Ecc Study Four

Study Number Four

Reread Ecclesiastes 2:1-11. Read Ecclesiastes 4:13-16.

“I became greater”

Clare threw the envelope on the table. She both wanted to open it immediately and wanted to pretend she hadn’t seen it. She didn’t know if she could handle another rejection letter.
She closed her eyes and said a prayer that God might be gracious. Then she opened the letter.
As Clare read she felt like dancing in the rain, splashing in puddles, and singing. She felt like doing cartwheels and somersaults, drawing hearts and flowers and rainbows. She felt like a carefree child—on her birthday.
She read the letter again and again and double checked the name and address several times to make sure there hadn’t been a mistake. There didn’t seem to be any reason to doubt it other than her own disbelief. Perhaps it really was true. It had actually happened. A publisher was interested in her book—very interested.
She felt overwhelmed at being recognized, noticed. Once it began to sink in that it was true, she allowed herself to dream for a few minutes.
Some day in the future she might be at the grocery store, shopping in the frozen food aisle, in the act of placing frozen pizzas in her shopping cart, when someone might stop at the sight of her and gasp.
“Are you the Clare Lewis?” that person might say, with eyes big and mouth hanging open. “I loved your book. Just loved it. It made me think. It changed me.”
She would make a difference. People would be touched by what she had to say.
Her family—her family would be so proud. Well, maybe, they would be. If they liked what she’d written. Her mother might say she didn’t understand it. But she’d ask Clare to explain it to her. Her father would wish she’d made more meaningful statements and not spent so long describing things. He’d be puzzled by instances of what he perceived as incorrect grammar. She wasn’t sure he’d buy the acceptability of “stylistic” fragments.” But he’d be proud of her. They both would be.
And her sisters? Surely they’d be happy for her. Pleased and possibly even proud that she was doing something worthwhile. And they’d be happy to say, “Yes, that’s my sister.”

Even before her check came, Clare made an extravagant purchase. She bought herself a huge, probably overpriced picture, as Clare had never heard of the artist despite Annie’s brushing her up somewhat on art, of a beautiful garden. At least Clare thought of it as a garden, though there were no fences, no specific evidence of carefully planned plots or walks. But nonetheless the plants seemed well-tended. The watercolor was 30 by 60 and would fill the living room wall of Clare’s little apartment where she planned to put it across from her couch, so she could spend all her free time staring into it.
The picture reminded Clare of Eden. In the shade of a huge maple tree flanked on either side by a beautiful white birch and a modest willow with its head demurely downcast and its leafy branches like trailing hair, a profusion of red, yellow, and pink tulips like rays of a rainbow, the colors separated into rays, stretching across lush green grass leading to a stream that sparkled in the sunlight. The flowers were intricately detailed. Clare could count the number of petals and even see dew drops on many of them. Looking at the picture, Clare felt like she could hear the wind laughing through the trees and the water gurgling over the rocks. She could feel the breeze on her face and the cool water on her fingers or on her tongue. Clare found herself of a mind with Lucy in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader believing she too could step into the picture into another world and not thinking she’d be the least bit surprised by the event. Found herself longing for it. But of course, she couldn’t.
In a few weeks, she no longer delighted in the picture as much. It seemed too far removed from her existence. She purchased an even bigger and even more expensive watercolor of a couple sitting on a bench next to a streetlight in the rain. It was almost dusk, though the light was still dark. The picture didn’t fascinate Clare as much as the other. The couple’s faces were shadowed and they looked a bit sad, their eyes on the dim lamp and their hands in their laps, though his grasped a newspaper. But they sat very close together and he leaned toward her slightly and she toward him. Clare hoped they were waiting for a bus that would take them someplace where they’d be warmly welcomed. She decided this picture suited her better than the other one had.

“Clare Lewis, English professor and author of Last Autumn is with us today,” Clare heard the talk show host say. She tried to remember the woman’s name, but finally had to look at the piece of paper she’d written it down on. The ink was smudged from her sweaty palm. She could hardly believe she was actually appearing on television. Granted, it was a rather obscure cable network talk show that aired quite early in the morning, but still.
“Hello, Amanda. I’m happy to be here.” “We’re happy to have you.”
Clare was quite certain she said that to all her guests. Her eyes were bright and friendly, but vacant. Clare wondered if Amanda would even recognize Clare if they passed each other on the sidewalk, not that they’d have reason to do so. Clare was fairly certain they didn’t frequent many of the same places. It had probably been a long time since Amanda had been on a college campus. The heavy make up and tailored suit didn’t quite hide her aging features and growing waistline. Well, she’d probably get a facelift and hire a personal trainer soon, if she wanted to stay in the business. Wasn’t that what these people—celebrities small and large ( in more ways than one)--did? Clare wondered why she’d ever envied these people. She had to admit to herself that she had envied them. Oh, not everything about them, but certainly the recognition they received. Everybody knew who they were. Everybody wanted to be around them. Didn’t they?
“Your book has gotten a lot of attention. You must be excited. It’s your first, isn’t it, Clare?”
“Yes,” Clare said. “The first one I’ve gotten published.”
“So you’ve written others? We can expect to see more of your work?”
“Well, I certainly hope we’ll see more of you,” Amanda said. “I’d like to read more that deals with this controversy—where to find meaning in life, as life hangs in the balance. It’s so deep and philosophical, but you handle it in such an interesting way. Your story is very interesting.”
“Thank you,” Clare said, a little mechanically
“Are your characters based on real people?”
“Not really,” Clare said, maybe a bit quickly.
“They certainly seem very life-like. I get the feeling I’ve met them before. But it’s so sad that Tina has to die. I wish you could change that part. I wanted her to be cured.”
Clare realized then that Amanda hadn’t read the book. Or if she had, she was really not getting the point. There would be no story if Tina hadn’t died. But then again, maybe Amanda had read the book and wished it wasn’t the story Clare had told—the meaning she’d tried to convey. Clare kind of wished that herself.
Oh, she was happy to be published, but her story sometimes got to her. She wasn’t sure if it was that it reminded her of the past or that she feared it contained some presentiment of the future. Or it might be simply her present it touched on, and goaded.
It was a story about a woman misdiagnosed with cancer. She received another woman’s test results. And she changed her life as a result, reaching out to her family members, especially her husband whom she’d been estranged from for years. The woman who was supposed to have been told she was dying of cancer thought she was fine until almost the very end and consequently was filled with many regrets because of things she wished she’d done or not done the last few weeks before she died. Clare had hoped the story would be meaningful for those who read it, challenging for them, but it was uncomfortably close to her real-life feelings of guilt intensified by not knowing—until it was too late.
Clare said at the end of the interview, “My book is about the necessity to combine life with truth—deep truth which surpasses momentary misunderstanding--in order to really live.” As Clare spoke the words, she knew how legitimate they were and she wished she’d realized that concept before. Not just realized it, but acted on it. And had it acted upon her.

For several weeks, Clare got many phone calls, some from people she hadn’t heard from in almost two decades—kids she’d gone to high school with. She acquired many new friends online on her facebook page.
Clare was so pleased with the attention until she thought what a blow it was to consider that she’d only gotten that attention now, with the popularity of her book, such as it was, no best-seller, but making a little bit of a stir. She tried to tell herself it just meant that she was making a difference now, but to say so meant she’d never made a difference before. Anyway, it was obvious the interest people had in her was probably not just because they thought she was an interesting person with something meaningful to say to them. She knew her story was achieving some popularity more because of the love story in it and the poignant characters than because of the message, though some probably thought it a nice bonus. And it was a little disconcerting to realize, not that she thought she’d care about such things, that her book was popular, not her. And what did that say about her new friends? Did they want to befriend only someone who was in the limelight? If so, then it was her position, not her person or her message that was appealing. And how long would their interest in her last? Just as long as that interest in her—that general popularity-- lasted? Was there some way she could keep that interest forever, at least for her lifetime? Probably not, she thought. Shakespeare had managed to immortalize Juliet and Charlotte to preserve Wilbur, and in so doing both were remembered for themselves as well, but Clare was neither a great playwright nor a very uncommon spider.

Clare reached for the cup of coffee on the table in front of her. As soon as it was at her lips, she resumed her gazing out the window at a young couple standing on the sidewalk, not speaking apparently, but simply communing with one another, holding hands, leaning toward each other. She wondered how they’d met, how their relationship had grown, and what it would consist of a few years from now. She imagined what they might be thinking.
The young man might be wishing that there was room in their relationship for physical intimacy, or if they had gotten to that point, he might be wishing for more of it. He didn’t appear disappointed, not yet anyway, but more hopeful. Even from a distance, Clare fancied she saw a brightness in his eyes.
The young woman perhaps was dreaming of their future, of quiet moments strolling along a beach with the warmth of the sun on their shoulders or through a wooded path with cool breezes on their faces, toward their lovely home. Maybe she pictured a less tranquil scene, romping with a puppy, a Frisbee, and two toddlers, or just with the two toddlers, in a park. She might imagine laughter and earthy smells.
Then again, maybe his supposed dreams were hers and hers his. People weren’t so easy to pigeonhole. Or to help. Or to know. Or to trust.
Ferdinand and Miranda, Othello and Desdemona, Adam and Eve. None of the stories was completely beautiful. At least one was astonishingly ugly.
“Clare Lewis?”
Clare looked up from her book. It was a threesome: two young people, a boy and a girl from her church and the new youth minister. It was the girl who had spoken, a recent high school graduate, Clare thought. She remembered seeing the girl’s graduation announcement posted on the bulletin board at the back of the church—Abigail Tanner was her name. Clare could picture the raised, rounded, gold letters on the card. They had been surrounded by blue swirls and just above them was a photo of that serene face: wide blue eyes, soft, smooth, shoulder-length blond hair. No smile, no laughter, no lights, but such a calm expression. The name haunted Clare; the face did not. She was so different from the other she who had had that name.
“Are you Clare Lewis?” the girl asked, seeming to doubt herself when Clare didn’t respond.
“Oh, yes,” Clare said. “I’m sorry.” Her apology felt strange, though she’d thought it needful for not speaking more quickly when the girl first said her name.
“The author?” the girl said.
Clare nodded, wondering for a moment if this young woman could speak declaratives or if she were only able to express herself in questions.
“Did you know I, um, found your book, um, really, um, inspiring?”
Another question and one that Clare thought would have served the girl much better had she worded it as a statement. Of course Clare hadn’t known how this Abigail felt about her book. Clare didn’t know that she cared what this Abigail thought about this Clare’s writing. Not at this point. Clare’s thoughts were on the other Abigail.
But Clare said mechanically, “I’m glad,” and tried to pretend to herself that she meant it.
“You know, I recognized you immediately? Not just from the picture on your book?” These were actually statements spoken like questions.
“She attends our church,” the youth pastor said quickly. Clare wondered if he was mentally adding, but she isn’t very involved, and sometimes leaves immediately after services.
Clare knew his name too. An unusual name. She could picture it on the front of the bulletin with the others on staff at the church: senior pastor, assistant pastor, minister of music, and youth pastor. His name and title were the last on the list: Pastor Keegan Lear, youth minister.
“Really?” said Abigail the pale, the serene questioner. Questions that were and yet weren’t to which answers might or might not be desired.
And Clare realized that she’d achieved the recognition she’d sought. One of the faces she’d recognized that hadn’t before recognized hers—or at least admitted to recognizing--now knew her as an author. Clare did experience a thrill, but somehow the pleasure was less than she’d expected it to be and certainly not very fulfilling. Somehow it almost seemed to make her feel worse than still not being known.
“Abby recognized you from somewhere other than a book jacket but didn’t put two and two together,” Keegan said with a laugh. “Not me. I found out who you were the first time I saw you at church.” He reddened slightly at the admission. His fair skin and hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, and somewhat above average height gave him a Nordic look. Clare fancied he was a transplant from Minnesota or Wisconsin, where her sister Kate and her family lived. She wondered if Kansan winters were rough enough for him. He’d certainly be more hard put to find good skiing hills in this state. But Colorado wasn’t that far. Even northerners pilgrimaged to its slopes.
“Oooh,” the boy said, laughing a little and nudging Keegan. “You are awfully pretty,” he said. His words and expression reminded Clare more of an admiring five-year -old than of the couple outside the window. And she almost thought he sounded like he was making fun of her. As the only dark-haired sister of blondes, she’d thought herself the ugly duckling for a long time, until enough of the male sex had expressed interest in her to convince her that she must be somewhat appealing, perhaps having grown more so than she had been.
But Keegan had a sparkle in his eyes that made Clare decide the adventure might be inside the building rather than out. She thought his dreams might be more interesting and more worthwhile than those of the other two, that young couple outside. Hers were certainly more complex than she imagined theirs might be.
“May we join you?” Keegan asked quietly, a little shyly.
Clare nodded, and then she spoke, “Yes,” she said. “Please do.” She found herself feeling excited at the prospect. But she wondered fleetingly why he’d never spoken to her before.

Questions to Answer

1. Solomon works hard to complete great tasks, and he receives recognition for them. The palaces he builds for himself are nonpareiled. His God-inspired words are immortalized in Scripture’s wisdom books. But what does he feel his reward is for his labor and accomplishments?


2. Why does Solomon indicate that even the grand position of a king is not truly worthwhile?


3. Clare finally achieves what she has desired—publication of a book she’s written. It even is well-received, though it’s not on any bestseller list. How does she feel about her accomplishment?

4. Why does Clare seem to have mixed feelings about Keegan’s interest in her?

5. What has Abigail accomplished and what might she strive for next?


6. What is a dream you have that you either have seen or still hope to see realized? What do you think the outcome of seeing that dream realized will be for you? Even if you don’t find the results as rewarding as you might hope, how could fulfilling that dream still be a worthwhile goal? What could make the outcome more rewarding? This last question you might not want to answer now, but keep in mind as you study the rest of Ecclesiastes.