The Songbirds Delight

By Dr. Michael J. Curran

Christian and Jewish communities in a small town come together in joy through the love and energy of a small group of intimate friends. The group slowly expands in number, wisdom, and shared experiences which include drama, adventure, romance, and humor. Many difficult challenges unfold that primarily involve psychological and spiritual battles. At the center of all this is the light of Scripture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685261047

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The Songbirds Delight

Dr. Michael J. Curran

ISBN 978-1-68526-103-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68526-104-7 (Digital)

Copyright © 2021 Dr. Michael J. Curran

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

John and Nate, Close Friends

Joy and Matt, Light and Heavy

The Four Friends

Jewish-Christian Relationships

Fun, Dreams, and Community Work

Fun and Analysis

The Three Rabbis

Art and Redemption

Mayflies, Math, and Other Complexities

End of Trouble, Middle of Confusion

Argentina

Of Trust and Water

Preparation, Donation, and Interpretation

The Grand Opening

Mission, Discussions, and Dreams

Friends, Lovebirds, Songbirds, and Therapy

Chapter 1

John and Nate, Close Friends

Joy was talking to herself concerning John, her psychotherapy client, after his session: Worried, confused, erratic, off-balance and sad, yet dazzled, brilliant and very much in love with the Lord. How can all of this be reconciled in one person at one time? It can’t, yet it is. He is often unaware of anything profound concerning himself. Except for his love especially for Yeshua which he holds dearly. It can never be destroyed, not even lessened. I believe in this eternal love. I don’t know why. I am his therapist in the third year of what he calls his welcomed interrogation.

Joy had a dream. She was slowly whirled around in large circles of hurricane wind. The sensation was both gentle and loving. She looked down beneath the hurricane to see many pockets of turmoil. These circles of wind were smaller, yet their speeds were fast. The sensation created confusion and chaos; light of the hurricane above, darkness of the tornadoes below; good and evil? creation and destruction? Both could have long-lasting effects on her. Only by a willful act could a transition be made from one storm type to the other. Someone asked Joy to descend. She was terrified at the prospect. The better part of her accepted. At that very moment, voices sang in Italian, a language unfamiliar to her. No matter, the voices were harmonic and joyful. Mere words would be less effective. She knew then she had made the right choice because it was out of faith in a relationship yet to be realized, but its formation had already begun.

Before she descended, she expected the darkness of the unknowing. It could translate to pain, despair, collapse of spirit, risk of death, judgment by others, failed enterprises, and separation from friends. Although she expected all of this, she did not believe in her expectations. Something far greater was at play here. It led not to a loss in faith but a strengthening in faith, not to a loss in friendships but to increased intimacy, not to a loss of hope but to a profound spiritual embrace, not to overbearing pain but to unending joy and purpose, not to despair but to hope, not of endless failure but of spiritual success—all in the name of Someone whom she would love forever.

* * * * *

John was losing his mental faculties. He was terrified.

john, thinking. Where is the promise that was given to me? I know its power, its salvation, its grace. Where is it? It has color and force and beauty in many. I know them. I love them. I see the wind, the Spirit of God, without the comfort. Will suffering change me beyond self-recognition? I sure hope so. I need to change. But how long will it take, Lord? I talk to you. You talk to me. My best friend, my guide, my Father.

John was distraught. Walking without purpose, he was, once again, utterly lost. He felt as if he knew little, observed little, thought little except for the contents of his burdened mind. When he at last let his eyelids drift from partially shut to wide open, it was a starry night, and he was home. From a dark mind to a dark night, his soul was torn and tangled up in something. Tangled in what? Darkness? No. Twilight? Perhaps.

john, thinking. I need a distraction as does a martyr forgetting his torturer. What will it be? I will return to my paintings. I will strike with color. My strokes will be fine, forceful, and curved. Each stroke will contribute a little like a single star in a clear night sky. I will have many stars to bring my chaos into focus, into meaning. My painting, my mind, will be wiped clean of chaos so that gold may be extracted. I know the treasure is where the Lord put it. He loves me, always will.

John had a dream. He was enjoying the splendors of a waterfall far from the busyness of business and far from the distractions of strangers. All of whom he loved and others he would later love were close by on shore. They sat amazed by the playful expressions of the water as it jumped from heights above to the depths below. Fish jumped in the opposite direction with plans to attain the heights the water abandoned. There were more failures than successes. John woke up and wondered whether his dream had a deeper meaning. Who could find the code to translate it?

He fell asleep again and had another dream. This time he was alone and lying down on a forest bed of pine needles and leaves. He gazed up at the leaves of the overhanging branches. Each tree had its own uniquely shaped leaf, and each leaf had its own color. With time the colors intermixed as the trees exchanged greetings. Again John woke up and reflected. After much cerebral stretching, he thought maybe a later time. Sometimes art is sufficient in itself. Words may lessen the lesson.

* * * * *

joy, thinking. John has not shown up for a month. No calls, no callbacks. Is he sick? How can I know? What can I do except wait?

* * * * *

nate, thinking. John is painting, painting…what else? Has he found his temporary peace? Colors, swirls, obvious here, subtle there, were his expressions. Not an escape, no comfort, just another form of intense sleepless wonderment. I saw his paintings. I was astounded. How could I tell him to stop or slow down when he was having such success? He was traveling upon the back of gravity and heading toward the burning sun. Being a good friend, I visited him. At my offering, he reached out with full abandon. I grasped his hand. He gave me such a desperate, warm hug in return. It lasted a long time…to him it was brief. He offered me his freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Has he emerged at last from his overtaxed mind? I was delighted at first. He seemed natural, friendly, engaged with his environment. Had he ventured forth? No. He just needed a friend. Somehow he knew I was coming. His behavior was a surprise to me who was supposed to do the surprising. We sat and talked about everything including his brilliant imaginations but never about him. Apparently he lacked self-awareness. How can he know so much, create so much? His colors alone embraced the viewer before the birth of his canvas.

Oh, such a beauty! He found another world. Presently he rose and paced while keeping the conversation going. He also listened intently. In this he had infinite patience like an angler in a lifeless stream. I talked on and on, much more than he. When he is with me, I feel the presence of the Lord who is dear to him, and I am not a believer. We ended the night with drinks—nonalcoholic. Don’t need alcohol here. I walked back to my apartment, looking at the stars. I knew something was growing out of the ashes of my little faith. When I opened the door of my apartment, I knew I would never be the same. Yet I knew not how nor where nor with whom the spiritual adventures would play out.

* * * * *

John was once again on a trek of the mind alone. He knew his woody area, just a few miles from home. It doesn’t drift; it was always in his head where he could find it. It was early spring, and here was the river with lots to say as it crashed and caressed the rocks. Rivulets broke from the river to form their own rivulets, each with a distinct personality. No worries, they would always come back together. The river was one yet made of many, all one body with many parts.

From his own perspective, he was at peace in his steady walk. His therapist would have seen something else—an accelerated mind with rapidly cycling manic-depressive episodes. Rapid can be long, and long can become short. It was not clear to him how time progresses. He thought, If only Joy were here to explain it all. How long will this last, and what will it bring?"

He found his river without looking. With eyes closed, he found his rock to give his disquiet to. Yes, indeed, let there be light. In this state, high upon the rock, he stared at the joyful conversations of the rivulets. He began to relax but was interrupted by another conversation, this time on the opposite bank about fifty yards away. A young blond-haired boy with a straw hat was immersed up to his waist in the river. The child had strayed to his perfect depth, the most playful. The father was less convinced. There were pleasant commands followed by pleasant refusals. A game, of course; the child was sure to win. In fact, it was his favorite game.

Early spring was not the best time to game the rules; the water was higher, the river’s conversations were faster, and danger could be confused for fun. The boy walked out a little more. His father was shouting, but the seven-year-old mind was too enraptured to be bothered. If he had listened, he would have heard the river saying, Turn back. You are in adult territory.

And then the child was gone. The father had not yet reached the water. He was desperate, and his mind was dark. He kept wondering, Where is my son?

John watched all of this as he too raced to the water’s edge but from the opposite shore. He stumbled on rocks and fallen branches which were strewn carelessly before him on his way to rescue. The rescue never came. John crashed to the forest floor, his right ankle snapped by the unleveled ground. Despite the pain, he kept his focus on the unfolding drama across the river. A few minutes later, the son became part of the unseen. The father was also unseen. Both had drowned. John was barely conscious. He began his arduous crawl in the direction of death, a direction not of the river but of grief and guilt. Each by themselves were sufficient to freeze thought and stop a beating heart. His core temperature dropped despite the warmth of the midday sun. Grief and guilt dragged him along a torturous internal path. He had not expected such a dreadful revisitation. He thought, Where is my therapist? At that time, his therapist was wondering the same about him.

John remained in his altered state—all mind, all imagination. He was lost in time, space, and mind. Later, the police found John’s body frozen in a cloudless seventy-five-degree day. No one suspected any connection between the double drowning and John’s demise because his frozen body was found several miles upstream. Nothing made sense. His body showed no signs of decay. This discovery was small compared to what followed. He is not an angel, not particularly remarkable in any worldly sense, only a human being who loved the Lord beyond all comprehension. Yet his body, once missing from the coroner’s lab for a week, was missing no more. John was found by the police this time in deep conversation with a friend at his home. The two friends had nothing to offer the police because they knew nothing. With the exception of the once apparent death of John, the kind officers had decided not to reveal anything about the inexplicable events. They had come upon something so remarkable that they decided to keep the whole thing a secret—forever. These good officers were acting in the best interest of John. They saw he was harmless. What was to be gained by revelations this spectacular? Who would believe? Finally, his imagination dissipated, John woke up to reality.

With no prior notice, Nate approached the front door of his friend’s apartment and knocked softly three times.

john. Yes, I am home. Come on in. The door is not locked.

(Nate opens the door slowly so the eerie sound of unoiled hinges will have their full prolonged effect.)

john. So, you come to me in a lively mood. Good. I need some fun.

nate. The best for the best.

john. Well put in humor, perhaps, but not in grace. Not in me anyway.

nate. What has our poor Hamlet done—kill a king?

john. I managed a great misgiving.

nate. Misgiving to whom?

john. Not to whom, for whom.

nate. My brain is worn on this alone.

john. I’ll give you time to unravel the mystery.

nate. Should I sleep and dream the answer?

john. As you like.

Nate was slumped on the couch, facing his dubious king-killer.

john. Are you asleep?

nate. I surely am asleep.

john. Sleep or asleep?

nate. The latter because I am awake, as you see.

john. So, I see.

nate. What actually is bothering you?

john. I froze when I should not have frozen. I woke up when I could not have woken up. I am disturbed maybe by something I did not do but should have done.

nate. Perfectly understandable.

john. Understandable to whom?

nate. To all who are truly listening.

john. Nobody has given it a good listening, not even me.

nate. Precisely my point.

john. What point?

nate. The point is why worry? It makes no sense.

john. Joy, my therapist, will probably not listen.

nate. First, as you often forget, I know Joy is your therapist. You have been seeing her for about three years. Second, Joy may only appear to be not listening. Good therapists listen to all the strange things but often do not comment right away.

john. Why?

nate. They do not know yet how to form a leading question, a question that is part of the story which you have yet to tell her.

john. Not told her, because I don’t know myself. She will eventually unembed the story.

nate. I know. She is beautiful and brilliant.

john. Is there any doubt? Are you playing here?

nate. I just recently saw her.

john. Why? To check up on me?

nate. No, to be checked upon myself. We will get to it later. When she told me her name, I mentioned you.

john. Why?

nate. To say, in effect, I will have to find a different therapist.

john. Not good enough looking? Not smart enough? Didn’t you just say the opposite?

nate. Not a good idea to see us both during the same period…okay. Let’s do it, another round of fun with serious matters…her reflection is jealous of her good looks. Don’t let her know… As far as brilliant, she always leads you at a pace you can follow and still find challenging. The timing and level of challenge she presents correlates well with how you are session by session…this knowledge, by the way, involves a high degree of intellect and art.

john. How could you see this right away?

nate. I have seen it before in another. We will get to that later. What do you think?

john. We can both agree she forces her beauty unknowingly on all by merely showing up lighthearted. What choice do we have, then, but to be amazed?

nate. Dreadful.

john. She did not show up for 1,500 straight sessions. It had a negative impact on me.

nate. How is that possible?

john. It’s negative when you are expected yet do not show.

nate. No, you delightful idiot. How can it be for 1,500 sessions?

john. She didn’t show for thirty years.

nate. That’s before you were a patient.

john. Yes.

nate. Yeah, it can be disappointing.

john. Truly, it is.

nate. So, is the cost prohibitive?

john. It was for thirty years.

nate. How is that?

john. Yeah, I can’t figure it out either.

nate. You know, this could go on forever.

john. It already has. Check the time. My goodness, I should have called Joy. She must be wondering. Therapists never worry about their clients. They can’t afford to. It’s unprofessional. They can only wonder with great dread.

nate. I see, a vast difference. Anyway, I must go now, and you must leave a message for Joy.

john. Why must you go?

nate. I like to pretend I need to preserve my sanity. Goodbye. See you soon.

john. You bet.

John drove to his therapy session with anxiety and dread. He arrived ahead of time. He decided to wait in his car in the parking lot rather than in the waiting room. He wasn’t interested in any company except his therapist. Therapy was enough. While waiting, he dosed off for just a few minutes. He dreamed of rowing a boat with a ribbed wooden bottom, an accentuated bow, and sturdy handcrafted oars which easily navigated the water. The cloudless skies directly above him were multicolored and mixed to the delight of a painter—light touches of a broad brush.

At first the storm’s advance was slow and relaxed. It slowly evolved as if it had a will which became more and more imposing. John’s mood mirrored the sky above and ignored the developing hostility afar. He thought, I still have the gentle persuasion of joy. The ocean below was clear and quiet, but like the advancing storm, the ocean began to promise disaster. The ocean and the skies became collaborators. John slowly felt his peace abandon him like the slow walk of a mother away from her helpless child. The first act of measurable rebellion was the swirling of the water’s colors as darkness advanced. The colors of the skies and water were absorbed into a gloomy gray. There was no more cheer. The ocean swelled and curled in fury to pound on the vulnerable boat. The winds were happy to lend a hand. John tried desperately to maintain order, but the rebellion was in full force. His futile attempt at commanding the oars met with an explosive shattering. The once-sturdy maritime tools flew aloft as chips and splinters. Some hurled themselves into his body. The boat too abandoned him, disappeared forever. He slipped into the briny depths. He woke up. It was time for therapy.

Therapy

joy. So, what’s up?

john. I don’t know. That’s the problem.

joy. Let’s start with why you missed several sessions in a row.

john. I don’t remember anything.

joy. Why did you come today?

john. I remember one thing—time has passed, and I have been nowhere.

joy. Amnesia?

john. I don’t think so. I think I must have been in a coma.

joy. That may be. It also may be you were blocking an uncomfortable experience.

john. More likely both.

joy. Why?

john. I don’t know.

joy. What do you remember in the last four weeks?

john. I remember leaving some strange place and finding my way back home. Nate came over. We talked. Now I am here.

joy. You have spoken of Nate in loving terms.

john. He loves me.

joy. What did you talk about?

john. I told him what I told you.

joy. Essentially nothing.

john. Yes.

joy. Hmm…

john. In comical terms.

joy. Not surprising. This may be avoidance.

john. Of what?

joy. I’ll let you figure it out.

john. Too painful? I think you’re right.

joy. Let’s turn our attention to your fear of remembering.

john. It’s not a childhood experience thing.

joy. Yes, we have agreed upon that already.

john. It’s time to go. I will see you next week.

joy. You still have thirty minutes.

john. It’s all I can do today.

joy. Okay. I see you are not going to change your mind.

John returned to work after a long vacation. He was an associate book editor with a small company. His vacation was not a true vacation. It was timely. His judges at work were absorbed in their own affairs. So he had to offer no unusual reason for choosing his vacation time. The bosses generally could elicit or intuit any unusual reason. Not this time. If they suspected he was losing his mind he would certainly be fired. Not the best environment to work in. However, the work itself was wonderful.

John’s first job for the day was to evaluate a novel about parents who experienced the sudden loss of their two-year-old daughter. John made no connection because he wanted no connection. He was good, very good, at hiding from himself. He was unaware that hiding does cost. Although the work went fast, the interval between work times was sometimes unnerving. What memories would surface?

After John returned to work, he met regularly with Nate. They discussed his return to the river site after the horror he had yet to recall. John sought this place since childhood. Now it had a dark quality. It exhausted him. However, he was motivated by Joy’s suggestion to try to become aware of the substance of his fears or, at least, of any one fear.

The river was a holy place, a cleansing place, the first step in redemption. He was hoping the river would be a place of remembrance—or had he lost these memories forever? He was hoping for forgiveness so redemption may be possible. What strange thoughts! Remembrance of what? Forgiveness for what? Redemption from what? Whatever the answers, his vantage point was the flat top of his ten-foot-high, woods-bound rock, ten feet from the river. He believed he discovered the rock, that he owned the rock. So, he planted a bright, colorful flag to mark his possession at the very spot of his repose while he escaped from the busy world. The image on the flag was a sad, lost Peruvian child, alone on top of a mountain. Why is she there?

From this vantage point, he decided to name the creatures of the forest. Giant’s Freckle for the rock, Swift River for the ever-flowing, never disappointing water, and various names for the evergreens. Callie, a pine tree, was the most personal, the most trustworthy. Her intelligence was unique in insight and comfort. They were the best of friends. Many forest animals became his friends as well—the owl, the otter, the fox, the deer, the raccoon and the bear.

John walked to his special rock during the long afternoons and evenings of late spring through midsummer. There he wrote short stories about his forest friends. They talked with him for hours. The stars were also his