Penrod’s Mother’s Version

A modest and satisfying growth in readership and receipt of literary contributions has brought with it unexpected editorial problems. One of these problems is an increase in associations with Penrod. For example, last Christmas we printed a story by Penrod’s mother which was sent to us by Penrod. What follows is an otherwise unidentified piece, “Penrod’s Mother's Version,” which we have received not from Penrod but from one of our world-wandering correspondents. It seems safe to assume that the author is not Penrod’s mother, herself. The unknown author claims that the shocking view of the activities of God and of our Lord portrayed in this impious “version” is the view of Penrod’s mother. Unlikely, we think, but we feel bound editorially to present it for your consideration. — Ed.

Shifting into fourth gear, God sighed heavily. It had been a rough week, a complete bust. Again. And picking up the pieces again would be a solitary assignment, because God knew that she could count on no one to help her this time around.

There had been ample prewarning. “Let it be,” Sonny had repeated. Others had likewise tried to convince her that she was still too close to everything to attempt another try. “Cool it,” had been Gabe’s terse, cogent advice, and Mike had echoed this with “Once burnt twice shy.” Supposedly, God had listened, at first agreeing with the overall assessment. It had been a bad experience. Disastrous, in fact. And yet, the beginnings had shown real promise. Everyone, including the opposition, was in agreement on that. OK, there had been one or two flaws. This “thirst for knowledge” business had definitely been overrated by all concerned, particularly the two principles. After all, everybody had been given a free hand. Maybe that was the fundamental flaw. Freedom.

Whatever the explanation, the whole exercise degenerated. The quickest, but not necessarily the best, solution had been to turn everyone out. A bit hasty, perhaps, but it gave all concerned time to assess respective positions. Or it should have. Even in a garden there has to be a minimum amount of law and order. The brother’s keeper became a stranger in a stranger’s land of milk and honey, which combination quickly turned sour. Calling upon Sonny’s assistance for an objective assessment had been a good idea. Sweet consent together produced results. “A word spoken in due season is good,” God remembered saying. Sonny had agreed and became the hearing ear and the seeing eye in the enterprise. A New Testament was drawn up, a softening of the old one. But all Sonny’s efforts were in vain. He was brought as a lamb to slaughter. The foxes had holes, the birds of the air had nests, but the Son of Man had no place to lay his head.

God lit a pipe and puffed nervously.

After that first encounter, Sonny was adamant; count him out in any future enterprise.

But things did progress. Creation developed and God recalled frankly being pleased. The experience was on its way. The final, destructive note was therefore all the more brutal and shocking for having been brought about precisely by that category of individuals who should have seen the light. God realized that she had not heeded her own warning: “She that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.”

The result of the friction of those particles, God knows, would haunt her for eternity. There had hardly been enough debris left over to begin again. A few Covenanters grouped here and there, and the odd, isolated Catholic, are hardly encouraging enough material. But begin again, God had decided, she had to do. The beginning and the end were the same, even if humans understood this implication only partially... .