Bad Girls of the Bible Part 6

5. How can we fill our idle time (if we have any!) with appropriate thoughts? Are there specific things you need to avoid, such as R-rated movies? Internet temptations? Graphic novels? Make a list, then make a commitment to steer clear of those things that appeal to your flesh at the risk of your spiritual growth.

6. Could Joseph, the G.o.dly man in both the fictional and biblical stories, have taken any steps to avoid the revenge-filled conclusion? How should a G.o.dly person handle such an unfair and false accusation?

7. Though her obvious sin was l.u.s.t, perhaps the root of Mrs. P's sin was anger. How does that same sin rear its ugly head in your own life, and what could you do to surrender that specific sin to the lords.h.i.+p of Christ?

8. What's the most important lesson you've learned from the tragic, timeless story of Potiphar's wife?

3.

PILLAR OF THE COMMUNITY.

Dust in the air suspended.

Marks the place where a story ended.

THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT.

The first day of spring, huh? Could've fooled me."

Lottie gathered her wool cape tighter around her shoulders, holding the chilly March winds at bay while she gazed across the icy expanse of Spirit Lake. The surface, still frozen solid, was riddled with hairline cracks. Had she noticed them yesterday?

"What's the difference? I'm not likely to strap on a pair of ice skates anytime soon now, am I?" Her voice was a sharp knife, cutting through the frigid afternoon air.

Lottie was speaking to no one. Or to anyone who would listen.

Her solo hours perched on the steep terrain surrounding the lake were a source of amus.e.m.e.nt to her family. To her, they were sanity itself. As the wife of a gregarious salesman who talked incessantly on the phone and the mother of two teenage daughters who giggled nonstop, Lottie found peaceful solace wherever she could.

Today she embraced the cold serenity of her surroundings, even as they wrapped her in a welcome coc.o.o.n of silence. The only voice she heard was her own. What a relief! She laughed out loud for the sheer joy of it.

After standing to brush aside a fallen branch, Lottie turned back and released a soft murmur of satisfaction, her warm breath visible in the frosty air. She never wearied of gazing at her lakeside cabin nestled in the sheltering arms of the Cascades. Hadn't she designed it herself after years of thumbing through dog-eared copies of Architectural Digest and House Beautiful? Its graceful wooden lines seemed at one with the environment, exactly as she'd planned.

"You'll have to carry me out of here in a pine box," she'd informed her builder after the last nail was hammered home. "At the very least I want my ashes scattered over the lake." When everything else in life disappointed her, Lottie always had her dream house, her pride and delight.

She glanced at her watch. Quarter to four. Should she keep walking or head back and start dinner? The girls wanted pasta. Again. Her husband was on the road for- Her mental monologue ended abruptly, cut short by an eerie sound, like the low rumble of faraway thunder.

What in the world...?

Beneath her feet the ground began to shake. An earthquake? It hardly seemed possible, but the evidence was all around her. Swaying trees above. Jostling rocks underfoot. Across Spirit Lake sharp reports resembling gunshots echoed as the ice splintered in jagged cracks.

Stunned, Lottie dropped to her haunches, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Seconds later the tremors stopped as quickly as they'd begun. Her internal shaking, though, kept going. She rose slowly to her feet, her knees trembling, her breathing ragged. Other than the cracked ice, all appeared normal again, as if nothing had happened.

But something had happened. Something more significant than the minor rumblings they'd had over the last few days. Those were barely mentioned in the six o'clock news. This would be the lead story. Probably four-something on the Richter scale.

She stumbled toward the house, keeping her eyes on her beloved wraparound porch. Behind and above it loomed a ma.s.sive, snow-covered giant stretching nearly ten thousand feet into the southern Was.h.i.+ngton sky.

Mount St. Helens. The quietest of all her neighbors.

Exactly one week later the no-longer-silent mountain made news again. This time an explosion of steam blasted out the top vent. In the days that followed, smoke and sulfurous gases spewed from the peak at odd hours without warning.

Around the lakefront, rumors flew like falling ash.

"Lottie, they're saying the government is gonna make us evacuate." Brigid's piercing blue eyes sparked with anger. The older woman had lived on Spirit Lake longer than any of them. "It's on account of those scientific geeks crawling all over our mountain, measuring every little hiccup. What do they know? St. Helens could go on like this for years, decades, and never hurt a soul."

Lottie nodded, letting the woman blow off her own head of steam. She'd heard similar complaints from the handful of Spirit Lake residents and vowed not to get caught up in their whirlwind of anxiety. No matter who came knocking on her door, Lottie was staying put with her house, her family, and her dogs. She wasn't easily intimidated, especially not by smoke and rumors.

Come April, the ominous rumblings were fewer and farther between, but when they came, they were significant. Lottie spent her mornings on the porch, st.i.tchery in hand, an Irish setter on each side and one eye trained on the north slope of the mountain. Curiosity seekers soon started arriving, poking their four-wheel-drive vehicles into everyone else's business and trampling the wildflowers before the tiny beauties had the slightest chance to blossom.

In the afternoons, to escape the circus atmosphere Lottie stayed inside and counted. Counting things gave her a sense of peace and control. She never counted money-how vulgar!-but an inventory of her possessions never failed to push away her fears and give her a measure of comfort.

She started with big things-couches and chairs, of which she owned eight-then her prized antique oak sideboard, the black deacons bench from back East, the old spinning wheel that had belonged to her grandmother. Her quilts numbered nearly two dozen-twenty-three, in fact-and her handmade baskets totaled twice that. Last year she'd gone through the two-story cabin with a video camera, cataloging each item, secretly pleased when her agent cluck-clucked over the additional insurance she'd have to buy to cover her potentially steep losses.

Well, that was what insurance was for, wasn't it? In case something unexpected happened?

The knock at her door that May afternoon wasn't unexpected...just unwelcome. Her husband's look of apprehension quickly gave away the ident.i.ty of the two men on their doorstep. Not that their uniforms left any doubt.

"L-Lottie, these are..."

"I know who they are." She released a heavy sigh, swinging the door open wider. "Come in. And wipe your feet if you don't mind."

The two strangers knocked the ash off their hats and boots and stepped inside, following her into the living room with its oversized windows and wide oak beams. She watched their eyes, taking a small amount of pride from their expressions. Clearly they were impressed.

She waited for them to speak, dreading what they would say.

The older of the two cleared his throat. "Ma'am, we need you to pack a few things for yourself and your family."

"You're evacuating us then."

Her husband, standing behind the two men, nodded slowly.

"Fact is, Mrs...uh..."

"Call me Lottie." She'd known their visit was inevitable. The increasing clouds of smoke and ash and the acrid smell of sulfur told her all she needed to know. The reality of it seared her throat and stung her eyes. Blinking hard, she spoke her mind through clenched teeth. "The fact is, gentlemen, the Robertsons left last week and took most of Spirit Lake with them." Even Brigid. "We're the last family left."

"That's right, ma'am. The volcanologists are telling us St. Helens could blow any minute."

She felt her nerves snap like a bent twig. "And what if she doesn't blow? What if I abandon my home to looters and thieves who'll carry away everything we've worked so hard for?" The blood pounded in her throat and forehead, making her lightheaded.

The man's raised eyebrow suggested he was losing patience. "If a pyroclastic flow pours down this mountain at eighty miles an hour, Lottie, you won't have to worry about your hewn-log cabin or your expensive furniture. The thirteen-hundred-degree heat will incinerate everything in seconds, then bury it in fifty feet of volcanic debris." His rough voice softened slightly. "Look, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings. Every minute we're standing here is risky. Now pack some clothes for yourself and your family. We'll be waiting outside with a vehicle to get you to safety. But we gotta move fast. Understood?"

She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak without sobbing. Her house! Her precious home and all it contained, mere fodder for an angry mountain.

Hearing her daughters whimpering behind her, Lottie whirled around. "Enough of that, girls! I want each of you to pack a suitcase. One dress, one pair of jeans, then anything else you like. But one bag each, tops." She waved toward the stairs that led to their bedrooms. "Go on! We can't keep these fellas waiting." Aiming a pointed look at the front door, Lottie added, "They might get a pumice stone in their eyes standing out there."

Her husband hurried after the girls, no doubt planning to pack his own bag full of electronic gear and CDs instead of the slacks and socks he'd be whining for within hours.

No problem. Lottie would pack those herself since she had no intention of leaving. When everyone got in the van, she'd wave them off, then stay behind and hold down the fort, keep an eye on things. They'd be back in a week or two, tails between their legs. In the meantime she'd read a few novels, do some spring cleaning, and enjoy the solitude.

But thirty minutes later when she tried to send them off, the two government types wouldn't hear of it.

"Ma'am, this is not an optional evacuation. We're to get everyone off this mountain, like it or not."

She folded her arms across her chest. "Not, then."

He yanked open the door to the vehicle with a groan. "You can't fight us on this. We have our orders, and trust me, they're from the very top. Get in."

Jerking her chin to the side, she threw herself in the backseat next to her wide-eyed daughters and stone-faced husband. The official closed the door behind her with a bang, then settled into the pa.s.senger seat in front as the engine roared to life.

His expression grim, he leaned over his left shoulder. "Do yourself a favor, Lottie. Don't look back. It'll only make it worse."

"Oh, right," she fumed, deliberately turning around to stare out the window behind her. "It can't get any worse than this."

They rode in silence while her thoughts turned along desperate paths. Their home was as good as gone. Gone! Her lovely things, a lifetime of memories, left behind for no good reason. If the mountain really blew her top, they'd have time to get out, wouldn't they? Surely the lake would quickly cool that pyro-whatever mess. Yes, it was risky, but life was all about risk. Wasn't it hers to take?

Despondent, she turned back around to face forward, her heart broken by her last sight of home now blanketed with a fine layer of ash. Another sobering thought struck her: Would their homeowner's policy cover volcano damage? She almost laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of it all, until a sickening realization washed over her.

The video! She'd forgotten the video, the one with their detailed house inventory, left perched on the bookshelf in her chef's dream of a kitchen. It was the only record she had, her only hope for a fair settlement if it came to that.

"Wait! I need to go back." Lottie gripped the headrest, pulling herself forward. "Please! I forgot the one thing we'll need for our insurance. It won't take me a second to get it, honest. You can leave the engine running if you need to. I promise I'll hurry."

Grumbling under his breath, the driver maneuvered the van around on the narrow, forest-service road, downs.h.i.+fted, then took off with a jarring lurch. Lottie smiled to herself as her home came into view once more, the rocking chair on the porch offering a tantalizing respite from all the doom and gloom around her. Shoving open the van door, she hurried up the steps, catching a glimpse of their own Chevy truck out of the corner of her eye.

Of course! She had her own wheels; she'd get herself out, if and when the time came to flee the mountain's wrath.

Lottie spun on her heels and hurried back down the steps toward the officials, now glaring at her from the front seat. She leaned on the open van window and forced herself to sound sincere. "Fellas, this may take a little while after all. I'm...I'm not sure where I stuck that insurance video. Why don't you go ahead, and I'll follow you in the truck?" She pointed at it with casual indifference. "It has a full tank and four-wheel drive, all ready to go. I won't be long. Deal?"

As expected, her family protested.

"Mo-ther! We gotta go-now."

"Lottie, honey, this is not the time for arguments."

"C'mon, Mom! That...that dragon up there is ready to blow."

Lottie held up her hands, determined to have her way. "I'll be fine. Go on, take off. I'll be along before you miss me. All I need to know is where we're going to meet later."

His lips drawn into a narrow line of frustration, the driver spat out directions to their rendezvous point. "This is highly irregular, ma'am," he insisted. "I hope you won't regret it."

"Nothing to worry about. Now go. I'll see you shortly."

She stood on the bottom porch step, waving as the vanload b.u.mped their way toward uncomfortable motel beds. A slight smile moved across her lips as she turned and climbed the steps. The May evening was warm, the sky smoky but quiet. She'd almost grown accustomed to the faint smell of sulfur in the air.

Dropping into the inviting porch chair, Lottie pointed herself toward the mountain and began rocking in a steady rhythm. "St. Helens, old girl, suppose you do the talking for a change, and I'll just sit here and listen." As the sky darkened, Lottie was lulled to sleep by the sounds of nature all around her and the a.s.surance that when the sun rose, so would she...

May 18, 1980, 8:32 A.M. PDT: A magnitude 5.1 earthquake occurred one mile beneath Mount St. Helens, releasing an avalanche of rock and ice down the north face of the mountain, completely overtaking Spirit Lake. The resulting tsunami swept water as high as 820 feet, followed by a volcanic eruption of pumice and ash covering 230 square miles. The death toll stands at 57.1

She Left Her Heart in Sodom

and Gomorrah: Lot's Wife

"It was the same in the days of Lot. People were eating and drinking, buying and selling, planting and building." Luke 17:28 In the days of Lottie, in the days of Lot, in the days immediately preceding the revelation of the Son of Man-all such days Jesus described as ordinary days. People going through the mundane motions of life. Nibbling Pop Tarts for breakfast, buying CDs on the Internet, spraying the rosebushes for bugs, flipping burgers on the grill. Days straight out of Better Homes and Gardens.

Until suddenly...

"We didn't know, Lord! We weren't expecting that!" No one is ever prepared for disaster to strike.

Lot's wife wasn't ready, not even when she was warned.

"But the day Lot left Sodom, fire and sulfur rained down from heaven and destroyed them all." Luke 17:29 All were destroyed except Lot and his two daughters, as we'll soon see. Lot's wife, though, wasn't counted among the survivors.

She's another of the no-name Bad Girls, married to a man whose chief claim to fame was his uncle, the great patriarch Abram (soon to be renamed Abraham).

"Neither Lot nor his wife was a bad character," one commentator insisted.2 Next to the other residents of Sodom-Lot's lethal city of choice-Lot and his wife no doubt looked pretty good. But Lot was selfish. When he and his uncle went their separate ways, Lot chose the best land for himself.

Lot looked up and saw that the whole plain of the Jordan was well watered, like the garden of the LORD. Genesis 13:10 "Aha!" Lot must have thought. Ha.s.sle-free gardening, unlike the experience of his unfortunate ancestor Adam. "This land is my land, Uncle." And so it was.

Abram lived in the land of Canaan, while Lot lived among the cities of the plain and pitched his tents near Sodom. Now the men of Sodom were wicked and were sinning greatly against the LORD. Genesis 13:12-13 The land was good, but the people were not, and Lot knew that from day one. He deliberately chose to dwell among a people who flaunted their sins in G.o.d's face. Very repugnant stuff too. The word "Sodom," like the name "Jezebel," has come into our modern language as a noun of ill repute: "sodomy."

Ugh. Let's not go there.

Lot pitched his tents near sinful Sodom, knowing full well the city's nasty reputation. Sodom was also a place of opportunity and easy riches, and that's what drew Lot closer and closer until he'd built himself a fine residence within the city walls, thoroughly immersing himself in his adopted urban home.

A gentle reminder: Disaster is right around the corner.