Inn-By-The-Bye Stories—15

By William Flewelling

In an endeavor to find a fresh way into the scriptural text upon which I would be preaching, I began to develop an imaginary world populated primarily by wee folk. I found that theythe characters I developed and the way that they evolved in my mind and on the pageserved me well as a consideration of how I sensed things are happening in the scriptural text at hand. I want to make these stories and the world they represent newly available, and so I bring them to book form, fifty at a time.

The cover drawing was done by Eve Sullivan, the author's granddaughter.

The drawing is the artists conception of the hut, home of Father John of Uiston.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546235095

William Flewelling

I am a retired minister from the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) living in central Illinois. Led by a request from Mildred Corwin of Manua OH when I arrived there in 1976, I long developed and led a series of bible studies there and in LaPorte IN and New Martinsville WV. These studies proved to be very feeding to me in my pastoral work and won a certain degree of following in my congregations. My first study was on 1 Peter, chosen because I knew almost nothing about the book. I now live quietly in retirement with my wife of 54 years, a pair of dogs and several cats.

Book preview

© 2018 William Flewelling. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/22/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3503-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-3509-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Also By This Author

Poetry

Time Grown Lively

From My Corner Seat

Enticing My Delight

The Arthur Poems

From Recurrent Yesterdays

In Silhouette

To Silent Disappearance

Teasing The Soul

Allowing The Heart To Contemplate

As Lace Along The Wood

To Trace Familiarity

The Matt Poems

Elaborating Life

The Buoyancy Of Unsuspected Joy

To Haunt The Clever Sheer Of Grace

The Christmas Poems

Life Is Employed

Adrift In Seas Of Strangeness

Composure In Constraint

An Elegance That Dawdles

Devotional

Some Reflective Prayers

Reflective Prayers: A Second Collection

A Third Collection Of Reflective Prayers

For Your Quiet Meditation

A Fourth Collection Of Reflective Prayers

Cantica Sacra

A Fifth Collection Of Reflective Prayers

Directions Of A Pastoral Lifetime

Part I: Pastoral Notes, Letters To Anna, Occasional Pamphlets

Part II: Psalm Meditations, Regula Vitae

Part III: Elders’ Studies

Part IV: Studies

Part V: The Song Of Songs: An Attraction

Inn-by-the-Bye Stories

vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8,

9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

Exegetical Works

From The Catholic Epistles: Bible Studies

Paul’s Letter To The Romans: A Bible Study

The Book Of Hebrews: A Bible Study

Letters Pauline And Pastoral: Bible Studies

The First Letter of Paul To The Corinthians: A Bible Study

all published by AuthorHouse.com

Contents

Foreword

DCCI

DCCII

DCCIII

DCCIV

DCCV

DCCVI

DCCVII

DCCVIII

DCCIX

DCCX

DCCXI

DCCXII

DCXIII

DCCXIV

DCCXV

DCCXVI

DCCXVII

DCCCXVIII

DCCXIX

DCCXX

DCCXXI

DCCXXII

DCCXXIII

DCCXXIV

DCCXXV

DCCXXVI

DCCXXVII

DCCXXVIII

DCCXXIX

DCCXXX

DCCXXXI

DCCXXXII

DCCXXXIII

DCCXXXIV

DCCXXXV

DCCXXXVI

DCCXXXVII

DCCXXXVIII

DCCXXXIX

DCCXL

DCCXLI

DCCXLII

DCCXLIII

DCCXLIV

DCCXLV

DCCXLVI

DCCXLVII

DCCXLVIII

DCCXLIX

DCCL

Appendix: Texts For The Stories

About the Author

Foreword

The year of these stories [1995-1996] was a productive year, it seemed at the time. The life of the congregation I was serving, and with whom my own life was closely connected, saw some changes as one staff member retired and the congregation searched for an associate pastor, looking boldly toward their future. That associate would arrive in July of 1996 and begin to establish her place in the life of the congregation. Adjustments were the rule of the day.

Into this atmosphere, I continued to lead my stories. My established patterns held pretty closely: I translated my text for a week from Sunday of Friday morning. After the weekend, I would come in on Monday and, in the course of that day, leave the story in pencil scratch for my poor secretary to decipher. (I find in retyping from hard copy that I smile at all I missed in proofreading her efforts then! Hopefully, I have done a more adequate job of proof reading, editing and finalizing these stories than I did then!) This would all be part of the rotation with the text aiming toward writing a sermon MS on Thursday.

As always, the stories take up some aspect of life in Hyperbia, influenced by the weather I was experiencing that Monday used for story-writing, nuanced with a subtle (I liked to think) nuance of the text under consideration. In that, I continued what I had come to call my fairy tale exegesis which I felt and found brought me a riper sense of the text for preaching.

I hope you enjoy your reading of these little episodes of illumination, expressions of my own involvement with the text and the faith and the life of faith among my people.

William Flewelling

DCCI

Frustration reigned. Margent thought over the way things were supposed to be, at last how he had long been convinced they ought to be. Certainly, his life was avoiding anything resembling that scenario. When he had seen Osburn run this City with such an iron fist, the man had simply imposed his will on everyone! No one was happy; but no one dared interrupt his way of doing things. They were afraid of him … until that day the old tyrant went to his retreat on the bluff high overhead.

And then Margent had ended up running the City on the Plain from this messy little office. He had not wanted to be a tyrant. He had not even wanted to lead the City; he got the job by default. And now, he tried to guide things along, manage the difficulties and keep peace.

Margent had simply longed to keep the peace. He believed in prosperity by peace. He liked to get along with people. He went out of his way to get along with people, to keep peace around … he always had. So, he had always struggled in this work, struggled with the petty aggravations of a multitude of people. He wanted so badly to have this government run without a tyrant, without the strong man’s snarl or brusque demeanor.

Meanwhile, pettiness seemed to grow all around him. Complaints were ever at his doorstep. He would not have minded half so much had they been big complaints. Instead, they were nearly all petty little things, as if the good citizens of the City on the Plain had nothing better to do with their themselves than search out petty little things, serving only to defeat energy and interest from things that might really matter. Worst of all, they made his City on the Plain (as distinct from Osburn’s) look bad to anyone who would wander by.

Appearances mean nothing. So Margent told himself once again as he bit his lip after talking with yet another petty complaint. She thought her neighbor’s flowers were overgrown. And couldn’t Margent do something about it? He had explained that there was no rule on moderate flowers. She muttered: the picture of dissatisfaction … with just about anything and everything. Margent knew the case. The neighbor complained because this woman’s home was too spare. As far as he could tell there, there was not much difference, except that they managed to quarrel over it, and dump the issues on his lap. If only this were the worst case! Margent flumped into his chair, and sighed. He whimpered.

Sitting, his hands on his lap, Margent figured he had to do something. Appearances may not be everything. But they certainly are something. And he was going to have to do something for the sake of appearances … to say nothing of his own peace of mind! But what: that was, that was the question. Staring blankly into space, his jaw set and his lips pursed, a steely look to his face and a penetrating hardness to his eyes, Margent fidgeted with his fingers … and fumed.

In fairly short order, Margent decided he needed to go back to his earlier idea, his original resolve. He had grown soft over time. The starting idea of his City on the Plain, well inspired by his orderly plan reasonable and sound as it was, and is, and ever shall be, was and remained the ideal. People, if only they grasped the reasonable tenor of his idea, would clearly see and accept a kinder, more gentle harmony in their midst. The City would be happier. And so would Margent.

Bearing a smug grin of satisfaction, Margent leaned back in his chair, his hand folded over the slight hint of a middle-aged paunch … little more than a sag as yet. He should have done this long, long ago – long before his troubles multiplied. If only he had not softened! Experience and trouble, suffering (he says now that it is for good purpose … otherwise it would be absurd, like those petty gripes that merely mess up the works of the City, mess up his works) … but those experiences, they mute his edge. They dull his precision. He had a good idea, all clean and clear. Now, he must return to it with eagerness, enthusiasm. All is in the idea.!

No longer able to sit down, Margent jumped to his feet. He began to stride about his compact, cluttered office with unusual agitation. The walls were too narrow for him; he thought of a larger place … surely, he could find one in the City, perhaps in Osburn’s old Center, the one he had avoided so long. Maybe now was the time to redefine that building and the values Osburn built into it … redefine the place and appropriate it for his own purpose. His new grin seemed to have more than a tinge of cynicism to it. But there was no one there to notice its sneering curl.

Out the door quickly sped the City leader. He needed to investigate things, to instigate things. to spur the people of the City on the Plain with his idea, so that they quit the petty murmuring that irritated him so.

On to Osburn’s Center, to inspect it: Margent moved like a driven man. The people on the narrow streets found themselves stepping aside for him, near to the walls as he swaggered with a purpose down the center of the streets. Even after so long, the instinct to cower cropped up in the people. And cower they did. Margent really did not notice this aspect as he was preoccupied with his new-found enthusiasm.

Under his own influence, Margent had brought Osburn’s Center into an idle state. He treated it as a monument to all that had been wrong with this City. It was garish. It was profligate. It was ostentatious. Margent had always held it in disdain, for it disgusted him. But now, with this new vigor, this new sense that some goodly symbols, some pomp and gusto, some vigor and flash – he found the Center in a new light, so far as his own thinking was concerned.

Going inside, he found the Center musty and dusty … but impressive nonetheless. He strode to the office Osburn had used; it was spacious … and that was truly an understatement. He strode to the desk; his footsteps echoed in the stone halls. Margent had to admit there was grandeur here. The desk invited him; after all, he was himself the administrator, the chief officer of the City on the Plain. From such a desk, with such an appearance, taking on such a manner, those petty jibes would fall away. He just knew they would.

With a jaunty character to his step, he sauntered to the window. It would certainly need care to return to its proper grandeur. He looked out, imagining the window clean. The bluff rose majestically in front of him. And, on top, sat Osburn’s home. Osburn, the tyrant the people retired. Osburn, the arrogant and the proud, whose Center was his symbol. Osburn the nasty, whose appearance was all there was. Margent shrugged, and shuffled out again.

There would be a truer way to remember the struggles of a people to love the good and to share hope.

8 October 1995

DCCII

Sun warmed the morning, preparing for noon. And preparations ran well, bringing Hyperbia from a chilly dawn to a balmy noon. In this gentle time, very ordinary visitors ambled along the path beside the Hills, where those Hills settle out to the Fields. These visitors had emerged alongside the Fringe, from the path that disappears off into the rarely met land along the Sea. They were meandering in this to-them-strange place.

Eliza had chosen to head for the Inn-by-the-Bye for lunch. She had been busy on a lot of different projects about the house, and was tired of the tasks. She figured that taking a while out would do her good, and so she was out, coming down the Way Down, about to the rock alongside the Way Down, at the end, when she heard the visitors. She became aware that someone is out there. Someone she does not recognize. The voices are strange. She cannot tell what they are discussing right off. Eliza slowed her pace and edged toward the Rock, uncertain just what might be happening.

Listening, she decided these were people she did not know. She found them speaking quickly, with agitation, a little louder than most. The speed of their speech was enough to make it obvious that they were excited and excitable. Eliza found herself attracted to them … curious, really … and with a more than native shyness about her. Clinging close to the Rock, she nearly held her breath … her breathing was so slight in her anxiety … as she waited their coming fully into the opening at the end of the Way Down. And then, she knew, she would have to do something … something entirely unplanned.

Eliza’s mind had been racing all around, entirely void of any productivity. She was, that is, in a tizzy, an agitated, brain flitting from one place to another, at random, with increasing speed and increasing loss of coherence tizzy. And then … then, it happened: this band of half a dozen people were right in front of her, jabbering insistently with one another, not at all aware of anyone else being around.

Eliza saw them there, and wondered if they saw her. The idea of melting into the Rock flickered through her head, only to be dismissed as not only outlandish but also outright impossible. The Rock was the wrong color for her dress. And the time was all gone. (‘Why. O why did I not simply scurry to the top of the Rock?’ she thought, biting her lip in desperation.)

With nothing else to do, Eliza quickly summoned herself, stood upright, took on a smile and a sparkle to her eyes, stepped forward and spoke. ‘Good morning! At least I believe it is still morning’. Eliza’s cheerfulness amazed even herself, and fooled herself almost as well as it fooled her surprised, suddenly speechless visitors.

Realizing now that she was on her home turf, and they were the strangers here, Eliza took command. She sensed that they were non-threatening, that they were after simple things, perhaps an escape as she had slipped away herself; so, with a graceful stride, she drew near. She greeted them; they were all dumbfounded, saying nothing, perplexed as to whether they should run or fall down, scatter or stand as one. They knew how to dread. Eliza then said that she herself was on the way to the Inn-by-the-Bye, where Marthuida would have lunch, and wouldn’t they like to stop for something to eat?

This traveling band was all the more perplexed. Without attack, their dread softened, nearly melting. They barely imagined what they might do with such a greeting, one they had never anticipated. In a way, they were more ready for handling dread than any of these other feelings. Thus, they might have preferred what should only have been nasty. But all those preparations, the habit of steeling themselves for the worst, the instinct to defend … all these left these six stumbling in acute disarray. Eliza, however, was fully innocent of their trouble; with a flash of a smiles, a flip of her curls, a wink and a twinkle, she strode off with a cheerful, repeated invitation.

Tagging along behind, the straggling sextet meandered to the ‘Y’, around the Big Rock, onto the Commons, to discover before their eyes the Inn-by-the-Bye, with the Leaferites’ Hill looming to one side and the open Commons to the other. Wide eyed at this new surprise, the six toddled along, oblivious to the line of pleasant chatter Eliza was giving them, explaining everything she could imagine might be of interest to strangers visiting her now-home space in Hyperbia. Instead, these mute tagalongs were baffled by the utter newness of Eliza’s easygoing graze and flow.

With direction, prompt attention, simple steps, Eliza led the way across the Commons, to the stoop and to the doors of the Inn-by-the-Bye. She was, of course, totally at home here. She knew perfectly the cozy warmth behind that door, in the softly lit dining room were (in all likelihood) she would find Clyde and Missus Carney seated near the hearth, Geoffrey back in his favorite corner and Thyruid (perhaps) at the counter. Sometimes, another would be around, too. Everyone would ease her way in, and soon she would have lunch from Marthuida’s wonderful kitchen. She knew all this as she strode to the door in full self-confidence; they, however, knew none of this. Instead, the Inn-by-the-Bye loomed as a great unknown. They were, naturally, a tad fearful, noticeably uptight, casting wary glances all around.

Only as she stepped through the open door, into the foyer did Eliza glance back to observe her nervous visitors. She saw they had followed her well enough thus far … it had never occurred to her that they might not! And, she saw that now they were looking back, huddled together, a few steps away from the door.

‘Oh’, she said, ‘You need not worry. This is the Inn-by-the-Bye. You will find it a welcoming place. Besides, you will get a good lunch here. … Come along!’ She used her head to wave them in, making her curls dance about her beaming face.

The visitors glanced to each other, full of anxiety. They looked back to Eliza, swallowed hard … so hard it almost stuck, mid-way. And they went in, following her out of the bright sunlight into the dim, cozy, subdued atmosphere of the Inn. One stumbled a bit, getting used to the dim light, while Eliza closed the door behind them. Somewhat awed, they slipped ahead, drawn particularly by the aroma from the kitchen.

The last of the six passed Eliza at the steps, believing something nice was happening. ‘Thanks’ he whispered to Eliza’s gracious wink.