Part 6 (1/2)
5. How can we fill our idle time (if we have any!) with appropriate thoughts? Are there specific things you need to avoid, such as R-rated movies? Internet temptations? Graphic novels? Make a list, then make a commitment to steer clear of those things that appeal to your flesh at the risk of your spiritual growth.
6. Could Joseph, the G.o.dly man in both the fictional and biblical stories, have taken any steps to avoid the revenge-filled conclusion? How should a G.o.dly person handle such an unfair and false accusation?
7. Though her obvious sin was l.u.s.t, perhaps the root of Mrs. P's sin was anger. How does that same sin rear its ugly head in your own life, and what could you do to surrender that specific sin to the lords.h.i.+p of Christ?
8. What's the most important lesson you've learned from the tragic, timeless story of Potiphar's wife?
3.
PILLAR OF THE COMMUNITY.
Dust in the air suspended.
Marks the place where a story ended.
THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT.
The first day of spring, huh? Could've fooled me.”
Lottie gathered her wool cape tighter around her shoulders, holding the chilly March winds at bay while she gazed across the icy expanse of Spirit Lake. The surface, still frozen solid, was riddled with hairline cracks. Had she noticed them yesterday?
”What's the difference? I'm not likely to strap on a pair of ice skates anytime soon now, am I?” Her voice was a sharp knife, cutting through the frigid afternoon air.
Lottie was speaking to no one. Or to anyone who would listen.
Her solo hours perched on the steep terrain surrounding the lake were a source of amus.e.m.e.nt to her family. To her, they were sanity itself. As the wife of a gregarious salesman who talked incessantly on the phone and the mother of two teenage daughters who giggled nonstop, Lottie found peaceful solace wherever she could.
Today she embraced the cold serenity of her surroundings, even as they wrapped her in a welcome coc.o.o.n of silence. The only voice she heard was her own. What a relief! She laughed out loud for the sheer joy of it.
After standing to brush aside a fallen branch, Lottie turned back and released a soft murmur of satisfaction, her warm breath visible in the frosty air. She never wearied of gazing at her lakeside cabin nestled in the sheltering arms of the Cascades. Hadn't she designed it herself after years of thumbing through dog-eared copies of Architectural Digest and House Beautiful? Its graceful wooden lines seemed at one with the environment, exactly as she'd planned.
”You'll have to carry me out of here in a pine box,” she'd informed her builder after the last nail was hammered home. ”At the very least I want my ashes scattered over the lake.” When everything else in life disappointed her, Lottie always had her dream house, her pride and delight.
She glanced at her watch. Quarter to four. Should she keep walking or head back and start dinner? The girls wanted pasta. Again. Her husband was on the road for- Her mental monologue ended abruptly, cut short by an eerie sound, like the low rumble of faraway thunder.
What in the world...?
Beneath her feet the ground began to shake. An earthquake? It hardly seemed possible, but the evidence was all around her. Swaying trees above. Jostling rocks underfoot. Across Spirit Lake sharp reports resembling gunshots echoed as the ice splintered in jagged cracks.
Stunned, Lottie dropped to her haunches, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Seconds later the tremors stopped as quickly as they'd begun. Her internal shaking, though, kept going. She rose slowly to her feet, her knees trembling, her breathing ragged. Other than the cracked ice, all appeared normal again, as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened. Something more significant than the minor rumblings they'd had over the last few days. Those were barely mentioned in the six o'clock news. This would be the lead story. Probably four-something on the Richter scale.
She stumbled toward the house, keeping her eyes on her beloved wraparound porch. Behind and above it loomed a ma.s.sive, snow-covered giant stretching nearly ten thousand feet into the southern Was.h.i.+ngton sky.
Mount St. Helens. The quietest of all her neighbors.
Exactly one week later the no-longer-silent mountain made news again. This time an explosion of steam blasted out the top vent. In the days that followed, smoke and sulfurous gases spewed from the peak at odd hours without warning.
Around the lakefront, rumors flew like falling ash.
”Lottie, they're saying the government is gonna make us evacuate.” Brigid's piercing blue eyes sparked with anger. The older woman had lived on Spirit Lake longer than any of them. ”It's on account of those scientific geeks crawling all over our mountain, measuring every little hiccup. What do they know? St. Helens could go on like this for years, decades, and never hurt a soul.”
Lottie nodded, letting the woman blow off her own head of steam. She'd heard similar complaints from the handful of Spirit Lake residents and vowed not to get caught up in their whirlwind of anxiety. No matter who came knocking on her door, Lottie was staying put with her house, her family, and her dogs. She wasn't easily intimidated, especially not by smoke and rumors.
Come April, the ominous rumblings were fewer and farther between, but when they came, they were significant. Lottie spent her mornings on the porch, st.i.tchery in hand, an Irish setter on each side and one eye trained on the north slope of the mountain. Curiosity seekers soon started arriving, poking their four-wheel-drive vehicles into everyone else's business and trampling the wildflowers before the tiny beauties had the slightest chance to blossom.
In the afternoons, to escape the circus atmosphere Lottie stayed inside and counted. Counting things gave her a sense of peace and control. She never counted money-how vulgar!-but an inventory of her possessions never failed to push away her fears and give her a measure of comfort.
She started with big things-couches and chairs, of which she owned eight-then her prized antique oak sideboard, the black deacons bench from back East, the old spinning wheel that had belonged to her grandmother. Her quilts numbered nearly two dozen-twenty-three, in fact-and her handmade baskets totaled twice that. Last year she'd gone through the two-story cabin with a video camera, cataloging each item, secretly pleased when her agent cluck-clucked over the additional insurance she'd have to buy to cover her potentially steep losses.
Well, that was what insurance was for, wasn't it? In case something unexpected happened?
The knock at her door that May afternoon wasn't unexpected...just unwelcome. Her husband's look of apprehension quickly gave away the ident.i.ty of the two men on their doorstep. Not that their uniforms left any doubt.
”L-Lottie, these are...”
”I know who they are.” She released a heavy sigh, swinging the door open wider. ”Come in. And wipe your feet if you don't mind.”
The two strangers knocked the ash off their hats and boots and stepped inside, following her into the living room with its oversized windows and wide oak beams. She watched their eyes, taking a small amount of pride from their expressions. Clearly they were impressed.
She waited for them to speak, dreading what they would say.
The older of the two cleared his throat. ”Ma'am, we need you to pack a few things for yourself and your family.”
”You're evacuating us then.”
Her husband, standing behind the two men, nodded slowly.
”Fact is, Mrs...uh...”
”Call me Lottie.” She'd known their visit was inevitable. The increasing clouds of smoke and ash and the acrid smell of sulfur told her all she needed to know. The reality of it seared her throat and stung her eyes. Blinking hard, she spoke her mind through clenched teeth. ”The fact is, gentlemen, the Robertsons left last week and took most of Spirit Lake with them.” Even Brigid. ”We're the last family left.”
”That's right, ma'am. The volcanologists are telling us St. Helens could blow any minute.”
She felt her nerves snap like a bent twig. ”And what if she doesn't blow? What if I abandon my home to looters and thieves who'll carry away everything we've worked so hard for?” The blood pounded in her throat and forehead, making her lightheaded.