January 5th
Dear Brother Jacob,
I’m sorry. I needed some time to think. There were so many different thoughts floating around in my head that I wondered if I was going crazy. I spent the last couple of months reading lots of stuff about different religions, and even visiting a bunch of other churches (without my dad knowing). I found some people I could talk to about some of the things that were bothering me, and I must have listened to a million different opinions about what it means to be a Christian. I even found a couple of ministers who knew about Lyceum. They both said they wished they could visit there more often. Somehow hearing them say that made my memory of being there seem more real.
I’m starting to see that there are two different ways of being Christian.
There’s Christian in name, and there’s Christian in spirit. I know there are many churches and camps and other kinds of places that are officially Christian, but I’m not sure how many of them do things the way Christ would have wanted. I think there are many of them, like that camp I went to last summer, that are so busy trying to make people think and believe a certain way that they have forgotten what Jesus was like.
I re-read all your letters and all the things you’ve sent me, and I really like what you said about each person being responsible for their own beliefs.
I think that’s better than having someone tell you what to believe. To be real
honest, I’m getting tired of people telling me what to believe. Were you really forty-five before you got tired of people telling you what to believe?
I finally found the Gospel of Thomas on the Internet, like you suggested. I didn’t dare read it at home, of course, so I used a terminal at the library. It made me think about some things I’d never thought about before. And you know, it didn’t even bother me that it wasn’t part of my Bible. It was good just because it taught me some things.
Then I read about the early church councils where they decided which books were going to be in the Bible and which weren’t. It makes me mad that my church has been hiding from me the fact that it was people who decided what’s in the Bible, not God. Maybe those people were inspired by God, and maybe they were just doing what was politically correct at the time. Then I realized that there have always been parts of the Bible I thought were better than others — I just never dared say that to anyone before.
And I’ve also been reading more about how and when each book of the Bible was written. Did you know that Isaiah is really three or four different people? At least Bible scholars think so because of the different styles of writing in the Book of Isaiah. I guess we’ll never know for sure. But it seems to me that maybe that’s how God wanted it to be, so we’ll always keep thinking and asking questions.
I think Sarah is mad at me, and I know now that she has a very good reason to be. I think I can guess what she wanted to say to me in her last letter, even though she didn’t quite say it. It wouldn’t have been very nice, but it would have been true. I was accusing some people, who were visitors at Lyceum on Halloween, of maybe being in league with the Devil. It finally dawned on me that the one person who has probably hurt her the very most, more than anyone else in her whole life, was my father. I feel ashamed that I almost started to follow in his footsteps.
I don’t know if you’ll want to write to me again. I know it’s a hassle having to send it to New York and all. You probably have plenty of better things to do, with all the events that go on at Lyceum. But I just wanted you to know that I’m still trying to figure out what’s true and what’s not. You’ve helped me in that search more than anyone else ever has. And Sarah has
helped me too.
Sincerely,
Shawn Mitchell
January 21st
Dear Shawn,
Brother Jacob is in South America right now. He was on SatLink this morning and he said he’ll write to you as soon as he gets back.
I think you’re really brave for saying you’re sorry. I just knew you would be strong enough to do what you thought was right, instead of what someone else told you to do!
I’m learning how to make leather bookmarks with Brother Robert.
Here’s one for you that I just finished. They’re in our Gift Shop already, and are going to be in the next catalog.
I’m going to add some strawberry plants to my garden this year, because you didn’t get to grow them in your garden. Sister Maggie, who works in the greenhouses, is getting them for me, and she says I’ll even get a few berries from them this year!
I’m glad we’re friends again!
Sarah
Chapter 21: More Answers, More Questions The snow was falling rapidly and promising deep drifts as Liberty dashed in the front door of the Buchanan country house, wearing only a sweater and clutching a bundle of mail to her chest.
“How deep does it get, anyway?” she asked while trying to brush the snow from the knees of her blue jeans.
At the large desk in the corner of the room, Mr. Neils glanced up from his work and said, “Three or four feet.”
Liberty whistled. “What do the horses do when the snow’s that deep?”
“Same as you — pace. But as soon as it stops they’ll have the corral packed flat in no time.”
“I’ll sort the mail,” she said, sitting down at the coffee table.
“Anything from that school in New Hampshire that looked promising?” he asked without looking up.
“I’ll see.” She began making piles of mail. “Dad, dad, you, dad, junk, bill, dad, junk, you, you, dad, bill, dad...” And then she held up the last envelope, a large blue one, and smiled, saying, “And me. Several things for you, Harold, but nothing from New Hampshire. I’m gonna look at the magazines and stuff.” She took the junk pile and the blue envelope and skipped across the living room to a large, cozy stuffed chair, curled up in it and ripped open the one piece of mail addressed to her.
February 6th
Dear Liberty,
It has been such a pleasure getting to know you through the letters we have exchanged since last fall that I was very happy to receive your request for more information. I have enclosed the most recent Lyceum Journal, which contains stories about events from the recent past, pictures of seldom-seen parts of the campus, art work, puzzles, and news from the Lyceum Council. This issue has an article about the new Hospice Center that just opened, and a call for designs for a new Retreat Center in the northeast part of the campus. But more interesting to you will probably be the feature article on the U.N. Annual Conference on the Environment that was held here last fall.
Your question about world-class standards is right on the mark. In order for Lyceum to be of service to a wide variety of people, organizations, and governments who are involved in important work, we have to keep our standards at an extremely high level. And we have the added challenge of making sure that the individual who wanders in, sometimes right in the middle of a high-level event, still receives the welcome and attention that he or she needs and deserves.
I could really relate to the thoughts you shared with me about your changing values. I think you and I are very much alike. I too once prowled the back streets of a major city (Melbourne), until one day I realized it wasn’t taking me where I wanted to go.
I look forward to hearing from you again. As always, I have attached some food-for-thought questions for you to consider.
Sincerely,
Sister Nancy
A few minutes after finishing the letter, Liberty’s attention was brought out of the Lyceum Journal she was reading by Mr. Neils’ voice calling her name. She joined him at the coffee table and pretended to pay attention as he went over the details of a reform school in Texas that looked like it might accept her, but for several different reasons Liberty just couldn’t get excited about it.
To begin with, she didn’t feel she needed reforming, whatever that ultimately meant. And equally as important, she no longer felt the desperate need to find a place, any place, that would take her. She had become accustomed to her life at the Buchanan country house, and no longer dreaded the thought of just reading books and taking care of horses. And besides, maybe Lyceum would turn out to be an option...
February 11th
Dear Sister Nancy,
I read the entire Lyceum Journal that you sent me. Thanks! Those articles are really fun to read, and it’s really nice to see that teenagers take part in things at Lyceum. You were right — that article about the U.N.
conference was really good. I bet it took a lot of work!
The more I learn about all the things you people do there, and the ways you do them, the more I can picture myself being there. And the longer I’m out here in the country, the farther away the streets of Philadelphia are starting to seem.
I had to think a long time about your questions. They’re getting harder!
But that’s okay, I love challenges. Here goes...
If I was in the first situation, I would tell the President that I would send someone to get his suitcases as soon as I could, and I would pick up the little boy with the sprained ankle and carry him to the clinic. As soon as I got there, I’d call someone who could get the suitcases, and tell them to get there fast. The President might be mad at me, but that’s what I’d do. Actually, I already got a President mad at me once when I was nine years old.
If I was in the second situation, I think I’d tell a white lie. I’d tell the reporter that I didn’t know who was in the conference room, but (if they were nice) I’d offer to take a message in. And also I’d tell the people in the conference room that a reporter was asking questions about them.
Everyone deserves a little privacy!
Your third question was the hardest. You probably won’t like my answer, but I’ve never been afraid of things like knives. I’d talk sweetly, maybe even flirt a little, and try to get so close to him that he couldn’t see what my hands were doing. Then I’d slip the gun out from under the counter, (you know, the
one I hid there weeks before), stick it in his ribs, and ask him, again very sweetly, if he still wanted to rob us, or would he instead like to drop the knife, have a hot meal in the dining room, and get a ride back to town. The hot meal and the ride would be with a couple of the brothers who were big and strong, of course!
Sincerely,
Liberty
Chapter 22: The Stars Teach Me to Play
February 7th
Dear Ashley,
It sounds like you are really sinking your teeth into the nursing home assignment. It’s an experience that can benefit almost anyone.
I do very much know what you mean — the better we understand a field of study, the more clearly we can see how puny our knowledge is, even if we are a so-called expert. There is an important lesson here. I hope you learn it well.
I’m glad to hear you are starting to teach at the gym. Teaching is one of the best ways to make sure you really know something with a deep understanding. It is also a time to begin reflecting on the fact that all earthly careers must come to an end, with the knowledge and skills passed on to others.
Yes, please keep your grades up. As I hope you already know, learning never stops at Lyceum. Being familiar with the General Knowledge Processor will help you in many tasks here, as it is the heart of our computer system.
The evaluation week in July will be generally similar to the one you attended, but the team will be different and the specific activities are always being changed. The best way to prepare is to do your volunteer work well, learn from it everything you can, and read your Lyceum materials again, sending me any questions you have.
I look forward to hearing from you again.
Sincerely,
Sister Heather
By mid-February, Ashley had become very useful at the Rapid City Convalescent Center. She helped with the feeding of two or three people every meal she was there, and had become so familiar with the diets that she could usually spot an incorrect tray the moment it was placed in front of a resident.
She had learned to speak respectfully to all of them, even when they were trying to get something that they shouldn’t have. She always asked whenever she wasn’t sure about something, and was becoming very keen at sensing when a possibly dangerous situation was at hand. She had even used her significant strength and agility twice to help residents who had lost their balance. Mrs. Peterson and the nurses were beginning to wish Ashley could be there more hours each week, and on a permanent basis.
Ashley was aware that not all of the residents were elderly. There was a middle-aged man who had been in a severe accident, a lady in her twenties who had a nervous system disease, and a couple of others. They all lived down a short hallway at the other end of the building from where Ashley spent most of her time, and so she rarely saw them.
One day she was helping a nurse by making marks on a list of the residents as the nurse deciphered reports from the aides. The list happened to also include ages, and when they were just about finished, the last name on the list caught Ashley’s attention.
“There’s a nine-year-old here?” she asked in disbelief.
“Why, yes there is. Jenny Clark. You haven’t met her?”
“No.”
“Actually, that’s not too surprising. She never comes to the dining room, and spends a lot of time out on the little porch at the end of the short hallway, especially in the afternoon and evening when you’re here.”
“Would it be okay if I met her sometime?”
“Sure! The best way is just to step out on her little porch after dinner and introduce yourself. She’ll probably be playing her penny whistle. That’s why
she goes out there — no one can stand it inside.”
Thinking back, Ashley realized that she had probably glimpsed Jenny Clark in her wheelchair several times, but it had always been from such a distance that she had assumed it was one of the tiny old ladies.
It wasn’t until about a week later that Ashley found she had almost nothing to do after dinner. She remembered her desire to meet the girl, so she told the nurse where she would be, got her coat, and headed for the short hallway.
As Ashley stepped up to the glass door, she could see that the porch was very small, and that the snow-covered garden beyond wasn’t much bigger.
The sky was quickly darkening, and the outside light was on. There sat the girl in her wheelchair, bundled up in a heavy hooded coat, facing the waning sunset. Ashley could hear a tune coming from her little whistle as she slowly pushed open the door.
The moment the girl became aware of the door opening, she stopped playing and lowered her instrument to her lap. Ashley closed the door behind her softly and sat down on the cold concrete beside the wheelchair.
“Hi. I’m Ashley.”
After a moment of silence, while still gazing at the sky, the girl said in a guarded voice, “I’m Jenny.”
“I heard that you play the flute,” Ashley said.
“I play the recorder. Actually, I don’t have a recorder anymore, just a plastic whistle. One of the old men broke my recorder ‘cause he didn’t like me playing it. Are you an aide?”
“Naa! I’m only twelve. I’m a volunteer.”
The nine-year-old turned and looked at Ashley for the first time. “You sounded older. I thought you were an aide. I’ll never make it to twelve.”
Ashley swallowed hard. “You won’t?”
“Nope. I have cancer. I’ve got about a year to go. The doctor says maybe two, but no promises.”
Ashley’s head swam with the possibilities of what to say next, but none of the things she thought of seemed like more than drippy sympathy. After a long silence, she finally said, “What do you like to do?”
“Play the recorder. But I have to come out here ‘cause it bothers everyone.”
“What do you play?”
“Just little tunes that come to me. I don’t know what to call them.”
“I don’t know anything about music,” Ashley admitted. “I wish I did.
Would you play a song for me?”
The girl looked down at Ashley. “I think I’m tired of playing tonight.”
The two girls sat in silence for awhile. Finally Ashley said, “I’d better go inside and see if anybody needs me. Can I visit you again?”
After a moment of thought, Jenny responded, still in a guarded tone laced with a hint of sadness. “Sure. If you want to.”
“Do you want me to push you inside?”
“No thanks. I want to stay out here a little longer. There will be lots of stars tonight. They teach me to play.”
“Good night,” Ashley said, and slipped inside. But she couldn’t get Jenny Clark out of her mind for the rest of that evening, nor for the entire next day at school. Especially the very last thing the girl had said haunted Ashley, as if it held some meaning that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Stars... they teach me to play.
Ashley decided over the next few weeks that Jenny Clark was somehow important to her. She could not have put her reasons into words at that point, but she felt certain of it. She began to visit Jenny every time she was at the nursing home, sometimes before dinner, sometimes after dinner, and sometimes she arranged to take Jenny her tray. Soon Ashley had ceased to eat her dinner in the nurses’ station, and had made a routine of eating with Jenny in her room. But never did Jenny play a tune on her penny whistle in front of Ashley.
One day in mid-March Ashley arrived at the nursing home with a package under her arm. She helped get the residents into the dining room, fed two of them, and then took two trays and the package to Jenny’s room.
“What’s that?” Jenny asked.
“For you!” Ashley said and handed her the box.
Jenny couldn’t hide her expectant smile as she opened the box with
excited fingers. Inside was a small, flat instrument case. She opened that, and gazed in wonder at the beautiful brown and ivory colored recorder.
“I remember you saying that you wished the tone of your whistle was lower, so I got an alto. I hope you like it.”
“It’s... it’s... fantastic!” Jenny said, and reached out to take Ashley’s hand.
Their eyes met for a long moment. “You’re the first friend I’ve ever had, since I found out... since I found out I was dying.”
Ashley grinned in embarrassment. Jenny carefully assembled the recorder and put it to her lips. She glanced at Ashley for a moment, as if trying to make a decision, and then began to play.
Ashley sat in amazement as the tune unfolded. She had assumed that Jenny played simple little things like Mary Had A Little Lamb. The tune that was being performed for her was complex, full of trills and intertwined runs.
At times long, heavy tones plodded like a giant stomping across the land, and at other times tiny notes fluttered like fairies’ wings. And it was much longer than Ashley had expected. At least fifteen minutes, maybe more, passed while Ashley sat transfixed by Jenny’s music.
“Shut up that racket!” a harsh male voice could be heard through the wall.
Ashley stuck out her tongue in the direction of the voice, knowing she couldn’t be seen, and her light attitude toward the situation was infectious; Jenny was soon giggling with abandon.
The two girls began nibbling on their dinners as they talked. Between mouthfuls, Ashley said, “That tune was really beautiful. It made me see all kinds of things in my mind while you were playing. What’s it called?”
“I just call it Voice Three.”
“That’s a funny name!” Ashley said, munching on her broccoli.
“It’s not really a name. It’s just the third voice I learned. There’s seven of them, and they’re all supposed to be played at once.”
“You mean it’s like a symphony?” Ashley asked.
“Yeah. But I can’t play them all at once. I’d have to have seven recorders!”
“And seven mouths!”
They both burst out laughing at the thought.
“Maybe you could make a disk of each voice, and then play them all back at the same time!” Ashley suggested.
“I can only play four of them, and I still have some rough spots in Voice Four. I’m practicing number five, and I’ve heard number six, but I’ve never played it. I’ve never even heard number seven separate from the others yet!”
Ashley chewed and swallowed a bite of bread. “You mean you hear them in your head before you start playing them?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. I think I kind of know what that’s like. At the gym, I have to see a routine clearly in my mind before I can do it right.”
“What do you do at a gym?” Jenny asked.
Ashley had never told Jenny she was a gymnast. She had kept it to herself because she was afraid it might make Jenny feel bad, since she couldn’t do anything physical. But now that she had mentioned the gym, she really had no choice. “Gymnastics.”
“Can you show me some? After all, I played for you!”
“Well, I can’t do it here. You have to have mats and a high ceiling, even just to do tumbling.”
“Can I watch you at the gym sometime?”
“Umm... I guess so, if you really want to...”
“I really want to. Or else you’ll never hear me play the other voices!”
Ashley thought. Suddenly she realized that Jenny had given her leverage.
“So... if you get to see me at the gym, you’ll play the other voices for me?”
“Sure. One voice for one visit to the gym. You already owe me one!”
They shook hands on their deal, and then both smiled with happiness.
Ashley arranged with Mrs. Peterson for Jenny to come to the gym in the nursing home’s van. It was free on Wednesday afternoons, which was one of Ashley’s gym days, and they had an adult volunteer who could drive. All they had to do was get the permission of Jenny’s mother.
Ashley couldn’t believe her ears when she was told that Jenny’s mother didn’t visit very often. Mrs. Peterson had to leave a message with a neighbor, as there was no telephone at the Clark residence. Even so, it was another week before the lady showed up at the nursing home. She signed the permission form, but when Ashley got there after school, Jenny was crying.
“Hi, Jenny,” Ashley said as gently as she could, sitting down in a chair near
her friend.
Jenny wiped at her face with a tissue. “Hi.” It was that guarded, sad tone of voice that Ashley remembered from before they had become friends.
“What
happened?”
“My mother was here.”
“Did she say you couldn’t go to the gym?”
“No. She didn’t care about that. She took the recorder you gave me.”
Ashley was livid. “Why?”
“To sell and spend the money on herself, what else?”
Ashley sat there dumbfounded, seething with anger. Her mind reeled with things she could do: stomp over to Jenny’s house and yell at her mother... call the police and tell them Jenny’s mother had stolen it... but then she stopped herself and remembered the time someone had gone through her pack on the train, and the things that Bob the conductor had told her. She breathed deeply and tried to relax, just as she had learned to do at gymnastics meets when waiting for her event.
“I’ll get it back for you as soon as it turns up at the pawn shop,” Ashley said.
“You don’t have to...”
“I know. But I want to. And we’ll figure out a good hiding place for it!”
Jenny brightened at that thought. “Yeah! And I’m never showing her anything again! And I get to watch you at the gym for the next four Wednesdays!”
“And guess what else?” Ashley tempted.
“What?” Jenny said, the sparkle returning to her eyes and voice.
“Mrs. Peterson said I can push you down to the snack bar on 9th Street on warm days without asking your mother!”
“Fantastic!”
Ashley went by the only pawn shop in town the next day, and told the owner what had happened to Jenny’s recorder, and that she wanted to buy it back if he acquired it. He promised her first chance at it, and said he would keep the price as low as possible.
Ashley went by every day, and the instrument was there only three days
later. Her happiness at being able to return it to Jenny far outweighed her lingering anger at Jenny’s mother.
When Ashley told her coach that a friend would be watching, he reminded her to not let it effect her concentration. The first Wednesday that Jenny came to the gym, Ashley warmed up the class, worked with some intermediate girls on their first attempts at the side aerial, and then did her alternate level seven floor exercise, with critiques from all the team members. The coach was giving her and the other level seven gymnasts as much latitude as he could, letting them learn every possible modified form and alternate routine, without actually getting into recognizable elite-level skills.
Before Jenny headed back to the nursing home at five o’clock, Ashley stepped out into the lobby to say good-bye.
“That stuff you do is really neat!” Jenny said. “You didn’t tell me you were a teacher!”
“I just help out. The other three girls at my level do too.”
“And you didn’t tell me you were the State Champion!”
Ashley looked embarrassed. “How’d you know?”
“I looked at all the stuff on the walls, silly!”
“Oh, yeah,” Ashley said, remembering all the pictures on the lobby walls of the championship meet the previous year. “I’m actually not the champion anymore. There’s a new one now, a girl named Ricki from Aberdeen. I decided not to go this year. Too much other stuff going on, and with luck I’ll get to start elite training in July.”
“We have to be going,” the adult volunteer said.
“See you tomorrow!” Jenny said, as the volunteer pushed her out to the van. On the way back to the nursing home, she realized it was her turn to play another voice of her song for her friend, and she looked forward to it with a smile.