Where are Ravens When You Need Them?

If you have checked my blog recently and wondered where I've been, I have been busy finishing up the end of the school year and preparing for my trip to Uganda. I leave in just two weeks, so you may not see much activity here until I return.

Since many of you seemed to enjoy my May 13th story, I thought I would share another (humorous) Boundary Waters tale. Enjoy!

Where are Ravens When You Need Them?
by Sharlyn Guthre

“Would someone tell me how I ended up on this ledge?” I wondered aloud.

“You climbed.” Ordinarily Dan was a likable teenager, but at that moment, had there not been so many witnesses, I would have smacked him. The ledge we were sharing jutted out forty feet above the lake where the rest of the youth group and the other chaperones sat staring up at us from their canoes. One look over the ledge, and I headed back the way we came.

“The only way off is to jump,” my companion said matter-of-factly. “I’ll go first.” Again I quelled a violent outburst, but I did manage a death grip on his arm.

“No! Not yet, I mean…just let me figure this out.” He was right about the path we had taken to the top. We had climbed hand-over-hand, pulling ourselves up and over rocks. I’d broken two fingernails coming up. I could easily break my neck attempting to go down.

I tried to think of someone to blame for my predicament, and settled on my adventuresome, risk-taking husband, who was responsible for dragging me along on this trip in the first place. Concerning this latest adventure John had merely said, as compellingly as the serpent himself, “I dare you.” He had also pointed out that Dan, Gilbert, and I were the last remaining holdouts, and Dan was already making his way to the top. That left me in the same category as Gilbert, a constant shirker of responsibility, feigner of injuries, and genuine pain in the posterior region. If that weren’t enough, my entire family had already successfully leaped from the cliff.

“Hold up, Dan!” I had called out, oblivious to the shocked expressions exchanged by the others.

It can’t be that bad. Who cares that I’m the oldest female in the group? Besides, I’ll make my sons and my husband proud. Everyone will respect me, and news of my strength and courage will spread throughout the church -maybe even the city.

Such grandiose thoughts had fueled my ascent. Now, with Dan’s arm turning blue beneath my fingers, I considered the alternatives.

Jumping is definitely out of the question. Climbing back down is impossible. Maybe I can convince the others to leave me here and pray, like Elijah, for the ravens to feed me.

My musings caused me to loosen my grip just enough that Dan wriggled away. “See ya at the bottom, Mrs. Guthrie. Good luck.” And with that, Dan ran and leapt off the cliff. I couldn’t bear to watch, but several seconds later I heard a splash, followed by cheers and applause from below.

I had never been so alone. I searched the sky for ravens and, seeing none, edged closer to the ledge.

“Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!”

So this is the respect I get…twenty ungrateful teens heckling me to leap to my death like a jilted lover on a New York skyscraper. I’ll show them. They’ll be sorry when their little wilderness vacation is cut short and they have to figure out how to haul my body back to civilization. Guess I’ll end up in the papers after all, if only in the obituaries.

I sucked in my breath, closed my eyes, and stepped off the ledge…down…down…down. When will I reach the bottom? Down…down…down…better take another breath. Down…down…down…I’m coming, Lord Jesus!

Splat! I felt as though I’d been spanked –hard! Silence closed in and it felt like my lungs were held in a vise as I rose to the surface. I came up gasping, and immediately sank back under the chilly water. This time, several hands grabbed and pulled me up and into a canoe.

“You did it!”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Way to go, Mrs. Guthrie.”

“Wait till everyone hears about this.”

“My mom would never do what you just did.”

I felt exhilarated, proud, and thankful all at the same time.

“See, aren’t you glad you did it?” My husband asked, embracing me.

“I guess so. It was pretty impressive how long it took to reach the water. I actually had time to think! I broke two fingernails, though, and my back end is a little sore.”

“You’ll get over it,” he said, with not one bit of sympathy –and I did.

Later, however, in the privacy of our tent I dropped my wet shorts, revealing a bruise the size of Texas. John gasped, then quickly tried to suppress a grin.

“Go ahead and laugh,” I said. “I dare you.”

Fiction Friday is being hosted today by Yvonne at My Back Door. Stop in and find links to more great fiction.

Soaping the Pot

by Sharlyn Guthrie

“Always soap the bottom of a pan before putting it on the fire,” the wilderness guide instructed his less-than-rapt audience.

“What’s that do, make the fire purtier?” Slade’s comment evoked guffaws from his inner-city buddies who, like him, felt out of place in the Canadian wilderness.

“He who speaks first rests last,” the guide quipped, handing Slade the soap and skillet.

Slade cursed under his breath, but grabbed the skillet and began spreading the slimy substance over its outer surface.

“Swearing just earned you the title of dishwasher tonight, too.”

George, the boys’ counselor, had been silently observing, but dramatically retrieved a green pot scrubber from his hip pocket. “Soap the skillet, Slade. But leave the pasta pot to me. This wonder-scrubber can scrape the warts off a toad. If my scrubber doesn’t clean the un-soaped pasta pot quicker than you clean your soaped skillet, I’ll do the remaining dishes. Otherwise, they’re all yours.”

The guide couldn’t help smirking as George shook on the deal and smugly plunked his pot on the grate.

Experience had taught George that intervention was more than a long-range goal for this edgy group. It was a minute by minute effort. His quick thinking had eased the tension and prevented a situation from escalating. It was one reason why he was successful with at-risk teens.

George had earned the boys’ trust and respect, but their hearts were iron-clad. “Father, melt their hearts. Help me show them their need,” was George’s constant prayer. It was also his purpose in bringing them to the wilderness –far from broken homes and filthy streets, disconnected from cell phones, drug dealers, and i-pods.

Meal preparation continued under the guide’s direction. Soon all were engaged in raucous banter as they performed their assigned tasks. The meal didn’t look half-bad, and since it was the only offering, no one turned it down.

“Now for the pot scrubbing test. Observe.” George whipped out the scrubber and straddled a rock. He confidently began to scrub.

“Hey, man! What happened to ready, set, go?” Slade grabbed the skillet and dishrag.

The contest didn’t last long. Much to his surprise, Slade’s rag wiped a clean swath with each swipe over the skillet. George, meanwhile, grimaced and grunted as he scrubbed his pot, with little to show for his effort.

Slade slapped out a victory beat on the gleaming skillet’s bottom. The others began to chant. “Soap’s cool. Slade’s no fool…”

It was dark by the time George finished the dishes. His muscles ached; his hands were raw; and the blackened pot would never be the same. But God had spoken to him through the sweat and the grime. Maybe this was the message that would soften the boys’ hearts.

“Guess I deserved to do dishes tonight,” George admitted, rolling down his shirtsleeves. “My own stubborn pride is what did me in. I did learn something, though. Soaping a pot saves a whole lot of work.”

The boys chuckled and George grinned. “It made me realize that you guys are a lot like these pots.” He let their jeers and snickers fade before continuing. “You’re all headed for a fire of some kind or another. Some of you are already feeling it. Alex here has to work after school just to help his mom buy groceries. Jaydon’s dad died of AIDS two months ago. The fire is something different for each of you, but you’re all going to face it.”

“I can’t put out the fire, but I can offer you soap.” George raised the bottle of soap with one hand. “The soap is Jesus. I’m offering Him to you tonight just as I have many times before. He simply asks you to choose Him. He has already done the rest. He died so that you could live. He lives again to go with you through the fire. Will you still stubbornly insist on doing it your own way? Or will you let Jesus shield you from the darkness of this world? Will you soap the pot?”

George bowed his head. His shoulders heaved, betraying his emotions. Just then the bottle of soap was removed from his hand. He watched incredulously as Slade bowed his head over the soap. Then the next young man reached for it, and the next. Slowly, silently, it made its way through the entire group.

To an unenlightened observer such reverence for soap might have seemed an odd expression of faith, but to George it was perfect.




Whew! It has been a busy week, and I haven’t had time for blogging. I’m glad I can join Friday Fiction today with a previously written story. This one was a Faithwriters entry for the saying, “a stitch in time saves nine.” It received an editor’s choice award, and was 6th place overall. The story is fiction. However, my husband and I have often camped in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, and soaping the pot is a trick we learned from one of our guides. It really works!

Be sure to visit Karlene at Heart and Soul for links to more Friday Fiction.