BELTZVILLE LAKE, POCONO MOUNTAINS, PENNSYLVANIA, Present day. The two rumpled guys in the battered van looked like the characters from the childhood comic strip “Mutt and Jeff.” The driver was tall and thin with lanky limb movements that made every bone in his body appear to jiggle like a Halloween skeleton; the sidekick was short and round looking, like a big wooden top one could wrap a string around and pull on to make him spin. No one seems to remember which character was tall (Mutt) and which one was short (Jeff), but the two of them were definitely a bumbling and laughable combo in the comic strips in the Sunday morning papers--and the same was the case with the present real life duet. Jeff chomped on Cheez Twists and yelled: “Can’t you get this bucket of bolts to go any faster?” One might think that his eating was somehow related to trying to get the car to speed up. The faster he ate, the more he became agitated that the old van merely lumbered along.
“Go faster? I can’t even get it to keep from pulling to the right. One false move and we’re both in a ditch,” Mutt replied in the same jaded and negative tone as his partner. The sound of Mutt’s voice revealed years of practiced frustration with Jeff. “When we get there we need to creep in very quietly, then you put the rag over his mouth and we’ll drag him into the back of the van--and put that knife away! We don’t plan on murdering him; this is just a kidnapping.” Mutt sounded more like an adolescent actor in a high school play than a genuine kidnapper.
“What? Just a kidnapping? You’re no fun. Where is your spirit of adventure? There’s lots we can do besides snatching him.”
Meanwhile, a whisper of light from the setting sun, magnified by the campfire in front of him, silhouetted a lean male figure in his mid-twenties. He sat cross-legged, like an ascetic Buddha figure, the fire danced between him and the water, which lapped in gentle pulses in front of him. The dry wood of the fire snapped, crackled, and popped with a noisy peacefulness. Blotches of white snow dappled the sand around him and the tall brown grass behind him. It was mild for mid-December and his down-filled parka, heavy blue jeans, and hiking boots keep him warm enough, especially now that the fire was roaring hot.
The nightmares had finally stopped. The re-runs of being chased, then trying to strangle the one who chased him were so very dystonic to his gentle person. Screaming in the night had disturbed his very soul. What a blessed relief. Marriage could have been wonderful but Someone had something else in mind. Let me not run from the love which you offer; Let me not run from the love which you offer; Let me not run from the love which you offer. Although he was much more of a meditator than he was a person given to vocal prayers, this line from his favorite vocal prayer kept echoing through his healing mind. He prayed the whole “Soul of Christ1” prayer, which was attributed to Saint Ignatius Loyola:
“Jesus, may all that is you flow into me.
May your body and blood be my food and drink.
May your passion and death be my strength and life.
Jesus, with you by my side enough has been given.
May the shelter I seek be the shadow of your cross.
Let me not run from the love which you offer,
But hold me safe from the forces of evil.
On each of my dyings shed your light and your love.
Keep calling to me until that day comes,
When, with your saints, I may praise you forever. Amen.”
The silhouette dancing on the ground before him let out a deep and tranquil sigh as he returned to the use of his mantra, or mental tool used in prayer and meditation, over and over again, in rhythm with is breathing. He had finally stopped running and now was more than ready to commit. He longed for it. The fear was gone and he was free at last. The use of a word or line from a prayer repeated over and over had become such a help for him in clearing his mind and in sensing his connection with his Mother / Father in heaven. The young camper had used one line at a time from the Soul of Christ prayer as a mantra day by day for several months now. He had been taught well and was deeply grateful for all that he had been given. Life was indeed good. The God of surprises was in charge. All is gift.
Mutt and Jeff slammed their van doors shut and yelled at one another for being too noisy. The pair seemed to blame each other for just about everything that went wrong. Personal responsibility was not the strong suit of either member of this team. Mutt smacked the knife out of Jeff’s hand and it landed on the ground with a dull thud.
“Hey, I got that in the Cub Scouts” whined Jeff, regressing to eight years old. “What did you do that for?”
“That was several decades ago, you blockhead,” responded his partner in crime. Jeff scrambled around in the dark for the knife like Linus looking for his blanket. When he finally found it, the two crept through the woods toward the campfire, getting slapped in the face, chest, arms, and legs by pine branches along the way. There are those who think that the movie title “Dumb and Dumber” might be a better name for the team than the comic strip Mutt and Jeff! The movie title comment is more a reflection on the members of this odd couple not taking responsibility for their own behaviors, their lack of self-reflection, lack of sensitivity, and has nothing to do with IQ.
The tender noise from the campfire, along with the rhythmic lapping of the water at the lakeside, masked the sounds the two klutzes generated as the crept up behind their contemplative prey. The camper knew that someone was behind him, but something within told him that he was protected, and that this was all part of a larger plan. He was learning to listen well to his intuition. Normally, he would have been a great deal more practical, that is, get out of there, but this time he didn’t move an inch. He just kept breathing in and breathing out. It was as if he were breathing all of the stars and the endless sky in and out as he did so. Let me not run from the love which you offer. Let me not run from the love which you offer.
Well, the camper didn’t run and the next thing he realized was that someone was holding a smelly rag over his mouth and nose. Before long he was somewhere out there, far beyond the stars and the sky, not only spiritually but also in terms of his central nervous system. Shortly thereafter, oblivion set in with darkness deeper than the night. Time and space ceased to exist for the captive.
“Grab his legs,” Mutt shouted into the flickering darkness as he struggled with the deadweight of the upper body of their lanky victim whose lean and healthy muscle mass added weight to his body.
“His feet must be size twelve,” Jeff distractedly observed, not keeping his mind on the task at hand, taking his time to observe their victim.”
“No they’re not, mine are about the same size. You just have little tiny feet. You look like a Bobo doll—weighted on the bottom and popping up again when someone pushes you down. Also, I might add, full of hot air. Now grab that Bible, or whatever it is over there near the fire.”
Thud, crunch, smack, cut, sting. Bumbling through the foliage, the three set off. Two of them were willing and one was unconscious. They slid the side door of the van open and threw their captive into the vehicle. The old and battered van chugged out onto Beltzville Road again and headed toward Mount Pocahontas. Dense pine trees and even denser darkness surrounded them. Fortunately, although the woods were thick with deer, none ventured across the roads in front of them, an event which causes frequent accidents in the Poconos. The van would probably fall apart on impact from the deer, even a gentle one like Bambi!
“We did it, we did it, we did it,” chanted Mutt. Jeff continued eating his Cheez Twists, orange speckles sprinkling his jacket and the floor of the vehicle.