Perhaps

“Perhaps” is a word that caught my attention in the year 1987.  As with things that often make a lasting impact, it was the person who said it which made the impression.

The television series “Beauty and the Beast” ran for three seasons starting on September 25, 1987.  The story involved a world of outcasts secretly living under the streets of the city.  Vincent is the appointed protector of the inhabitants.  He has the appearance of a “Beast”, but the heart of a savior.

The “Beauty”, Catherine, lives in the city above.  Beauty and The Beast meet when Catherine is assaulted by a thug, and Vincent takes her to the underworld to recover.  Affection develops between the two, he assumes the role of her permanent protector, and together they fight for the downtrodden.

Vincent has been raised by a man I only remember being referred to as “Father”.  Father is well read, wise, and the resident overseer of the outcasts.  Vincent is his moral image.  The influence of Father’s life over his son is obvious.

Vincent habitually speaks in a soft voice, uncharacteristic for his appearance.  He is a normal man, albeit incredibly strong, and with facial hair and features that resemble a lion’s. 

It was Vincent’s use of the word “perhaps” which caught my ear.  He used it often, usually while speaking to Catherine about a remedy to their current problem, softly uttering it so as not to dictate.

It was after the repeated viewing of this that I decided I too would use the word “perhaps.”  I never use it in conversation, but frequently do in writing.  My use of the word is meant to be in the same vein as Vincent’s.

There is more to the story of my watching this interesting twist on an old tale.  In the fall of 1987, I had moved back to Sussex County after a series of bad decisions.  I usually watched the show in the home of my parents who were helping to nurse me back to spiritual and emotional health. 

Some months prior to that move, I had received a call from my parents.  My brother, a leader in the local church I had been attending before graduating from college, had discussed with them that the church was not sure what to do regarding my membership, which was still technically on the books.  But it wasn’t technicalities with which they were concerned.  My slump was no secret, and it was an extended hand which they were really offering.  It was the wake up call I needed.  Repentance began to rise up in my heart, and a chain of events began which together would slowly work to bring my heart back to The Lord.

Shortly after that call, I moved into a room in the house at 408 Haverford, where 89 year old Emilie Cederstom lived, whose room for rent had become known to me through an inquiry to the local churches in the area in which I desired to live.  Hunched over due to severe osteoporosis, she informed me that her job was now to check the obituaries for deceased friends. She occasionally shared her cookies with me, her last remaining vice.  Her retired son was temporarily living there, getting her affairs in order, as her death was somewhere on the not too distant horizon. 

I did yard work just for something to do.  Rose of Sharon had engulfed everything in sight.  Her son had me prune it back to stubs, which left her yard looking like a bad hair cut, and dismayed Mrs. Cederstrom.  Regardless, she once told my mother that I was “To the manner born”.  Or perhaps she said I was “To the manor born”.  While I’m not sure exactly what she meant, I’m pretty confident it was a compliment, and unrelated to any social class.  It was in this home that The Lord did some radical pruning in my heart, and the healing first began.

Just before moving back to Sussex County that fall, my parents introduced me via cassette tape to a man who taught at the annual retreats of the local believers with which my parents were meeting.  I listened to those tapes in my third floor bedroom.  That man would become a spiritual physician to me, and a life long friend to our family.  He would point me to a Christ I had not seen before, and continues to do so to this day.

After several months with the old lady (she would not be offended, as she was fully aware of her season in life) , I returned to my native Sussex County.  My parents introduced me to that local fellowship of believers.  It was there that the nursing continued.  It was there that I began to understand for the first time how a group of believers functions as what we call a “body”.

And it was during those first months at home that we watched Vincent use the word “perhaps” and deal tenderly with Catherine.

Perhaps the timing of the phone call about the quandary in which my church found itself was just a coincidence.

Perhaps the availability of Mrs. Cederstrom’s room, a place of refuge when I most needed it, was a coincidence.

Perhaps it was coincidence I heard just the right taped message from the right messenger, at the right time.

Perhaps it was coincidental that I happened to find myself in that local body of believers when I moved back to Sussex County, where I met and married my wife.

And perhaps, coincidentally, I found myself drawn to the words of Vincent, a vague embodiment of The Savior, the likes of which I was just beginning to come to know in a way I never had before.

Or, perhaps, it wasn’t coincidence at all.


This story first appeared in the March 2012 edition of the Manna. http://readthemanna.org.