“Have you thought about your rights?” Robert Peterson asked John and Murielle. He was seated at their dining room table one Monday afternoon, surrounded by officious looking forms.
“My rights?” John asked, staring dumbfounded at the lawyer. With his hair slicked down, clothed in an unmiraculous dress shirt, John looked much like an overgrown school boy.
“The rights to that Jesus shirt.”
Robert Peterson had no faith of his own. He believed Jesus had visited John Lundstom’s dress shirt as much as he believed pigs could fly – but this was the most interesting case of property rights he had come across in 34 years of small-town practice and he wasn’t going to let it slip by.
“I never thought about rights,” John mumbled. “I guess it’s my shirt, but I don’t think I can rightly stake a claim on any miracle.”
Murielle shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“Yes, it is your shirt,” Robert Peterson said, speaking slowly and carefully in the way he had when dealing with farmers. “But you should think about legalizing your rights to the image, that picture of Christ. What if someone decides to make a copy of it and started selling that?” he asked. “They would be making money off your miracle. That’s not right.”
John and Murielle were not easily convinced. John felt there was something sacrilegious about claiming property rights on a miracle; Murielle did not welcome scrutiny. But Peterson was persistent and not only secured their rights for the image, but a significant percentage of profits for himself.
Peterson’s sister-in-law took a photo of the shirt and had postcards made up in the city. They sold for 50 cents at the church, in Peterson’s office and at Betty’s Sears outlet - where she advertised the miracle shirt as available in her catalogue and watched her business grow. Betty wondered how Murielle had got the image of Jesus onto the shirt. If they had been better friends she would have asked. She didn’t believe for a minute it had been a miracle; but she decided Murielle was a smarter cookie than anyone gave her credit for. Everyone knew that since the miracle John had stopped hitting his wife.
Showing posts with label Miracle Shirt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Miracle Shirt. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Short story: Miracle Shirt (part vi)
Whether or not the congregation believed Father Michael’s less than convincing presentation of the miracle shirt, curiosity proved to be as good as faith for improving a church attendance. People who hadn’t darkened a church door in years began attending services in the following weeks. Word of the miracle had spread like wildfire. Business was booming at the Sears outlet and Murielle had never done so much entertaining in her life.
Friends and distance acquaintances were suddenly making excuses to drop by the Lundstrom farmhouse for visits at all hours of the day. While she served coffee in her musty living room, Murielle could see her guests peering around the house, as if expecting Jesus or a saint to suddenly appear. With all this close examination, she became very conscientious about her house cleaning. The baseboards have never been cleaner. The curtains never before pressed.
Murielle also had to make three pots of coffee each day and at first spent a good deal of time baking squares or cookies so she would have something to offer. But many ladies came bearing plates of home baking, so soon she no longer had to make anything herself. She offered up one lady’s home baking to the next, cleared space in her freezer and began regularly taking leftovers to the old folks’ home on Preston Street.
She and John had agreed that they would say the shirt was discovered with its strange marking when Murielle brought it in off the clothesline. But neither of them was very good at lying, so the story came out a little different each time. Still, their fumbled retelling only served to turn the story into a myth and overtime everyone had their own version to believe in.
Two weeks after the shirt had been on display at church, Murielle went into her backyard to take the clothes off the line and found a woman rifling through her laundry. The woman was shamefaced but also defiant. She admitted she was looking for another image of Jesus. “Or maybe of Mary,” she said wistfully. “I would really love to see Mary.”
When Murielle was folding the laundry later, she noticed a sock was missing.
Friends and distance acquaintances were suddenly making excuses to drop by the Lundstrom farmhouse for visits at all hours of the day. While she served coffee in her musty living room, Murielle could see her guests peering around the house, as if expecting Jesus or a saint to suddenly appear. With all this close examination, she became very conscientious about her house cleaning. The baseboards have never been cleaner. The curtains never before pressed.
Murielle also had to make three pots of coffee each day and at first spent a good deal of time baking squares or cookies so she would have something to offer. But many ladies came bearing plates of home baking, so soon she no longer had to make anything herself. She offered up one lady’s home baking to the next, cleared space in her freezer and began regularly taking leftovers to the old folks’ home on Preston Street.
She and John had agreed that they would say the shirt was discovered with its strange marking when Murielle brought it in off the clothesline. But neither of them was very good at lying, so the story came out a little different each time. Still, their fumbled retelling only served to turn the story into a myth and overtime everyone had their own version to believe in.
Two weeks after the shirt had been on display at church, Murielle went into her backyard to take the clothes off the line and found a woman rifling through her laundry. The woman was shamefaced but also defiant. She admitted she was looking for another image of Jesus. “Or maybe of Mary,” she said wistfully. “I would really love to see Mary.”
When Murielle was folding the laundry later, she noticed a sock was missing.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Short story: Miracle Shirt (part v)
Father Michael felt a sick nausea of fear rising from his stomach. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. But he fought to keep a calm authority in his voice. Reaching out to the shirt, he traced his long finger over the brow, the nose line, the shadow of lips – desperately praying that the others would see what he did.
When he heard the first murmur of ‘I see it,’ he nearly shouted with relief. He knew his credibility had been dangling like the shirt. Aware he still had but a small window to convince the whole congregation, he declared in what he hoped was an assured and generous tone that they could file past and see for themselves this image of their Lord.
Hesitant but curious, the congregation rose and came forward. One by one, they stood before the hanging shirt, squinting and tipping their heads until they were satisfied enough to move on. Upon resuming their seats, they immediately began whispering with their neighbours. Mureille did her best to ignore them. When it was her turn in front of the shirt, she paused as if considering the miracle. Really she was regretting that she hadn't finished ironing the front before burning the back.
When it was Betty Miller’s turn, she studied the shirt for a few minutes then exclaimed out loud, “Why that’s John Lundstrom’s shirt! I ordered it for him myself.” Betty Miller worked at the Sears outlet and took all the catalogue orders.
Betty’s declaration spread along the line of viewers and into the pews. All eyes turned to Murielle and John.
Murielle’s face flushed a deep red. She had told the priest she preferred not to be mentioned in connection to the shirt. Though she had been coming to church each Sunday for the five years she’d been married to John, she would never be Catholic born and bred and she had never felt fully accepted here. She did not think this miracle would be her ticket in. Unlike Father Michael, she had fully expected that the congregation would need some convincing - and if it was judged false, she didn’t want anyone to think this had been her idea.
When he heard the first murmur of ‘I see it,’ he nearly shouted with relief. He knew his credibility had been dangling like the shirt. Aware he still had but a small window to convince the whole congregation, he declared in what he hoped was an assured and generous tone that they could file past and see for themselves this image of their Lord.
Hesitant but curious, the congregation rose and came forward. One by one, they stood before the hanging shirt, squinting and tipping their heads until they were satisfied enough to move on. Upon resuming their seats, they immediately began whispering with their neighbours. Mureille did her best to ignore them. When it was her turn in front of the shirt, she paused as if considering the miracle. Really she was regretting that she hadn't finished ironing the front before burning the back.
When it was Betty Miller’s turn, she studied the shirt for a few minutes then exclaimed out loud, “Why that’s John Lundstrom’s shirt! I ordered it for him myself.” Betty Miller worked at the Sears outlet and took all the catalogue orders.
Betty’s declaration spread along the line of viewers and into the pews. All eyes turned to Murielle and John.
Murielle’s face flushed a deep red. She had told the priest she preferred not to be mentioned in connection to the shirt. Though she had been coming to church each Sunday for the five years she’d been married to John, she would never be Catholic born and bred and she had never felt fully accepted here. She did not think this miracle would be her ticket in. Unlike Father Michael, she had fully expected that the congregation would need some convincing - and if it was judged false, she didn’t want anyone to think this had been her idea.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Short story: Miracle Shirt (part iv)
While studying in seminary, Father Michael had been involved in a small drama troupe which put on plays at Easter and Christmas. His sense of dramatic flair was revived as he imagined how best to present this miracle shirt. He couldn’t be too flashy or the shirt would be overshadowed. But to drape the shirt over a chair wouldn’t do either. In the end he decided to rig a clothes line pulley behind the altar so that when the time came to unveil the miracle the shirt would glide out of the alcoves, like an angel alighting in their midst.
A week later, after tantalizing the congregation with hints and suggestions for the better part of his service, Father Michael gave a nod to young Bobby Miller in the wings, who began to reel out the line. The shirt jerked into view, swaying and twisting with Bobby’s every tug. It turned on itself so that Father Michael had to go over and straighten it, stretching it out so the burn was clearly visible.
A puzzled hush fell over the church and Murielle could hear wasps buzzing angrily against the window panes, battering themselves against the glass like maddened prisoners. Everyone was waiting. Some wondered if Jesus would appear, wearing this stained shirt. Others wondered if the shirt would turn into a pair of wings. A couple of women hoped it would take itself off the line and fold into a laundry basket - that would be a miracle worth believing in. Old lady Pearl wondered why the priest was showing his dirty laundry in the middle of service.
Seeing blank faces and puzzled eyes, Father Michael realized he must explain. “It’s the image of Christ,” he said, in as much of an authoritative tone as he could muster.
The faces still looked puzzled and Father Michael sensed an undercurrent of anger, like that of petulant children who have been promised a treat that does not materialize. Quickly, fighting to keep the whine of anxiety from his voice, the pale priest explained this was the face of Christ, here on the shirt. There was still no reply, only sceptical silence and the insistent buzzing of wasps.
A week later, after tantalizing the congregation with hints and suggestions for the better part of his service, Father Michael gave a nod to young Bobby Miller in the wings, who began to reel out the line. The shirt jerked into view, swaying and twisting with Bobby’s every tug. It turned on itself so that Father Michael had to go over and straighten it, stretching it out so the burn was clearly visible.
A puzzled hush fell over the church and Murielle could hear wasps buzzing angrily against the window panes, battering themselves against the glass like maddened prisoners. Everyone was waiting. Some wondered if Jesus would appear, wearing this stained shirt. Others wondered if the shirt would turn into a pair of wings. A couple of women hoped it would take itself off the line and fold into a laundry basket - that would be a miracle worth believing in. Old lady Pearl wondered why the priest was showing his dirty laundry in the middle of service.
Seeing blank faces and puzzled eyes, Father Michael realized he must explain. “It’s the image of Christ,” he said, in as much of an authoritative tone as he could muster.
The faces still looked puzzled and Father Michael sensed an undercurrent of anger, like that of petulant children who have been promised a treat that does not materialize. Quickly, fighting to keep the whine of anxiety from his voice, the pale priest explained this was the face of Christ, here on the shirt. There was still no reply, only sceptical silence and the insistent buzzing of wasps.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Short story: Miracle Shirt (part iii)
On Sunday, Father Michael told his congregation that the Lord had visited a home in their parish and left a sign of his presence. Murmurs rustled through the pews. This could be the most exciting thing since old lady Pearl was mistakenly thought to have died. Phone calls were being made to family members when Pearl sat up in bed and demanded a glass of water. She was sitting in the front row today, although she hadn’t heard a word Father Michael said since she’d been stone deaf since that brush with death.
“A miracle has visited the parish of Ross Creek,” Father Michael declared and the word ‘miracle’ seemed to reverberate from the church walls. “Next Sunday a special mass will be held and you will all be witnesses.”
Father Michael stood in the doorway after mass shaking hands as people filed past. No one talked about the weather or inquired after his health. They wanted to know what the miracle was and whose home was ‘visited’. But the priest, grinning like the Cheshire cat, told them to wait for next Sunday. He wanted to keep them guessing. He also wanted them to come back.
Murielle didn’t ask any questions when she filed past the priest. She was busy wondering how her husband’s shirt would be presented and if it mattered that the armpits were stained.
The question of presentation was discussed over tea the next day. Father Michael sat perched on the edge of John and Murielle’s faded, floral-patterned sofa, holding his saucer with his left hand, the tea-cup delicately in his right. “It should really be displayed in a glass case,” he said.
Murielle imagined the shirt hanging behind glass like new clothes on display in the Sears window on Main.
“There probably isn’t time though,” the priest added sadly.
He wanted to do this right, but he didn’t want to wait too long and lose interest from his unruly flock. He had been praying for a miracle to bless his struggling ministry for more than 15 years. This was not what he had expected, but he was prepared to make do with what he was given. Who was he to question?
“A miracle has visited the parish of Ross Creek,” Father Michael declared and the word ‘miracle’ seemed to reverberate from the church walls. “Next Sunday a special mass will be held and you will all be witnesses.”
Father Michael stood in the doorway after mass shaking hands as people filed past. No one talked about the weather or inquired after his health. They wanted to know what the miracle was and whose home was ‘visited’. But the priest, grinning like the Cheshire cat, told them to wait for next Sunday. He wanted to keep them guessing. He also wanted them to come back.
Murielle didn’t ask any questions when she filed past the priest. She was busy wondering how her husband’s shirt would be presented and if it mattered that the armpits were stained.
The question of presentation was discussed over tea the next day. Father Michael sat perched on the edge of John and Murielle’s faded, floral-patterned sofa, holding his saucer with his left hand, the tea-cup delicately in his right. “It should really be displayed in a glass case,” he said.
Murielle imagined the shirt hanging behind glass like new clothes on display in the Sears window on Main.
“There probably isn’t time though,” the priest added sadly.
He wanted to do this right, but he didn’t want to wait too long and lose interest from his unruly flock. He had been praying for a miracle to bless his struggling ministry for more than 15 years. This was not what he had expected, but he was prepared to make do with what he was given. Who was he to question?
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Short story: Miracle Shirt (part ii)
John was Catholic, devout in a childish, clumsy way. Insistent on their weekly church attendance, he kneeled in reverence and took communion directly into his open mouth, not the way Murielle did - holding out her hands so she could feed herself. She didn’t believe it was the body of Christ anyway since she saw the wafer crackers for sale at the Bible Bookstore on Fifth Avenue and she knew for a fact that Father Michael drank off the rest of the wine each Sunday after mass.
On John’s request, Father Michael came to their house and confirmed that the burn was indeed the image of Our Lord Jesus Christ. He too made the sign of the cross - over himself and over the shirt Murielle had draped over a kitchen chair. Before the priest arrived she had tried various ways of presenting the shirt: on a hanger, on a coat hook, or folded on the table. Nothing looked right. When she heard his car pull into the yard she’d quickly tossed it over a chair.
“The Lord has blessed this house,” Father Michael said. He felt a rush of excitement, of envy.
Murielle looked from the shirt to the cracked linoleum, the sagging ceiling and around the rest of the ramshackle house that wore years of neglect. The windows were dull, the roof leaked; the yellow and pink wallpaper was peeling. She looked again at the burnt shirt and sighed.
But John was breathless with agreement. He and Father Michael stood side by side with the shirt reflecting in their eyes. Father Michael was dressed in black, the thin white clerical collar tightly wrapped around his neck. His hands and face were pale; the skin under his eyes a consumptive yellow. His chest was like a birdcage. John, towering above him, had a torso like an oil drum. He wore a checkered flannel shirt, faded blue jeans and old boots. His neck was thick and red with wiry, rust-coloured hairs extending up into a dense thatch on his head and down into a thick coat on his muscular back.
“This is a sign,” Father Michael said.
“A sign,” John repeated.
“A sign,” Murielle sighed.
On John’s request, Father Michael came to their house and confirmed that the burn was indeed the image of Our Lord Jesus Christ. He too made the sign of the cross - over himself and over the shirt Murielle had draped over a kitchen chair. Before the priest arrived she had tried various ways of presenting the shirt: on a hanger, on a coat hook, or folded on the table. Nothing looked right. When she heard his car pull into the yard she’d quickly tossed it over a chair.
“The Lord has blessed this house,” Father Michael said. He felt a rush of excitement, of envy.
Murielle looked from the shirt to the cracked linoleum, the sagging ceiling and around the rest of the ramshackle house that wore years of neglect. The windows were dull, the roof leaked; the yellow and pink wallpaper was peeling. She looked again at the burnt shirt and sighed.
But John was breathless with agreement. He and Father Michael stood side by side with the shirt reflecting in their eyes. Father Michael was dressed in black, the thin white clerical collar tightly wrapped around his neck. His hands and face were pale; the skin under his eyes a consumptive yellow. His chest was like a birdcage. John, towering above him, had a torso like an oil drum. He wore a checkered flannel shirt, faded blue jeans and old boots. His neck was thick and red with wiry, rust-coloured hairs extending up into a dense thatch on his head and down into a thick coat on his muscular back.
“This is a sign,” Father Michael said.
“A sign,” John repeated.
“A sign,” Murielle sighed.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Short story: Miracle Shirt (part i)
It’s been a weekend full of bbqs and hanging out in the backyard. Great to catch up with old friends and make some new ones, but at the end of the weekend I’m feeling rather uninspired about writing.
So once again I’m going to re-work an old story I’ve written – this one being a rather tongue-in-cheek take on a modern ‘miracle’.
Murielle had heard the Lord works in mysterious ways. She just never thought he’d use one of her appliances.
Distracted for a moment while ironing, she suddenly smelled burning. Snatching the iron off her husband’s white shirt, she discovered a bold burn between the shoulders. It was as wide as the iron, crisp and brown, pockmarked with steam holes.
This was John’s best shirt and Murielle was sick about what he’d do when he saw it. Her husband had a temper that was quick as a prairie fire; it flared up and roared at the slightest spark. But when John saw the shirt instead of burning red, he turned pale.
“Jesus,” he whispered and Murielle held her breath. But his thick hand didn't lift to strike - instead it made the sign of the cross. “It’s Jesus,” he said in a voice tight with fear and awe.
It took a few seconds for Murielle to understand what John was getting at. He just kept staring that shirt she held before him, his mouth gaping half open.
“Sure, okay,” she said hesitantly, casting a wary eye at her husband. She wondered if he wasn’t playing with her - like a barn cat with a mouse - but he was crossing himself again with shaking hands.
“This is a miracle, Murielle,” John said.
“A miracle?”
“Well how the hell else would Jesus get himself on my clothes?”
So once again I’m going to re-work an old story I’ve written – this one being a rather tongue-in-cheek take on a modern ‘miracle’.
Murielle had heard the Lord works in mysterious ways. She just never thought he’d use one of her appliances.
Distracted for a moment while ironing, she suddenly smelled burning. Snatching the iron off her husband’s white shirt, she discovered a bold burn between the shoulders. It was as wide as the iron, crisp and brown, pockmarked with steam holes.
This was John’s best shirt and Murielle was sick about what he’d do when he saw it. Her husband had a temper that was quick as a prairie fire; it flared up and roared at the slightest spark. But when John saw the shirt instead of burning red, he turned pale.
“Jesus,” he whispered and Murielle held her breath. But his thick hand didn't lift to strike - instead it made the sign of the cross. “It’s Jesus,” he said in a voice tight with fear and awe.
It took a few seconds for Murielle to understand what John was getting at. He just kept staring that shirt she held before him, his mouth gaping half open.
She turned the shirt around and held it at arm’s length, squinting at it through her wire-rimmed glasses. Closing one eye, she could make out brow-like arches along the top, an angular line cutting through the centre, a thin curve along the bottom. It still looked like a burn to her; but if John saw Jesus, and seeing Jesus kept him from losing his temper, she wasn't about to argue.
“Sure, okay,” she said hesitantly, casting a wary eye at her husband. She wondered if he wasn’t playing with her - like a barn cat with a mouse - but he was crossing himself again with shaking hands.
“This is a miracle, Murielle,” John said.
“A miracle?”
“Well how the hell else would Jesus get himself on my clothes?”
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