watched the young men until after he could no longer imagine that he still saw Trevung then he remembered his chore.  He hurried to the storehouse to count the baskets of peas and beans available for the Lenten porridge.  His lip curled in disgust as he carried about his task.  He hated the unseasoned porridge.  His disgust with his Lenten meals combined with his heartache until his mind began to search for an escape.
 
“Abbot Paul, I believe Our Gracious Lord has set it upon my heart to take a pilgrimage to convert the natives during Lent.”  Pere Phillipe stood before his superior and discussed the call.
 
Finally, the abbot concluded, “Frere, I have long noticed your work among the poor and your compassion for sinners.  You are named for a missionary.  This call is from God.  You must go.  Take nothing with you except what you wear on your back.”
 
Thus it was that Pere Phillipe set out after Ash Wednesday morning mass to follow in the footsteps of Trevung and Gervung.  He had some luck in finding them when he visited the last village on the road and enquired after the location of Gervung’s school among the natives.  “Oh, you are looking for the S’TOs.  They are married to the potter E’KuN’s daughters.  Visit the potter and he’ll give you directions.”
 
Papa E’Kun gave Pere Phillipe directions, food, a blanket, and gifts for the S’TO family before sending him on his way.   The path had become well marked over the years as the E’KuN family and the S’TO’s had visited back and forth.  Thus it was after two nights on the road, Pere Phillipe crossed the summit of a low pass and entered into a broad valley leading toward the mountains.
 
As Pere Phillipe climbed the hill toward the first hut he saw, Devola came out to meet the black-clad stranger who recognized her as the woman with Trevung.  “I am Pere Phillipe.  I’ve come on a mission to your valley.”
 
Devola stood in the path leaning on her walking stick.  “What do you want with us?”  She hadn’t understood a word the man said.
 
Taken aback by the woman’s tone and military stance, Pere Phillipe tried again. “I am a man of God, come from the cathedral in the city.  I am known to Trevung and Gervung.  I’ve come to teach the people of this valley about God.”
 
Devola still didn’t know anything about priests or God, but she looked closely into the older man’s eyes and recognized what nobody else had seen before.  “Oh.  You have come to teach.  Trevung will be pleased.  We have too much to do.  You are welcome.  Come inside.  This is my son, M’TW.”  Devola sent M’TW to fetch sticks to build up the fire and rushed about making the priest comfortable. 
 
Pere Phillipe sat on a low bench and ate the bit of berry cake Devola shoved into his hands while he congratulated himself on being where he wanted to be and avoiding the Lenten porridge.  As he listened to Devola’s chatter, he became alarmed.
 
“Papa Pere, you may wash the dust off your feet in the creek just down that path.  Do you want your noon meal before I take you down to the school?  Trevung has not told me much about his family in the city.  Mountain men killed my family, so I don’t have one.  I’m happy to have you here.  Where do you live?”
 
“Daughter,” it pleased Pere Phillipe to call this woman daughter.  “I do not think you quite understand.  I am a priest.  I live with other priests in the rectory beside the cathedral in the city.  My name is Phillipe.  The word ‘pere’ is French meaning…” he paused not wanting to give this astute young woman any more ideas than she seemed to have, “…priest.  Pere means priest in the French language so people call me Pere Phillip”
 
“Oh, I’m sorry we didn’t have time to visit you when we were near the cathedral. We visited Trevung’s aunt just a short time ago.”  Devola puckered her forehead trying to figure out if she’d used the correct words Trevung taught her about things they’d done in the past.
 
Pere Phillipe saw Devola’s apparent confusion and broke into a sweat wondering what Trevung’s aunt had said about his family.  He cleared his throat.  “She is a generous woman.  Very good to the poor.”  He finally caught an inspiration.  “I believe she and her husband have done well trading with the people from this valley.  We have heard of the S’TO family even in the city.  They are accounted to be very grand.”
 
“They are wise.  Marina and Sabrina S’TO started the school here.  They are very educated.” Devola sighed thinking of the two women who inspired her.  “They have been very kind to me.”
 
Pere Phillip sweated some more as he remembered the twins who drove the nuns crazy by looking exactly alike.  He remembered the E’KuN family.  Where Marina and Sabrina E’KuN here?  “I should like to meet the S-S-S-S’TO family.  I w-wish to talk with all the people here.  I’m here to teach about G-G-G-God.”  The poor priest stuttered as he felt the mountains closing in around his secret.
 
Devola nodded,  “Rest a bit and eat.  I have a rabbit stew that is warm.  We will get to the school just after their lunch.  Gervung and Trevung will not want the morning lessons interrupted.”
 
Devola did arrive at the school with Pere Phillipe just before the afternoon classes started.  “Look Trevung, Papa Phillipe has come to teach, so you can have the afternoon to clear more rocks from the garden.” 
 
Pere Phillipe cringed at the introduction.  Gervung and Trevung thought nothing of Devola translating the priest’s title into the common language and welcomed the man who’d often brought their mother gifts of food and clothing from the poor box.
 
Sabrina arrived to help with the afternoon classes and greeted the priest with caution.  “Pere Phillipe welcome to our school and to our valley.  Do you have a place to stay?”
 
Pere Phillipe shook his head just as Devola intervened, “Papa, you must stay with us.  Where else would you stay?”
 
Sabrina caught the inflection in Devola’s voice and tried not to smile at her misunderstanding of the priest’s title.  She resolved to visit Devola and explain the church to her, later.  “Devola, you must share our visitor.  Papa S’TO will want to meet him and hear what he has to say.”
 
Devola nodded to the wisdom of her idol and felt only slightly resentful over having to share Papa Phillipe.  “I want to learn what he teaches, too.  I want to learn more about the cathedral.”
 
“Marina and I will start a class on the church.  It is a shame that we haven’t done so before now.”  She turned to the priest.  “Would that be helpful, Pere?”
 
Somewhat relieved that Sabrina took charge of the situation Pere Phillipe stopped sweating for a moment.  “Yes, that would be helpful.  Abbot Paul sent me to convert the natives.” 
 
Sabrina remembering how the nuns beat her and Marina could only nod.  She remembered this priest as having a reputation for kindness to the poor and to sinners.  Maybe he wouldn’t be too bad.
 
Once again, Devola opened her mouth, “Trevung, I thought you could help me clear rocks from the new garden this afternoon, but perhaps you would prefer to spend time with Papa and help him learn what he needs to teach.”
 
Trevung tried to hide his amusement at Devola calling the priest Papa.  “I’ll stay and teach my lesson and help Pere Phillipe get settled.  He was good to my mama.” Trevung couldn’t know how his words reinforced Devola’s understanding of their family relationships.
 
Sabrina decided to walk Devola part way home and explain that pere did not mean the same as papa. 
 
“Oh, I know that.  Pere means a priest.  Pere Phillipe is Trevung’s papa.”  Devola continued on her way home not knowing that she’d shocked the educated, smart and wise Sabrina S’TO to her very core.
 
 
 
 

​Recently, someone commented on a movie as having Christian values.  I immediately lost interest in the possibility of seeing it.  Now, I suspect many people will shrug and agree that they would lose interest, too.  However, I may not have much else in common with others who would lose interest in a movie labeled Christian.
 
I was raised in the Presbyterian Church.  In my twenties I converted to the United Methodist Church.  I’ve been a youth minister and taught Sunday School.  I completed a two-year graduate-level program in lay ministry.  I still sing in the church choir.  So, why would I be turned-off by something labeled as Christian?  I confess my reaction took me by surprise. 
 
My problem isn’t with my Presbyterian upbringing or with the global services of the United Methodist Church.  My problem is with how Christianity is portrayed, often justly, by the media.  Nowhere in the media portrayal of the modern church do I hear the gospel of loving one another.  I don’t hear the media linking Christianity with forgiving and accepting.  What I do hear has nothing to do with nurturing spirituality or serving one another.  Love seems to be left out of the equation.  Forgotten is the notion of undeserved forgiveness, grace. 
 
I recently had a friend who insisted that Christianity is all about saving your sorry ass for eternity by following rules and saying the right things.  I recognize where he got that idea, but when you are raised Presbyterian, salvation is not really part of the equation.  Presby’s believe that some people are predestined to follow Jesus.  Others are not, and there isn’t much we can do about it one way or another.  I find that my earliest teachings still hold a strong influence over my relationship to the church and my concepts of faith and spirituality.  While I won’t say I firmly believe in predestination, I do accept that not everybody is going to see what I see, but that is okay.  So no, not all people in the Christian tradition are concerned with salvation and some of us believe that a focus on salvation is counter-productive to finding transforming love through a connection to our spirituality.
 
I am not alone in finding the contemporary portrayal of Christianity as offensive.  Obviously many non-believers are offended.  What isn’t so obvious is that most of us sitting in our pews on Sunday morning are offended by the hatred, greed, bigotry and self-interest passed off as Christianity.  I loved one author who described what we see in the media and in too many popular churches as a stylized, bastardized representation of Christianity. Preach it sister!
 
So, what is this thing that I’ve practiced that is so different from that offensive in-your-face movement that calls itself Christianity?  First, faith means recognizing that you do not know everything there is to know about everything and being open to connecting with ancient wisdom while exploring new possibilities.  The center of all of this is recognizing the power of love, love for each other, for yourself and for those who are really obnoxious.  Okay, loving the obnoxious is really hard, but we try or better yet, ask the Holy Spirit to enter in where we cannot love.  A good portion of loving others involves keeping our mouth shut, and offering those we disagree with acceptance and love. 
 
As I understand the teachings of the New Testament, rather than following rules, we are to focus on loving.  The power of love will transform us into people who love life, care for others, are filled with compassion, and find joy in the simple pleasures around us.  The end of the story is transformation through love everything less is a non-issue.