“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.
