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K<M fia]bUhY 3 RUMINATE is a quarterly magazine of short stories, poetry, creative nonfiction, memoir, and visual art that resonates with the complexity and truth of the Christian faith. Each issue is a forum for literature and art that speaks to the existence of our daily lives while nudging us toward a greater hope. Because of this, we strive to publish quality work that accounts for the grappling pleas, as well as the quiet assurances of an authentic faith. RUMINATE MAGAZINE was created for every person who has paused over a good word, a real story, a perfect brushstrokeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; longing for the significance they point us toward. Every RUMINATE issue has its own theme or focus with the hope of drawing rich connections between art, life, and faith. Please join us.
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Brianna Van Dyke Amy Lowe Whitney Hale, Lacee Perrin, Jonathan Van Dyke, Stephanie Walker Megan Barnes Nicholas Price, Alexa Behmer, Libby Keuneke Anne Pageau
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Robert Morris Kennedy
Gnawing on my Own Bones Inside, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m gnawing on my own bones, hiding in my own skin, retracing old steps looking for the wrong turn. Inside God knows whatall is all talking at the same time where the absence of hunger is not fullness. And the absence of stillness is not movement. And the absence of zero is not one. And still I know we sleep each night where darkness and light are both alike, where nothing burns, where all is fire, And if we listen hard enough, silence picks up the story.
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Colleen S. Harris
Refrigerator Borealis There are other universes than these. Father Tom tells me I am wrong, tugs his stiff collar frustrated at my insolence and having to explain this to a child, but I have glimpsed them. Even at twelve I have experienced the shock of irreverent tangerine on my tongue where I had expected tame orange, and I have disbelieved my physics teacherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ordinary explanations of the aurora borealis that casts phantasms over frozen worlds I will never see. There are gateways I cannot see, but I feel them the way I smell a hurricane barreling towards us, seven miles inland. I have never seen a tree flip its leaves upside down, light side up to announce the rain, but I have seen the emerald branch-dressings before and the frog-belly yellow after, so I know it has been done just to the left of my eyeblink. You know, too, though you ignore my shrewd questioning. I can tell by the way you meditate on the shiny alum bottom of every beer can that each holds a different answer (or why would you search so many?). I have studied those cans, arriving in our kitchen in suitcases of twenty-four. I stack them carefully in their designated place in our refrigerator. I fight my younger brother and sister for this right. I can pop those stingy sharp metal tabs for you, pouring the contents into a mug that was rinsed and frozen. The bitterness of hops burns my nose. I concentrate: any more or less than three quarters of an inch of foam, and I will fail to court your elusive smile. The afternoons I am left to my books and other age-appropriate mysteries, I sit in the cool fog that drifts out, staring at the labels on those cans, and I know these are also the colors of those northern skylights. I am tempted, but young enough to fear the bitterness behind the shine and I find a tangerine in my questing hand instead: unlike you, I prefer my galaxies sweet.
+
Elizabeth Carlson
She thrust the basket of sparrows toward me, no bigger than two hands cupped together. Tender bodies flung themselves against the wicker cage— blocking even a sparrow’s wingspan. Released, I knew the birds were trained to return— recaptured, resold. I thought of Peter’s return to nets of tilapia and chose carefully my handful of guilt.
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Elizabeth Carlson
Lift the heart from its porcelain walls. Perhaps it has dried and shrunken, perhaps it is still dripping crimson with hibiscus and passion flower. Hold it up to the dusty morning light. There is nothing to do but watch as it twists and sways on its narrow stem.
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“AND BEFORE WE’RE DONE,” THE OLD JOE SAYS,
“WE’LL FLUSH EVERY
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Jeffrey Alfier
Mapping the Migrant’s Shrine for Sonia Alvarado Soriano (1982-2007)
We swear they stand no chance facing this wind. Who prospers here when heat conspires with stone to gall votive candles down to slivers? If Santa Barbara’s a saint defrocked there’s patrons enough for any lost cause–– maybe St. Jude will untangle roads north. A new saint’s image, pinned to granite, flies above a young girl’s photo. Loosed by wind, she floats in the rain, the prowling future. Arivaca, Arizona
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Marsha L. Mentzer
Kyrie eleison sung in hushed whispers wrongs and sins and pain barely find utterance in ancient word and melody the timelessness of the universe echoes the groans Christe eleison a softer plea the Lamb of God will surely hold us should he hear of companions thrust from the Garden and then again Kyrie eleison Father look upon the child for whom your own child died wandering in dust and water in loneliness and loss
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Marsha L. Mentzer
I’ve seen my mother several places over the four years she’s been gone, the airport, church, but most often the grocery store parking lot. And only from the back. She’s small, thick white hair neatly trimmed, and of course wearing her no-wrinkle slacks and matching shirt. You can tell from the way she stands, confident in her eighty years of living through everything, that she’s no push-over. She has a firm grasp on the shopping cart and the purse in her hand. And each time I see her I pretend I’m just waiting for her to turn around and notice me, surprised and pleased to see that we have bumped into each other at last.
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Deanne Moulten lives in Fort Collins, Colorado, and received her BFA from Colorado State
University. Her work has been exhibited at various venues in Northern Colorado, such as The Lincoln Gallery Governor’s Art Show, Colorado State’s Curfman Gallery, Everyday Joe’s Coffee House (solo exhibit), and The Fort Collins Museum of Contemporary Art. Aside from creating art, Deanne also loves to rock climb and snowboard.
8YUbbY Aci`hcb. 9adUh\m Zcf ;cX at its most basic level, is the process of taking raw materials, engaging the mind and heart into them, and developing them into objects that hold significance. The artist breathes value into something that once had no value at all. When I paint, I become actively involved in every square inch of the canvas, pouring my intellect, my body, and my heart into the work. I get attached to the materials and have high hopes for them, wanting to explore the frontier of my creativity and bring it into reality. Distraught when my paintings aren’t going well and ecstatic when I succeed, I treat my paintings as though they were my own children. And the very best experience is when I take a failed and incomplete painting, and redeem it into one of my best works. When I create, I seek to understand and to grasp the feelings of the One who created me. In imitating Him, I have insight into His being. I act as a microcosm of the Divine Creator. When I was raw material, He gave me value. When I was nothing, He developed me into someone who holds significance. He is actively involved in every square inch of my life. On a small scale, I get to experience what He experiences. To know what it feels like to have my own creation destroyed. To watch the object I poured my whole existence into fail, and to know the deep joy of restoring it and seeing it appreciated. Empathy for God is my ultimate goal as an artist. Maybe I am arrogant in thinking all of this; that I can embody such deep and glorious mysteries of God. That I can affect His heart by trying to feel what He feels. Is it foolish to think I can comfort the God of the cosmos by attempting to understand Him? Probably. But I’d still like to think He is flattered by my infantile efforts. For Him, I don’t mind being a fool.
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John Dreyer
Opening Night Morning after, umbrellas lay discarded like broken dreams, abandoned in gutters, ribs bent back, skins torn and limp, worlds turned inside out by winds whistling down skyscraper canyons, the dawn revealing what footlights had not. But opening night, raindrops tapped taut umbrella skins like a soft percussive prelude, formed shimmering pearl strands down graceful curves, gave sheen to their rhythmic black bobbing down slick city sidewalks under Broadway lights and flashing neon, the air seductive with anticipation of the curtain going up.
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Martha Krystaponis
To Turn a Terrycloth Slipper into Glass Her small foot tapped the stained carpet, then self-conscious, she crossed her legs. But her foot continued bouncing in the air, covered by a faded slipper. Arthritis inhibited her movement, but not much, from years of pointy-heeled style. I nestled next to her arm, smelling her lotion and the scented pouches from her closet. The Statler Brothers warbled country gospel from the TV, and my extended family gathered in the den to listen, sing along, and clap. One stood, bowed low before my great-grandma, asked her for a dance. Her toes paused the rhythm, questioning, but her smile accepted. Focus turned from “Noah Found Grace in the Eyes of the Lord” to the slow-dancing woman and son-in-law. My mom laughed with tears in her eyes as the song ended, and we applauded for our elderly Cinderella with wrinkled feet and terrycloth slippers. The Statler Brothers’ bass singer rumbled, “Don’t go away, ‘cause we ain’t even started yet.”
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Closest I could figure it, we were all in deep trouble.
Even us Baptists. The way Pastor Bob talked maybe even God himself was in trouble. Maybe even the angels. This made me curious cause Miss Turner, my third grade teacher, said God was all love. To hear Pastor talk it sounded to me like God was having a hard time with that one. I wondered just exactly...what was judge-mint? That word made me think of spear-mint, and I wondered if God chewed gum. And if he did how big it was. Mamma says God is big, so his stick of gum must be enormous. “Mamma, do you think God chews gum?” “Lord Maizie, I should think not!” but she laughed anyway. She told me how God was a holy spirit, which set me off thinking about asparagus and how I didn’t much like it. Wondered if even now God was chewing a great big piece of spear-mint gum with the holy asparagus dancing around him in hollandaise. Hollandaise is like pink, runny mayonnaise and it’s what you do to vegetables when teachers and pastors come over to make them recognize you are respectable and educated Mamma said. “Mamma, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to have Miss Turner and Pastor Bob over for the same dinner.” “Well now Maizie, why not?” “I don’t think that maybe they have the same God.” “Oh Maizie why would you go say a thing like that?” I helped Mamma with the table and by the time Daddy got home from golf we were all ready for Sunday dinner and Miss Turner and Pastor Bob. We were shiny. Mamma had out the good dishes and Daddy didn’t even seem to mind so much ‘cause he had beat the boys at golf and had 20 bucks to prove it. Regularly Daddy doesn’t like Pastor. I’m pretty sure Daddy doesn’t like God, but I never asked. Maybe if Daddy got to know Miss Turner’s God he wouldn’t mind so much and come with me and Mamma to church like all the other daddies did. My Daddy is a Jew. “Well hello Caleb, we missed you at church today.” “Thank you Pastor, we missed you out on the golf course.” Miss Turner laughed out loud at that one, so I grinned too. I liked that Miss Turner, she was much better than Mrs. Hammond, my second grade teacher and smelled better too. Mamma got us all seated, we had special places where we were to sit and I was relieved because I saw how Mamma had split up Miss Turner and Pastor. We were just sitting down when I had what seemed to me
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to be the most beautiful idea! I couldn’t imagine that Mamma and I hadn’t thought of it before. I jumped up. “Mamma may I please be excused?” “We’re just sitting down, Maizie.” “I know Mamma, I’ll hurry. Don’t start up the blessing without me.” I ran as fast as I could to the pantry. It only took me a minute to spot the silver menorah stuck next to the Christmas wreath. I got it down easy using Mamma’s stool, blew off the dust and went running back to the table very proud. “Look Daddy, I got this so everybody can pray.” Everybody was real quiet and my smile kind of felt like it was slipping. “Mamma you can light it can’t you? And we can sing Daddy’s prayer and then Pastor can say grace, don’t you think that would work Mamma?” I smiled real big again and looked over at daddy. I saw he had a tear in his eye but he winked at me right off. Pastor looked like he was worrying about that judge-mint gum and Mamma looked a little bit like she did that time her cake was lopsided for the lady’s auxiliary holiday bazaar. Miss Turner was my hero. “I think it is a splendid idea, Maizie, how thoughtful of you. How did you know I was Jewish?” We just stared at that Miss Turner. She was my third grade teacher at Clegern Elementary and everybody knew she sang at the Catholic Church. She was Jewish? Mamma was my second hero. She got up real graceful, like the whole thing was her idea, and went to the kitchen to get the matches. Me and Miss Turner made a nice spot on the table for the candles and Daddy blew his nose on Mamma’s linen napkin. “Pastor you can learn the song with us, my Daddy can teach you. He has a beautiful voice, doesn’t he Mamma?” “Very beautiful, Maizie,” Mamma lit the candles and I covered my eyes like Daddy had showed me. But I peeked. He and Mamma looked at each other across the table, and I felt all warm inside. Miss Turner smiled at Pastor Bob and he smiled back, real nice, and seemed to forget all about the judge-mint gum. Daddy started to sing. We did too, even Pastor Bob. We sounded like I imagine the angels sound when they’re saying goodnight to God. Later, after Pastor had a shot at God too, we ate holy asparagus with hollandaise. It was good.
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REASONS TO BE HOPEFUL Somewhere in this vast east there is a tiny fishing village where an old woman is waking up early in the morning to complete her task of sewing worn-out, colored clothes into a huge quilt she is making for her grandchildrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s children and their childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s children and somewhere else in this unknown world, an ignorant village teacher, sitting on the porch of a roofless school, is showing the sons of shepherds and farm workers fireballs shooting across the sky and telling them the story of creation.
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