The Pious Driven Life

Rummaging through my copy of C.S. Lewis's Miracles, I found a piece of paper I must have used as a bookmark. On it is written a priceless, but up until this point, largely forgotten memory.

The summer before last I had the remarkable opportunity to travel in and around England with a group of C.S. Lewis scholars, budding scholars and enthusiasts alike. It was a fantastic group, comprised of Christians from every denomination and non-Christians, middle-Americans and the coastal folks, middle aged and teens (or one of them). But what would any traveling group be without its resident "weird guy?"

Ours was no exception. We'll call him Pious. And Pious was, well, just that. Only Brother Pious was of a different Christian order, a far more mystical and secluded one. His demeanor was nice enough. He wasn't unfriendly, nor was he terribly congenial. He had a typical Irish complexion with bright blue eyes, that so help me God, glowed. And come to think of it, hardly blinked.

He was a studied man with a voice quite similar to that of Gilligan's Island's Mr. Howell. Imagine every cliched, rich, country club white man's voice and multiply it exponentially, and you've got Pious. Add to this his extreme case of aloofness bordering on plain arrogance, and you've got one interesting mix of a human being. He kept mostly to himself or to the one-on-one conversations with our leading Lewis expert. But every once in a while, he'd venture to speak to us mortals. This was one such time.

On our way through the Cotswolds, one of our group mentioned that he had a jazz tune stuck in his head, and that no matter what he tried it wouldn't leave him. Pious puffed up his chest, and with his glowing, unblinking eyes pompously informed us, "My a liturgy." (Picture that snobby, pregnant pause loving voice.) "Yes, well, I have this Jesus theme that runs through my head. When I start to day dream, I have this prayer that comes from my head. It's not as distracting as a tune--that keeps you from your focus." Thank you, for that.

Apparently, I learned to trail closely behind Brother Pious--anxiously awaiting, with pen and paper, his next social faux pas that would inevitably offend or just baffle the sensibilities of all surrounding parties.

This is what I found in my Miracles book.

Posted by Portia at June 13, 2006 11:32 PM | TrackBack