The Book of Strange New Things(49)
Don’t agonise about the fact that I’m not there with you. If God had meant us to go on this mission together, He would have fixed it so we did. I have my own little ‘missions’ here, not as ground-breaking or exotic as yours, but worthwhile all the same. Wherever we are, life throws lost souls into our path. Angry, frightened souls who ignore the light of Christ while cursing the darkness.
Mind you, Christians are capable of ignoring the light of Christ, too. There’s been a ridiculous fuss in our church since you went away – a storm in a teacup but it has caused me some grief. A few of our congregation – the older members, mostly – have been grumbling that we’ve got ‘no business’ preaching the word of God to ‘aliens’. The argument goes that Jesus died for humans only. In fact if you pressed Mrs Shankland on the issue, she’d probably tell you that Jesus died for white middle-class English people from the Home Counties! Geoff has been doing a reasonable job as pastor overall but he’s acutely conscious of being a ‘standin’ and he wants to be popular. His sermons are sincere but safe, he never lays anything on the line like you do. So . . . the grumblings go on. ‘Why not China? There’s millions needing it there, dear.’ Thanks, Mrs Shanks, for those words of wisdom.
Well, my darling, I really must go now and have a shower (assuming the plumbing hasn’t gone bung again) and rustle up something to eat. Supplies of my favourite comfort foods continue to be conspicuously absent from the supermarket shelves (even the horrid but serviceable ‘lo-fat’ rollettes have been out of stock for days!) so I’ve been forced into the arms of another dessert, a sort of chocolate and raisin éclair made by the local baker. Probably just as well: I should be supporting local businesses anyway.
On which edifying note, much love from your excited and admiring wife!
Bea
Peter tried to picture Mrs Shankland. He had obviously met and talked to her; he’d met and talked to everyone in the congregation. His mind was a blank, though. Maybe he knew her as something other than Mrs Shankland. Edith, Millicent, Doris. She sounded like a Doris.
Dear Bea, he wrote,
Let’s groom Mrs Shankland for a mission to China. She could convert a thousand people per hour with a few well-aimed words.
Seriously, things have begun moving quickly now, and I may not have another opportunity to write to you for some time. A couple of weeks, even. (A couple of weeks for you – a few days for me, if you know what I mean.) It’s a scary prospect but I feel I’m in the Lord’s hands – ironically at the same time as I’ve got the feeling that I’m being used by USIC for some purpose that has yet to be revealed.
Sorry to sound so mysterious. It’s USIC’s secrecy about Kurtzberg and their caginess about the indigenous people in general that’s made me feel this way.
To my great relief, I’m finally over my jetlag or whatever it should be called in the circumstances. I’m sure I would benefit from some more sleep and I’m not sure how I’m going to manage that with 72 hours of sunshine coming up, but at least the sense of disorientation is gone. My urine is still bright orange but I don’t think it’s dehydration, I think it’s something to do with the water. I feel quite well. Rested, if a bit restless. Actually, I’m buzzing with energy. The first thing I’m going to do (once I finish this letter to you) is pack a bag and get myself driven back to the settlement (officially called C-2, although some of the men call it ‘Freaktown’ – charming, eh?) and just be left there. Dumped, if you like. It’s no good being ferried about in some sort of protective bubble, venturing out for a quick meet & greet while a USIC chauffeur is parked nearby with the motor running. And if I have my own vehicle, that still seems to say, I’m paying a visit, and I’ll leave when I’ve had enough. Bad message! If God has a plan for me here, among these people, then I must deliver myself into their hands.
OK, that might not have been the wisest course of action for Paul among the Corinthians and Ephesians, but I can hardly claim to be in hostile territory, can I? The most hostility I’ve had to endure so far is Severin being in a bit of a snit with me on the way over. (Haven’t seen him since, by the way.)
In my excitement about what’s to come, I must try to remember what I have & haven’t described to you so far. How I wish you were here with me, seeing it with your own eyes. Not because it would save me the trouble of trying to describe it (although I must admit my lack of skill in that department is becoming ever more obvious!) but because I miss you. I miss living through the visible moments of life with you. Without you at my side, I feel as though my eyes are just a camera, like a closed-circuit camera without film in it, registering what’s out there, second by second, letting it all vanish instantly to be replaced by more images, none of them properly appreciated.
If only I could send you a photo or a movie! How quickly we adjust to what’s provided for us and want MORE . . . The technology that allows me to send these words to you, across unimaginable distances, is truly miraculous (– a blasphemous assertion??) yet as soon as I’ve used it a few times, I think: Why can’t I send pictures as well?
Peter stared at the screen. It was pearlescent grey, and his text hung suspended in the plasma, but if he adjusted his focus he could see his ghostly visage: his unruly blond hair, his big bright eyes, his strong cheekbones. His face, strange and familiar.