Basement Files: Chicken Soup for the Democratic Soul

Stories of hope and affirmation by Karl Rove

A Stranger in Our Midst

Bethany Baptist wasn't the biggest church in Springfield. Not by a long shot. But to the parishioners who came to worship within its cozy walls, it was home. One such parishioner was Clay Morgan.

In his late 50s and never married, Morgan was a bit of an odd duck to his fellow churchgoers. He arrived every Sunday morning, sat by himself in the last pew and never said a word to anyone before shuffling home.

Being curt and aloof was one thing, but what alarmed Pastor Dave Rambert was that Morgan never gave anything of himself. Not to his church. Not to anybody. Morgan never tithed. Never dropped a single coin in the collection plate. Never volunteered for the church's Meals on Wheels program, nor brought a single covered dish to the many pot luck dinners.

Worse, Morgan wouldn't even do anything for the children. He wouldn't bring a plate of cookies for Sunday School. Wouldn't read the kids a Bible story. No, Clay Morgan just came every Sunday, took what he wanted from the sermon and left without giving anything back.

Until one Sunday when he didn't come. And then another. Word soon passed among the congregation that Clay Morgan had terminal cancer. And when it came time to take the ailing man food, not a single person volunteered. Clay Morgan, it seems, was reaping the harvest of his own selfishness.

"No, this won't do," Pastor Rambert told his flock the next Sunday. "Clay Morgan is one of God's children. We will feed him. We will tend to his pain and minister to his soul." And so they did, until Morgan passed away six weeks later.

No co-workers showed up for Morgan's funeral. No outside friends or associates. Just the people of the church, the people Morgan had never acknowledged. At last, the congregants came to realize that Bethany had been Morgan's only family, and they his only friends.

Two months later, when Morgan was all but forgotten, the phone rang in Pastor Rambert's office. It was a man claiming to be the trustee of Clay Morgan's estate. And he had called to tell Rambert that Clay Morgan had left Bethany Baptist Church $1 million in his will.

Oh my God, thought Pastor Rambert. How often and how harshly did I judge this poor old man? Here he was giving to us every week, but in ways we couldn't see. Or maybe just wouldn't see. And then Pastor Rambert thought of something that made him laugh out loud. How funny would it be if our new Youth Ministry building were endowed by, and named for, the one man who we always thought couldn't stand children. Clay Morgan.

Snapping out of his reverie, Rambert dared to ask when the church might expect the funds.

"Oh, gosh no, Pastor," the man replied. "Clay Morgan didn't have two nickels to rub together. After the hospital and funeral bills, he had about 2,800 bucks and that's all going to business creditors. You're not getting anything."

"I don't understand," Pastor Rambert stammered. "Then why would he leave us a million dollars in his will?"

"I don't know," the man said. "Just being an asshole, I guess."

Follow the Light

Marie Waldrup had no idea what had happened to her. When she woke up, she was upside down in her car. When her eyes could finally focus, all she could see through the cracked windshield were tall green stalks of corn. Marie fought to make sense of her thoughts, but her head pounded with a shattering headache.

At last, reality dawned on Marie Waldrup. I've had a bad accident, she thought. I've struck my head. And I've landed someplace where no one can find me. Fighting back the terror of those stark thoughts, Marie somehow found the strength to pray.

"Dear God, please help me. Don't let me die here. I have to see my children. Even if it's my time to die, please let me see my children one last time."

No sooner were those words out of Marie's mouth than a powerful white light appeared before her eyes. Immediately, Marie felt soothed and calmed, embraced by an unearthly sense of almost perfect peace. Call it God, call it an angel, but Marie knew that white light had come to rescue her.

Using the light as a guide, Marie forced open her door and began walking through the cornfield. "Keep walking, Marie," said the light. "Just keep walking and you'll see your children again." Keep walking she did, and the light grew more intense and beautiful with each step she took.

At last, Marie found herself at the interstate's edge. She flagged down a motorist who drove her to the hospital. There, Marie learned she'd had a stroke. There would be therapy, some of it arduous, but she would survive.

Tears of joy fell from Marie's eyes. Even here in the hospital, the white light stayed with her and grew ever more powerful. Overcome, Marie blurted out the whole story. The light, the peace, the rescue.

When she was finished, a nurse burst into tears and said, "That white light...that was God, Marie."

"Actually," said attending physician Narapresh Patel, "blood from the ruptured vessel pooled behind your optic nerves. The pressure has caused this curious light. And by walking, you made it worse. The heart worked harder and pumped more blood to damage your sight. My guess is you'll probably be blind in a few hours."

"You mean I won't see my kids again?" Marie asked.

"Maybe some shadowy forms," Patel said, shaking his head. "And that's if they hurry."