Stuck In Traffic on "Joy Boulevard"

My friends,

I wrote draft one of this poem almost five years ago with the retreat theme of “joy” in mind. As I’ve hit a great number of bumps since then, the message of true joy has become even clearer to me. So, with a few twists and bends, the Holy Spirit has inspired my pen to present it to you with a fresh message. I don’t doubt that in five more years, it will need some tweaking again.

Our lives are constantly changing, and the Lord loves us too much to keep us immature in our faiths. The questions for us are almost always the same, however, no matter what bend in the road: Will we do things our own way or His way? Do we trust Him to lead us where we need to be? Are we walking in His light right now, or do we need to walk away from something taking His place? Have I made Him the center of my life?

I’m praying for each one of You, that You will take the time to ask yourself those questions. The Lord already knows the answers, and He’s willing to lead you to them if you’ll only ask. I have experienced first-hand doing life my own way...trying to find pleasure in stuff this world offers, looking for other fulfillment when His way gets too difficult. It’s in the memory of those mistakes that I care enough to share these words. I hope you will consider them.

Stuck In Traffic on “Joy Boulevard”
By LauraLee Shaw

I was driving down life’s freeway,
Unhappy, no pleasure in sight.
When all at once, I saw a sign:
“Joy Boulevard, NEXT RIGHT.”

Joy Boulevard, I thought...
Then felt immediately compelled--
“I must turn right, I can’t resist,”
So I swerved to hit Joy’s trail.

At first, I was speeding ‘long nicely,
Sheer elation running through my brain;
Reality interrupted with a rude, loud POP!
And I jerked to the caution lane.

Before I knew it, a car appeared,
He said his name was ‘Ease.’
“I’ll change your tire, give you every desire;
Just hand me over your keys.”

Behind me, I suddenly heard a commotion--
I turned to see a stampede...
Car after car, lined up in a row,
Waiting to fill my need.

There was ‘Money’ and ‘Success,’
‘Marriage’ and the usual suspects.
Behind them were others,
like ‘Comfort’ and ‘Rest.’

‘All Smiles,’ ‘Best Friend,’ and ‘Security’
Were honking at ‘Good Job’ and ‘Serenity.’

IT WAS TOTAL CHAOS AND CONFUSION!
...until...
I heard a still small voice begin its persuasion:

What were you thinking?
There’s no true, lasting joy in this traffic.
All of these vehicles, while eager to please,
Will only serve as ‘joy static.’

So I got out of my car and grabbed my spare.
Took me over an hour to complete.
Then I jingled my keys, waved the traffic on by,
And jumped into the driver’s seat.

When at last all the cars had passed me by,
I was tempted to follow them home.
Then I saw a blood red blinking sign,
“Back to Life’s Freeway, NEXT ROAD.”

My car was the only exiting that day,
Resisting JOY Boulevard’s appeal.
But that moment I experienced truest joy,
As I gave the Holy Spirit the wheel.

Whoops, there’s a bump and a curve in the road,
The gas tank is running low.
Engine’s due for an oil change,
And the lane is uncomfortably narrow...

But I’ll accept these challenges on life’s highway,
No more detours for me;
His fruit of joy will drive me along,
Providing all that I need for my journey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I said to the LORD, ‘You are my Lord;
apart from You I have no good thing.’
The sorrows of those will increase
who run after other gods.
You have made known to me the path of life;
You will fill me with joy in Your presence,
with eternal pleasures at Your right hand.”
Psalm 16:2, 4 & 11

A Mother's Work Is Nevah, Evah Done! *gasp*

It's Fiction Friday, and Dancin' On Rainbows is hosting.  Here is my contribution...a little something special for the mama's out there. Please feel free to print off and give to your mom (or your husband--eh, hem!). Anyway, enjoy!

Nevah, Evah Done! *gasp*

A Godly mother’s work—nope—never done. There’s no

Mistaking that. For when she ends
One worthy task, another’s one’s begun.
To-do list long. Chores mile wide. That’s not the
Half of it.
Eyes on roam, and ears up tall, she’s
Ready to outwit.
‘
Socks from the dryer, matched, then put away, but

Wait, “I need that special shirt tonight,” her Honey calls to say.
Ohhhhhhh…can you hear her dismay? “Mayday! Mayday!”
Reality invades her--and fast--as she hears her daughter screaming.
Keenly, Mom’s able to redirect,

Incite her child’s mind to dreaming.
Satisfied, she sits for a moment…(tick tock, tick tock)...

Never mind the clock--Its ticking, her
Enemy. Dinner must be started, though,‘cuz she’s a
Volunteer at church this evening.
Even there, no reprieve—she’s on call, don’t you see—a
Ringtone or text away. And come what may,

Every wandering thought
Veers home anyway.
Endless energy
Required. Lasting love of Christ transpired.

Does a Godly mother’s work ever meet its end? Well, let me begin, with my
Opinion.
No. It is only a beginning to a larger end. That day, when her Lord
Exclaims, “Well done. Good and faithful servant”
!

Well done, Mom.

Head on over to Dancin' On Rainbows for more great fiction!

Springs of Gloom and Cheer

It's Pattering's Fiction Friday, and Yvonne at My Back Door is hosting.

Springs of Gloom and Cheer

Tears were not an item originally intended for my grocery list, but they were scribbled all over it now..

Milk.

Eggs.

Bread.

TP.

Can’t. Do. This. ANYMORE.

I QUIT.

Moments earlier, as I sat at the kitchen table trying to organize my day, the sight outside my window grabbed the shirt of my heart and wouldn’t let go. My daughter was blasting out a happy song while springing up and down on the trampoline with her favorite doll.

Up and down, singing her merry melody.

Up high with a playful kick, a bounce to her feet, then down on her bottom and up on her feet again.

Such was the state of my emotions on and off since childhood, but lately, the bouncing had seemed unbearable. Shouting on top of the mountain of cheer. Sighing in the valley of gloom. Sometimes three times in the same day.

I quit.

I’m tired of the trampoline.


“Hi, Mama,” Lilly said as she tried to catch her breath. “Mama, did you see me on the trampoline? I was jumping really high. Molly and I could almost reach the sky.”

Yes, I’ve been there many times. “I know, Sweetie, you sure you didn’t touch a cloud?”

“Maybe. What’s wrong, Mama? Your eyes are crying.”

I forced a smile. “Ohhhhh, they’re just love tears, Baby Doll.”

“Oh. Well, did you see us fall too, Mama? I landed right on top of Molly and made her sad.” Lilly rocked her Molly doll back and forth, just like I had rocked Lilly so many times when I’d made her sad with my topple down of emotions.

“Molly knows how much you love her, Sweetie. You’d never fall down on her on purpose, would you?”

She smacked a kiss on the doll’s braided hair. “Nooooo, never,” Lilly vowed through gritted teeth. “I love my Molly tooooo much,” She snuggled her close as she sprang to the next room.

And I love you too much, Lilly. I juggled the spinning saucers of solutions in my mind, trying to catch each one before they broke in self-defeat. My sister had been begging me to see a counselor. My best friend was absolutely certain that it was time to let the doctor prescribe some meds. My husband knew that a good workout and diet plan would balance out my hormonal teeter-totter. My spiritual mentor reminded me to pray more, memorize more Scripture. Truth be told, I knew ALL of the advice was sound, but I lacked the clarity to know what to do first.

God help me. It’s too confusing. I can’t do this.

Lilly’s piano lesson shattered my defeated thoughts. “Mommy made me mash my M&Ms. Do, Doooo,” Up and down her warm-up scales she went, pedal all the way to the floor. Over and over. Each note ricocheted on the walls of my nerves. “Mommy MADE ME MASH my M&Ms. Do DOOOOO!!!!”

Eyes shut now, I could hardly bear the extra noise causing confusion to swell within my chest. I leaned against the kitchen counter, then melted into it.

“Sing with me, Molly,” Lilly coached. “Now this one’s extra important, Molly, okay? So sing it with all your heart to Jesus. Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. Open the eyes of my heart.”

Lilly’s precious voice singing the song I'd sung to her over and over again invited my tears to join in. They streamed like hot summer rain down my cheeks.

“I want to see you. I want to see you...”

That’s what I want too. Lord, show me what to do.

“…LOUDER, Molly. To see You high and lifted up. Shining in the light of Your glory Pour out Your power and love. As we sing holy, holy, holy.”

The Holy Spirit poured out His counsel to me, and I knew what to do...

While Lilly and Molly sang up and down the scales of “holies,” I laid down my pride and picked up the phone - because I was tired of the trampoline.

“He lifted me out of the pit of despair,

out of the mud and the mire.

He set my feet on solid ground

and steadied me as I walked along.”

Psalm 40:2 

***"Open The Eyes of My Heart"
Words and Music by Paul Baloche

*****If you or someone you know needs help with depression or mood swings, I’m here to pray. Also, don’t hesitate to call a close friend you trust, a compassionate ministry leader or a professional Christian Counselor.

A few ministries I trust are as follows:
http://www.hopefortheheart.org/site/PageServer?pagename=hlp_one_on_one
http://www.needhim.org/
http://cornerstonethefoundation.blogspot.com/

Wonder-Working Power

Patty from Patterings gave me permission to link this testimony for Fiction Friday which Sunny Glade is hosting. It is my 200th post, so it is VERY special to me. In celebration, I am giving away a Women of Passions book and a Selah CD of choice for those who are willing to tell their salvation testimony as well. If you post it on your blog and link it to mine, I will announce it on my final giveaway post, which will be on Saturday, March 14th. But you have a chance to win as long as you send me your testimony via blog post, email or through my website (see tab at top to email me). When you do so, please let me know if you will allow me to post your testimony on my blog on a future date.

As promised, I have shared my own testimony...well, sort of, in the form of fiction and truth mixed. This is what the Lord has led me to for now...I pray it ministers to you or someone you pass it onto...

Wonder-Working Power

Bouncing up and down the aisles of the small Baptist church, Laura was anxious for the service to start. With crooked bangs and a crippled spirit, she wasn’t sure if the wide grins aimed toward her were because she smiled at them first or because they felt sorry for her. As she took her seat in the pew next to her dad, she thought she heard some whispers.

Laura was only a young girl, but she was smart enough to know that she needed someone to help her. Her heart was thumping louder than her dad’s fingers were on the arm of the wooden pew, and she was sure everyone saw it pounding from her chest. She’d been chewing on the words the pastor had said at the end of the service for as long as she could remember. “If you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ you will be saved.” But today, Laura knew she couldn’t leave the building without responding.

“Do you know how much God loves you?” The pastor asked. He paused, and no one in the room made a sound. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” Pastor John, patting one hand down on His Bible while the other wiped his brow, quieted his voice. “Do you know anyone who loves you that much? Enough to die for you… Enough to take nails in His hands for you?” Laura shook her head back and forth, as if the pastor was asking her the question directly. “You don’t, do you? But there’s a problem. We’ve all sinned, and that means we are separated from a holy, perfect, sinless God. Romans 3:23 says, ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ And if that wasn’t enough, Romans 6:23 tells us that ‘the wages of sin is death.’ BUT. ‘The gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”

Pastor John was smiling now, and to her, he looked like he was telling the truth. He went on to talk about Jesus being the only way to Heaven and that it is by His grace that one could be saved, not because of works. “If you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.”

A deep throaty “Amen” bellowed from her mom’s trembling lips. Her big sister nudged her in the arm to meet the pastor at the pulpit* as they had talked about earlier in the week. She looked over at her dad, who had nodded off behind his tinted spectacles. What would Dad think? Would he be mad at me?  Shivering, Laura’s heart was beating to the rhythm of fear. But she knew she must have this love she’d never had before, and she wanted her sins forgiven too. Finally, the invitation came. Ignoring the persistent grumblings of her hungry tummy, as well as the nagging doubts in her mind, Laura gave way to her groaning spirit instead.

After that decision to receive Christ’s gift of eternal life, Laura’s life would never be the same, though her circumstances at home would remain the same. She talked to God in bed at night with wondering “whys” and pleading “pleases.” “Why, God, don’t you take this bad stuff away?” and “Please God, keep us safe tonight.” Peace did not rule in her home, but it ruled in her heart. She was glad she had a Savior to hear her silent cries and a Friend in whom to confide.

The same God that had enough power to raise His own Son from the dead raised His hurting young daughter to eternal life. Though Satan fought hard to keep Laura miserable all throughout her younger years, God in her overcame.

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy;
I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”
John 10:10

This daughter of the King, ME—Laura Lee Shaw—through the amazing grace of Christ, stands boldly before you SAVED by her one and only Father. And each hour of every day He continues to lead me in His way, His truth, His life, healed and free from a life of brokenness, pain and sin.

It is my passionate desire for everyone to know this love. I don’t want anyone to have to go through this life without the Hope of Heaven and without the help of this strong Savior. You see, the same God who has the power to raise His only Son from dead to life, can bring you new life as well, one defined by Him instead of your circumstances.

“to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor
and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them
a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
A planting of the LORD for the display of His splendor.”
Isaiah 61:2-3

* I want to make clear that my salvation did not come about as a result of walking down an aisle, or in the magic of a certain prayer. It came from a heart that wanted Jesus Christ to be my Lord and Savior. But confession can only come through prayer, and salvation can only come from the One true God. I love the fact now that I walked that aisle, letting everyone in the church know of my decision for Christ. But you can know Jesus as your Lord right now no matter where you are by confessing that you are a sinner, repenting from those sins, and asking Jesus to be Lord and Savior of your life. Check out these links for specific guidance:

• http://www.tbn.org/index.php/1.html
• http://www.needhim.org/
• http://www.wayofthemaster.com/10principles.shtml

If Walls Could Tattle

I'm so excited to be a part of Patterings Friday Fiction today! I haven't done so in quite awhile. I've been working on this story on and off in my spare time for over six months, and it's finally finished! I pray it reaches the heart of a family that needs the message it has to offer...

For more great fiction, go knock on Yvonne's Back Door. She's hosting the story-telling this week.

If Walls Could Tattle…

I always knew my bedroom closet was small, but now its walls were closing in on me. It was as though the blouses hung there only to smother me, the belts to strangle me.

What is wrong with me? How did I get here? I could hear the baby screaming in the next room, but she sounded miles away. Echoes of “Mom?” “MOM!” “Where are you, Mom?” came from the voice of my preschooler, but his voice was getting farther away, almost to the place where I could hear the Sesame Street theme song.

I just need a few minutes. Pleeease, Lord, please give me a few minutes. “God, what is happening to me?” I whined.

In double time, the activities from the week gone-by sprinted through my mind. I sat curled up and hunched over my knees on the floor, shoving the stinky shoes as far away from me as I could with my fists.

My heart was racing as I recalled each day, though I don’t know why. I spoke at a MOPS event on Monday. Couldn’t have gone better. Tuesday was Amber’s 18-month immunizations. Lots of tears, but no side effects like Joey had at her age. Wednesday, laundry and church. Now what happened on Thursday? Thursday was a blur, and my heart began to race faster. Thursday…was that yesterday?…Oh, I talked to my mother on the phone, then a nap. Or maybe that was two days ago…

I tried to breathe deeply, but I couldn’t drink in enough oxygen. A pain went through my forehead, while the pounding and thumping of my heart continued. Now the phone was ringing. I wanted to get up, but couldn’t. I heard my mother’s voice over the answering machine in the room beside me.

“Lori, hey, this is Mom. This is the third time I’ve called, and I tried your cell phone too. Are you okay? I’m starting to get worried. Please call me.”

I wanted to pick up, but knew I couldn’t. She’ll think I can’t handle being a mom—again.

Joey was nearer than before. “Mom, where are you?”

Bare footsteps squeaked on the floor next to the closet. It was as if he could hear me breathing. Then a trio of knocks tapped on the door.

“Mom?”

“Just a second, Honey,” I squeezed out of my falsetto voice, the only way I could fake a calm.

“Gramma, I found her. She’s in the closet, just a second.”

I heard him plunk the phone down on the bathroom counter and then tiptoe clumsily out of the room. Why did he have to pick up the phone? Pulling myself to my knees, then to my feet, I steadied my stance against the closed door. I took a deep breath to calm myself for the realities that lay ahead of me as I opened the closet door. The piercing sounds of Amber’s cries, no longer muffled, shot straight to my nerve endings. 

“Hello?” The mirror in front of me reflected a plastic smile, but it couldn’t reveal my bitterness toward this unwanted phone conversation. “Yes, Mom, I’m fine.” I combed through my matted, tangled hair with trembling fingers and rushed to comfort the baby. “I was in the closet because I was getting dressed, Mother,” I snipped, nearing Amber’s room.

It was as if I were fifteen again, and no one in the world could understand me. Not even me. But especially my mother, I thought. Her words fell on deaf ears. “How long has the baby been crying, Lori? Has she eaten? You know you’ve got to feed her more often than you did Joey, right? She’s not like Joey. Each child is unique, Lori.”

“Um-huh,” I said, trying my best to ignore the experience I detested in her. I knew I could never measure up to her perfection.

“Lori, are you listening? You know I love you, right? Is Dave helping you around the house? I’m worried you might have post-partum depression, Hon. Do you feel sad and overwhelmed?”

What would she know about overwhelmed? “No, Mom,” I huffed, “I’m not sad, and I’m not overwhelmed.” I bounced Amber up and down across my chest, nearly gagging over a whiff of her reeking diaper.

Joey walked in and handed me a remote control. “Mom, I can’t understand the TV. Can you fix it?” The sound of Spanish voices blared from the next room. “Hurry, Mom, I’m missing the best part,” he whined, pinching his nose to avoid the smell.

Interrupting her unsolicited expertise, I announced, “Mom, I’m gonna let you go. I gotta fix the TV and change a diaper, okay?” I paced back and forth as she droned on. “No, I don’t need your help. I’m fine. You just called at a busy time, that’s all. But I really need to go. I’ll call you later.”

Before she could start her next sentence, I handed the phone back to Joey, and I fought back the tears.

***

Two more of Joey’s favorite shows had passed, as well as two more tantrums from my toddler. And now the only sobs I could hear were my own. The bedroom closet, which held close my secrets of overwhelming sadness, had now become my closest companion.

Author's note: If you need help with postpartum depression, PLEASE stop lying to yourself, and do NOT hide. Your husband, a family member, your church, a licensed Christian counselor or a reputable doctor can help you find a solution. Even if you have not had postpartum with previous children, it can happen. I know, because it happened to me...

Also, I'd be happy to pray for you or even share my personal story if you need extra encouragement. Just press the "Email Me" button on my blog sidebar.

In the Key of HE,

Merry Memories

Today, Patterings Fiction Friday is being hosted by RC Writer at Beach Reads. I can't think of a better place to be than the beach right now, so I'll meet you over there for more great fiction.

Merry Memories
A FICTION piece by LauraLee Shaw

"I can't believe it's for sale," I told my husband as we stood outside the doorstep of my childhood home the late wintry December afternoon. It had been five years since I had last seen it. And now, here we were, cold and shivering outside the white, A-framed, thousand-square-foot house in which I had experienced the majority of my childhood memories.

I'd thought I could always come back to visit the house, but that luxury had been denied when the government reclaimed it after Mama passed away. They said it was theirs since it was given to her by public aid.

"I guess the government's decided to cash it in now," my husband analyzed. He put his arm around me as we walked up the snow-covered concrete steps to the front door.

"Sis and I always loved making snow angels right over there," I reminisced while pointing at the front lawn. Then, with a twinge of resentment I continued, "Of course, we always had to shovel the snow off the driveway first."

Dave gave me a comforting smile.

"And there," I perked up, "Right there, is where the carolers from the church would come to sing to Mama and us kids every Christmas."

"We wish you a Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year!" they sang joyfully, though I'm sure they thought there was absolutely no hope for Mama to be happy with the handicaps that plagued her.

My husband's outside perspective warmed me. "You know, she was happy, Janice. As happy as she could be."

As we opened the lockbox to the front door, it took a firm shake or two to get the door unstuck from its frame. "Oh, it is musty in here. Dave, could you get those windows?" I remarked while gagging slightly.

Before long, a chilly breeze was flowing through the open, unfurnished rooms, but at least we could breathe.

We meandered from room to room, remembering it the way it was the last time we came to visit Mama. It was difficult to walk through her room without imagining her pulling herself out of her wheelchair to get down on her knees to pray.

Dusk was approaching quickly, and Dave reminded me, "Sweetheart, you know we need to go before it gets dark. I'll shut the windows."

As he moved off through the house to close the heavy, creaking wood-framed windows, I found myself sitting on the only piece of furniture that had been left behind--a lone rocking chair in the corner of the living room.

Rocking back and forth, the lulling sound of creaking wooden floorboards brought back memories of Mama, sitting in a chair much like this one every Christmas Eve. She would choose songs for us to play on the piano as she rocked. Jingle Bell Rock and Joy to the World were her favorites, as she enjoyed stringing popcorn to their rhythms. I know she would have danced if she could have.

"Ok, hon, the windows are all closed now, you ready?"

He noticed the dazed look in my eyes and tenderly squeezed my shoulder.

I chuckled. "You wanna know something?"

"Inquiring minds wanna know, sweetie," he said as he sat beside me on the floor. He breathed a little sigh and tried to look genuinely interested.

"Sis and I could be so crazy!" I laughed out loud. "We both got matching knit scarves from our auntie one Christmas. Sis was about twelve. I was eight, I think. Along with them came these rainbow-colored knee length knit socks, but they had toes in them--did you ever see socks like that?"

Now Dave laughed. "Can't say that I did. You mean, like gloves for feet?"

"Um-huh. Yep."

I giggled. "Well, we put the scarves on...then the rainbow glove socks..."

"Then," I continued, "after that Mama handed us a package from our weird, dog-loving Uncle Carl, which had these furry, dog ear muffs in them. We put those on, too, and then posed like dogs for her. Mama was just in stitches, and we were, too."

"Ah, now, I've got to see a picture of that one--you two panting and begging for more presents," Dave teased.

"Well, I know there's a picture somewhere, though you'd have to pay me a pretty penny to get a look!"

He winked at me affectionately.

"I loved Christmas in this house, Dave." I couldn't hold back the tears now.

"Mama struggled so much to provide for us, and every day was such a battle."

"She was one tough cookie, though, sweetie," Dave encouraged, "one tough cookie."

"But at Christmastime..." I continued, "...at Christmas, it was almost like the battle was over, at least for that moment in time, you know? People were giving and gracious and good-hearted to us, even though we weren't like the rest of them. In that season, it finally felt like we were the same as them."

A huge mixture of emotions waved over my heart, soul and mind. As Dave tenderly stroked my hand I wanted to cry, but I couldn't.

"Joy to the World, the Lord is come,
Let earth receive her King."

The melody bellowed from out on the front walkway.

"Let every heart, prepare Him room."

Tears suddenly flowed freely, but moments later were replaced by healing laughter that flowed just as freely. It was the same carolers from my hometown church! The same ones as from my childhood, though with a few new faces of course.

"Dave, pinch me!"

He cried out with joyful exuberance, "It's real, Jan. Your favorite memory has been reborn!"

"We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,"

"Oh no, sweetheart, you haven't seen my favorite memory yet," I warned him.

I skipped down the steps and ran through the lawn, and with the candlelight of the carolers illuminating my way, I lay down in the cold, wet sheet of white and designed my snow angel.

"Now THIS is my favorite memory of all!"

Dave finally caught up to me and drew a halo in the snow with his fingers right above my head. Then he took his place beside me--right where my big sister used to fly. I imagined our spirits lifted high as if on wings of angels.

"We wish you a Merry Christmas,
And a happy New Year."

In that moment, I never would have imagined those wings landing us smack dab into our new, white, A-Framed, thousand-square-foot house that next year. Well, it would not be new to me, but it would be new to us. Moving here was not what we had planned, but it just felt like the right thing to do. And hopefully, Merry Memories would continue for a good many years to come.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," Dave whispered in my ear. He leaned down, patted my tummy and gave another whisper, "Welcome home, Baby."


Copyright 2007 Laura L. Shaw

For more great fiction, visit Beach Reads.

In the Key of HE,

Christmas Static

Today's Fiction FRiday meme is being hosted by Yvonne at My Back Door. Please head on over there for a bunch of great fiction today! And by the way, if you've never visited this blog, you're missing out. For INcredible parenting and marriage advice, on top of great Scriptural teachings, head over there each day for what "Dear Vonnie" has to say:

Christmas Static
Static—it was the only thing coming out of Lorna Miller’s television set. After adjusting the antenna lodged on top of the unit three different times, she was exhausted. “Cotton pickin’ rabbit ears,” she moaned. She’d hoped to catch some holiday spirit from the TV, but there would be no such luck for her tonight.

Her old, feeble legs were tired from standing too long, so they surrendered to the only chair in the room. The recliner, looking as old as she felt, creaked as she squirmed to find a spot that didn’t poke her with springs.

Defeated, Lorna threw her neck back into the cushion, whining a song of pain. “Oooooooh, my back.” Since she didn’t care to look through the filthy lenses of her glasses, she shut her stinging eyes instead. Relieved to escape the view of trash all around her, she wished her hearing could take a break too. Then I wouldn’t hafta listen to this static. “Cotton pickin’ rabbit ears.”

Lorna reached for the afghan jammed in the side of the cushion and wrapped it over her shivering lap. As she closed her eyes, she exchanged her grumpy thoughts for happy memories of many yesterdays ago. They were all she had to keep her company. Or so she thought.

The doorbell chimed, and a chorus of voices followed.

“Joy to the world, the Lord is come...”

It was her favorite carol, and they were singing it just right—nice and slow, acapella and rich with harmony.

“Let every heart, prepare Him room…”

She began to mumble along, “And heaven and nature sing...” A peaceful smile came over her pruned face, and she thought she musta died and gone to Heaven.

Three loud knocks echoed through the room. Her eyes shot open, and she listened. Nothing but static. Lorna, you’re jus hearin’ things again, she thought. No, she knew she heard people talkin’ outside. “That’s it…I’m gonna figure out what in the dickens is goin’ on!”

With new determination, Lorna pressed on the arms of both sides of the recliner to help her up. As she hobbled forward, the afghan, earlier wrapped around her legs, now dropped to the floor, causing her to trip and fall.

A banging on the door interrupted her sobbing. “Ma’am, we’re from Christ Community Church.”

She lifted her chin up, looking to see if there was something, anything around her to help her up.

“Your neighbor told us that you’re a shut-in. We brought you some food and wanted to sing some carols.”

“Just a minute,” Lorna croaked, though she doubted they heard her. She crawled with all her might to the yellow tennis balls that stood just inches in front of her, knowing they were attached to the walker she was supposed to use to help her get around.


“Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king…”

Lorna grabbed the side of the walker with one arm and a footstool with the other.


“Peace on earth and mercy mild…”

She scooted her knees forward and leaned with all her strength.


“Joyful all ye nations rise, join the triumph…”

Triumphantly, she pressed her bottom side onto the footstool, and with renewed energy, she rose to grab her walker. This’ll have to do.


As the voices continued in the background, she scooted to the entryway, unlocked the deadbolt, turned the key to the lock, and opened the door to a multitude of voices.

“Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn King!”

A couple greeted her and asked if they could bring a basket of goodies inside. Behind them followed others with buckets of cleaning supplies. Adults and kids alike began scrubbing and sorting through the piles of clutter.

Awe-struck, Lorna said, “Well, I’ll be. I ain’t ever seen cleaning carolers before—are ya elves?"

The leader chuckled, “No, ma’am, we’re just regular folks who love Jesus. We saw a light through the window and thought you’d enjoy some company.”

“Well,” Lorna replied, “I’sa tryin’ to watch TV…but it’s nothin’ other than cotton pickin’ static, see?” She looked over to notice a young man adjusting the antenna. “Well, I’ll be! That picture’s clear as midnight!”

Before the cleaning carolers left that night, they carefully placed a small Christmas tree plant next to the perfectly-adjusted rabbit ears on Mrs. Miller’s television. Then they sang one more tune…

“I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,


And wild and sweet

The words repeat


Of peace on earth,
good-will to men!”


*Joy to the World lyrics by Isaac Watts
* Hark, the Herald Angels Sing lyrics by Charles Wesley
* I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


In the Key of HE,

All The Right Stuff

Today's Fiction FRiday meme is being hosted by Hoomi at Pod Tales and Ponderings. Please head on over there for a bunch of great fiction today!

All The Right Stuff
While unpacking the groceries on the counter, I checked the ingredients against the recipe from my new cookbook. Yup, I had all the right stuff. Daydreaming, I couldn’t help but picture the look of pure elation on Keith’s face when he would taste his favorite Christmas Eve dessert—only this time baked by me instead of his grandmother. I’d invited her to come over as well, so I would surprise ‘em both.

I can’t believe Vivian put this recipe in her cookbook. After keeping it a secret for years, she’d finally decided to pass it on to her grandchildren before she got too old or too sick to do so. What a blessing, I thought.

I preheated the oven to 350, just as the recipe said. I already had the mixing bowls and loaf pans ready to go. Even though I’d never baked anything that wasn’t from a box before, I felt prepared, thanks to Vivan’s specific and thorough instructions.

“Okay. ‘Cream the butter and sugar.’ I think I know what that means…” I put the two sticks of butter and the two cups of sugar together, mixing them until they looked creamy.

“That’ll do. Now, ‘Add eggs—one at a time.’” I continued to follow the recipe, line by line. After sifting the flour, I folded in the remaining ingredients. I spread a layer of the nut mixture on the bottom of the pan, added the dough, then the nut mixture again. It was ready to go.

My husband walked in just as I was putting the two loaf pans in the oven. “Whatcha doin’, Punkin?”

“Making you a Christmas present you’ll never forget,” I flirted, winking to add to the mystery.

Keith looked around the kitchen for clues, and I slammed the cookbook shut just in the nick of time.

“Oooooo, something from Grandmother’s cookbook, eh?” he teased back.

“Yes, Dear, now scoot before you spoil your surprise.” I chased him out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon in hand. “Shoo!”


An hour later, Keith entered the kitchen to find me sitting in the middle of the floor in tears. As he ran to comfort me, I saw him do a horrified double take at the mystery creation on the counter. “Oh sweetie, it’s okay.”

“I—was—trying—to—make—your—grandmother’s—sour—cream—coffee—cake—for—you—for—Christmas. But it’s a big meeeeeeeessss!” A basketcase, I sobbed a puddle onto Keith’s shoulders.

“Oh, Punkin, that is so sweet. That is the most loving thing you've ever done. Please don’t cry.”

When the doorbell rang, Keith helped me off of the floor as I quickly regained my composure.

“Merry Christmas!” Vivian said. “I brought my sweeties a surprise.”

My tears began again as I glared at the perfectly baked loaf of sour cream coffee cake in Vivian’s grasp. She handed it to Keith and immediately came to comfort me.

“What’s wrong, Darling? It smells wonderful in here, and your tree is so beautiful. And most of all, you look beautiful.”

I led her to the kitchen and pointed to the loaves of burned pecans on top of baked brown goo. “I wanted to surprise you both and make your recipe from the Christmas cookbook you gave me, and I messed it all up. I’m the worst cook ever!”

Vivan looked down at the open book and over at Keith, then sighed. “Sweet Leah—no, Sweetheart—your cooking is just fine, Dear.”

“No, it’s not, look at it!”

Grabbing Keith’s arm in one hand and the cookbook in the other, Vivian scolded, “Keith, Dear. Do you remember my asking you to relay a particular message to your wife about this recipe?”

“Huh?” Keith mumbled, looking dumbfounded. “A message?”

“You don’t remember the error you made when you typed this recipe for me?”

Keith’s face flushed through the shades of the candy cane—red, white, then red again. He put his hand over his face. “Oh no.”

I crossed my arms. “’Oh no’ what, Keith?”

“He forgot to tell you that he accidentally omitted the baking powder from the recipe, so where it says to mix the remaining ingredients, you didn’t know you were supposed to add it,” Vivian said, laying the open cookbook in front of her grandson.

We looked over at the perfect loaf of sour cream coffee cake in Keith’s hands. He tiptoed to me as if on eggshells, then extended the gift to me. “Um,” he gulped, “Merry Christmas…?”

The smell of Vivian’s coffee cake and echoes of laughter surrounded the room, filling this Christmas Eve with all the right stuff.

“Our mouths were filled with laughter,
our tongues with songs of joy…”
Psalm 126:2a

In the Key of HE,

Taboo Blessings

It's Fiction Fridays, and Patty from Patterings is hosting. To learn more about her meme, click here:

Do you like short story fiction? Then go on over to Patterings and check out the links to more fiction posts.

Taboo Blessings

We were stuffed as a tick on a coon dog’s belly. The lethargy had kicked in—probably from the chemicals released in the turkey. It couldn’t be that we gorged enough carbs and sweets to send our bodies into a diabolic crash, no!

As for me personally, all I really wanted to do was slide into a pair of stretchy pants and lie in a reclined position until I fell into a dreamy sleep, but family traditions would rule otherwise.

It was time for the “Blessing Circle” to form near the fireplace in the living room. The football games: paused. The cleaning of the kitchen: halted. All the kids were to come in from playing wiffle ball on the front lawn.

It’s funny, because no one in our family even remembered when this custom was brought about or why, but my aunt Millie said she was going to make sure it didn’t die out on her watch. Every Thanksgiving since she could remember, the Blessing Circle had formed, and this year would be no different. So we gathered, resistant and a tad resentful, into our round, robotic ritual of raving over our good fortunes from the previous year.

Aunt Millie introduced our tradition as if we had never heard it explained before. She said it was a time to “count our blessings one by one,” and if we “don’t take the time to do so, then, we just don’t deserve them.”

While Uncle Paul began to belt out the Count Your Blessings hymn in the background, Aunt Millie rattled off her thank-yous with very little expression until she ran out of breath.

Mama eagerly chimed in. She was grateful for her good health and for her beautiful grandchildren.

“…Count them one….by……one….” Uncle Paul nodded off, though still barely rocking in his wooden chair. His head was cricked over, and the metal snap on his overalls made an imprint on his face.

Then there was a long pause, and Mama elbowed Daddy in the rib cage, which spoke him right up. “I’m very blessed to have a woman who keeps me in line,” Daddy poked at his other half. We all chuckled.

All of us awake now, we began to spew out our blessings, mixed with a little satire. Laughter filled the room, and even Aunt Millie’s upside-down smile wrinkles were turned a little sideways.

Second to last, we got to Tammy, my niece’s roommate and friend. She asked to pass in a quiet, croaky voice. She was not smiling or laughing like the rest of us.

What’s her deal? I wondered. Surely she had some blessing to boast about. Why, her very roommate was a jewel of a gal, that’s for sure. My niece Vickie was as Christian as they come.

Vickie recovered for her friend by sharing her thankfulness for a roommate who didn’t snore like her last one. Everyone got a chuckle out of that—except for Tammy.


Dusk snuck up, and all the family began to file out one by one, each with styrofoam plates filled with leftovers piled high. Someone decided that Tammy had been silent long enough. Out on the dusty gravel driveway, Aunt Millie took hold of Tammy’s arm as she passed by. “It must be a pretty miserable existence not to have any praises on your tongue.”

Tammy looked up. “Excuse me?” A mix of confidence and bitterness shot from her eyes.

“Everybody’s got somethin’ to be thankful for, darlin’,” Aunt Millie retorted.

Putting her hand gently upon Aunt Millie’s shoulder, Tammy looked her straight in the eye with the most fortitude I had ever seen anyone dare. “Millie, is it?” Tammy asked.

“Aunt Millie,” she corrected.

“That’s right.” Tammy slumped down and paused. Then all of a sudden she blurted out, “Taboo!”

Mama and Daddy grabbed Aunt Millie’s arm to hold her stance steady.

“My blessings are taboo. They’re not the kind of thing you talk about around such light-hearted folks,” Tammy explained.

Uncle Paul had slid into the driver’s side of the car and began to pretend drive.

Aunt Millie was stunned, “Why, I do declare!”

Tammy snickered, “See, I knew I was wise to keep quiet.”

“Go ahead, Tammy,” Vickie prompted.

She took a deep breath. “OK, here goes. One year ago today I lay in a hospital room with bruises and cuts all over my body. I was lucky to survive, they said. This year has been one of major tragedy bringing out memories of younger tragedies, all of which I’ve had to come to grips with. And up until your niece took the time to care, I didn’t have a single person to turn to or even a place to sleep.

All of us stood speechless.

Except Aunt Millie.

“Oh, child,” she had streams of tears streaking down her pruned face. “If I’d only known.”

Tammy sobbed alongside. “People don’t wanna hear about these kinds of blessings.”

I'm sure were all wondering what “blessings” she was referring to.

She continued with emotion. “That night, when I lay in that cold, empty hospital room with nothing but my pain to keep me company, God gave me a gift.”

Uncle Paul was trying to get the radio to work.

Vickie wrapped her arms around Tammy who had lost her voice and finished the story for her. “She’s talking about the moment she received Christ as her Savior. I was her nurse on call that night. When I came into her room during my rounds, she told me she wanted to die. I didn’t know what to do other than to ask her if she knew who Jesus was…”

“When she told me…” Tammy regained her composure, “When she told me about this Jesus that SHE knew, He was so much different than the one I had heard about growing up.”

Tammy went on to describe the “hell, fire and brimstone” she was taught from her abusive father and the pulpit of her small hometown church. Never had she ever heard of the grace and the love that Vickie was sharing.

“I was totally amazed when she told me that Jesus wanted to be my friend,” Tammy concluded. “My FRIEND.”

It was as if the radio turned on inside the speakers of my Uncle Paul’s mind just then. “What a friend we have in Jesus. All our sins and griefs to bear,” he belted out.

Tammy began to laugh through her flooded eyes. “Now that’s the blessing I wish to speak of. The day that Jesus became my friend.”

We all gathered around her as if she were a part of our family now. Well, I reckon she was, and we were so blessed to have her. She reminded us where true blessing is found.

In unison, all of us joined the choir in Uncle Paul’s head: “Oh what peace we often forfeit. Oh what needless pain we bear. All because we do not carry….everything to God in prayer.”

We were so blessed.


*******
Count Your Blessings—text by Johnson Oatman, Jr.
What A Friend We Have in Jesus—text by Joseph M. Scriven



In the Key of HE,

Double The Irony

It's Fiction Fridays, and Patty from Patterings is graciously allowing me to be hostess. I'm so excited! To learn more about her meme, click here.

To post your own fiction or to read others today, just go to cute lil old Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post:

Double The Irony
How ironic, I dare say. My cross necklace, which represented my newly found freedom in Christ, was tangled up in knots. I slammed the heirloom piece down on the bathroom counter and looked up at my blurry face in the mirror. Just like your life, Sandy. It’s your senior year. You’re supposed to be having the time of your life, but instead, your life’s a mess.

That was the day I decided I wouldn’t hide the truth any longer. The difficult part, though, would be convincing my friend Tamara to do the same. We'd both shared the same secret for two years, and that meant we’d shared each other’s pain as well. So it was double the knots. But I’d heard on the Christian radio that morning, “And the Truth shall set you free...” I was desperate to be free.


“No way, Sandy. I won’t tell anyone about it. And if you do, our friendship is done, ya hear?”

After an hour of heartfelt pleading, she refused to budge. I sighed with frustration. “How can you say that? After all we’ve been through? Tamara, you're my best friend. I love you. I just can’t live this way anymore.” My lips and hands were numb from trembling.

Tamara had a comeback for everything. “Well, you think you’re bad-off now, just wait until you tell. You’re going to make everything worse.”


Tamara was right. Just five days later, I wanted to kill myself. I chose to tell the truth, and all that came back at me were accusations. Wishing I could curl up as tight as the knot in my stomach, I sobbed on my bed. Alone. My foster parents didn’t believe me, and my best friend had abandoned me. Once again, I was an outcast. And the jerk gets off the hook. Of course he does, he coaches the winning volleyball team in the state. "So much for the truth setting me free."

Over the next several months, I survived while Tamara thrived. I quit the volleyball team. Tamara became captain. My grades went down. Hers went up. I was the school freak. She was the Homecoming queen candidate. She had dared to keep the secret, while I'd opted to tell the truth, and it was obvious that her dare had trumped the truth.

It was double the pain.

My loneliness led me back to the one place where, years before, I had felt accepted: my youth group. Completely broken, I felt I had nothing to lose. “I have a prayer request,” I squeaked. There I was, asking for something when I had ignored multiple attempts by different members of the group to befriend me in the past.

They, without hesitation, surrounded me. As warm hands touched my shoulders, my arms and my sides, one of my peers prayed, “Lord, give Sandy your strength. Keep her close to You. And Lord, please untangle the mess of this whole situation.” Near strangers shed tears with me, and none of us could have been more shocked with the moments following.

“Hey everyone. Everyone, could I ask you to listen to Jaimee for a minute? She has something to say,” our youth group leader announced.

Waves of “Sure,” “Absolutely,” “Of course,” rippled through the air before thick silence consumed the room.

Jaimee, who I had always considered a self-assured person, looked horribly unsure of her decision to speak. Several brave swallows later, her words tumbled out clumsily. “I—I—Ohh.…” She looked down at her sneakers, stole a deep breath and said, “I need to tell you all that I was also harassed by Coach Daniels. I just never had the courage to tell anyone. Until now…and I know there have been several others—at least.” A bright blue mascara trail streamed down her cheeks.

I couldn’t breathe. Then the thought occurred to me. That’s why she quit the team last year. It had nothing to do with her grades. Then, several others? Could it be true?

All of us gathered round Jaimee the same way everyone had surrounded me earlier. This time, I prayed. Right in front of her, I grabbed both of her clammy hands and prayed the best I knew how. “Oh God, thank you for Jaimee. Thank you, that even knowing how much it may cost her, she has dared to tell the truth. And Lord, may the truth bring peace—and—freedom. For both of us." And for Tamara too, Lord, I prayed silently from the depth of love I still had for her in my heart.

As I opened my eyes after the final Amen, I couldn’t help but notice the cross necklace Jaimee wore. It didn’t have a single knot. I dare say, how ironic.


Reference: John 8:32




In the Key of HE,

Lousy Cousins

Lynda at On The Write Track is hosting Fiction Fridays today, so follow the write track :) over there for more great fiction.

Eleven more dayyyyys. Only three days had passed since my brother and his wife left their kids with us while they cruised the Caribbean for their anniversary. It felt like they'd been gone a month.

Kylie had been less than enthused when I told her that her cousins were coming to stay for two weeks. “Mom, I don’t want them to come. Mark’s always picking on me, and Liz is a bully. They’re brats, Mom!”

“You’re exaggerating, Kylie—and no name calling. Just let me know if anything gets out of hand, okay? Start praying. Remember, they are your cousins, and cousins are supposed to love each other.”


Though I hated to admit it, Kylie was right. Her cousins acted like brats. Mark, at nine years old, had been name-calling Kylie from the moment his parents left. And Liz, who would be eight the month after Kylie, ganged up with Mark when she thought I wasn’t listening.

“Hey Guy-lie, you color like a baby,” Mark mocked, hovering over Kylie as she lay on the floor minding her own business. “Are those cooties in your hair?”

Kylie’s coloring turned to scribbling. “Shut up, Mark!”

I wanted to high-five Kylie, but I restrained myself. “Mark, stop picking on Kylie. And Kylie, don’t say ‘shut up’.”

Liz turned her back toward me and muttered, “Yeah, we wouldn’t want to hurt Kywie’s feewings, would we?”

I gritted my teeth. Father—please show me how to get through to these br—children. Help us to love them Your way instead of our own.


“MOM!” Kylie shrieked from her bedroom the next morning. “Liz has bugs in her hair!”

I discovered Liz sitting in a puddle of dark brown speckles on Kylie’s bed scratching her head frantically. “Her bed has bugs in it!”

Mark came running as well. “Ewwww—are those fleas?”

Liz pointed her finger at Kylie and shrilled, “Her bed gave me bugs!”

“Told you she had cooties.” Mark stuck his tongue out at Kylie.

I was outwardly calm, but my heart was racing. “Liz, run to the bathroom. We’ve gotta get the lice outta your hair.”

“LICE!” All three kids shouted in unison.

“I need to check all of your heads. GO.”

Mark was teasing both of the girls as I examined their hair. My nerves in a wad, I decided that some tough love was in order. “Mark, go sit over on the side of the tub and stop the meanness. While I’m checking the girls’ hair, I don’t want to hear so much as a PEEP out of you.”

Shocked, Mark obeyed.

“Okay, Kylie, you’re all clear. Liz, it looks like you’ve had this for some time without realizing it. I need to check your brother.”

Twenty minutes later, I was soaking Liz’s and Mark’s scalps in mayonnaise. Neither of them was happy about the odor or the ugly shower cap they had to wear while I attempted to smother the remaining bugs from their heads. In the meantime, I ran around washing all the sheets, clothes and blankets in the house while Kylie vacuumed the floors.


After three days of trying to chase Mark down with the dreaded wire comb for nit-picking, I suggested shaving his head.

Mark put his baseball cap on his head and held it tightly. “No way!”

Liz chimed in. “Do it, Mark. I would if I were a boy. Think about what a pain this is. Ouch!” Kylie was patiently combing through her cousin’s hair one section at a time, removing tiny white eggs by the dozens.

“Liz is right, Mark,” Kylie added. You’ll look cool with a shaved head. Like a biker dude.”

“Quit teasing me!”

“I’m not teasing. I really think you’ll look cool. Honest.”

Mark put his head down in surrender, shutting his eyes tightly. “Okay, Aunt Vickie. Just do it.”

“Good decision, Mark—no more lousy lunching for those lice.”

Mark half-smiled and then looked up at his aunt. “First, I need to ask a question.”

“Shoot!”

“Why are you guys being so nice to us? We haven’t been very nice back.”

I shot a look at Kylie, giving her the cue to answer. “Because we’re cousins, and cousins are supposed to love each other.”

Thank You, Lord, for helping them see Your love through us.

Liz looked up at her cousin with a tear in her eye. “Thanks for not making fun of me.”

“Yeah—and I’m sorry. I guess we’ve been pretty LOUSE-ey cousins to you, Kylie, haven’t we?” Mark joked.

Kylie laughed. “The louse-iest!”

**************************

Luke 6:28 (NLT)
Bless those who curse you.
Pray for those who hurt you.

John 13:35 (NIV)
By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.

In the Key of HE,

Home's Familiar Song

***Posted for Patty Wysong's Fiction Fridays meme. For more great fiction or to post your own fiction piece, click here:



Home's Familiar Song

As Meg climbed the concrete steps to the front porch, Loneliness dragged behind her. She’d buried her emotions throughout her entire first semester of college, but they had suddenly shot to the surface. A familiar melody calmed her demeanor, though, welcoming her home. Oh, how I’ve missed the sound of the wind chimes.

Meg’s mom hugged her at the door, then began chattering as usual. “Hi, Sweetheart. You okay? You look worn out. Let your brother take your bag. Are ya tired, Meg dear? Nathan, get her bag. Come inside and sit down, Sweetheart.”

“Mom—I’ve been driving for six hours. I’d rather stretch for a minute.”

After a big bear hug, Nathan grabbed her bag and ushered her into the family room. “Speaking of driving, Sis—read it—and weep.” Snapping a white slip of paper about an inch from Meg’s eyes, Nathan held his chin high in the air.

“My baby brother’s allowed to drive?” Meg grabbed it. “Oh, this is a problem…” she teased. “They misspelled your name.”

Nathan stripped the sheet from her hands. “Wha?”

Grinning, Meg took cover behind her mom.

“Now that deserves a thump from the—“ Nathan deepened his voice and bellowed, “—the FLICK MEISTER!” Reaching over his mother, he flicked a cherry on Meg’s forehead.

Meg shrieked like a schoolgirl.

“Okay, you two…” His face gleaming with pride, Meg’s dad limped as fast as he could to embrace her. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Honey.”

“Me too, Daddy.”

“Come on to the table, Meg dear. Are you hungry? Been eatin’ okay? Yer awful skinny. Isn’t she skin-n-bones, George?”

“Mom—I’m eating fine. Just busy studying. And I walk to all my classes, so…”

Pulling out ‘her chair’ at the kitchen table, Meg’s dad led her by the arm to sit down. “Your mother made your favorite.”

Meg drank in the delicious smell of her mother’s chicken potpie. Ohhh—I’m gonna cry. Keep it together, Meg. The muffled tune of the wind chimes reached her just in time to calm her spirits. “It smells heavenly, Mom. You shouldn’t have done all this.”

She grabbed the potholder that Meg had knit for her in the fifth grade. “Now, Sweetie, what kind of homecomin’ would it be without some potpie? Besides, your brother said he’d do the dishes, didn’cha, Nathan? Kids today need more responsibility if you ask me, don’cha think, Meg dear?”

Egging it on, Meg shot Nathan a wink. “Definitely, Mom—uh huh. More responsibility.”

“It’s a conspiracy, Dad. She’s back home for like—two seconds, and already they’re gangin’ up on me.” Nathan flopped down in ‘his chair’ just to the right of Meg’s. “Nice to see nothin’s changed.”

“What’s a man gonna do, Son? We’re up against brains and beauty.”

Nathan leaned his elbow on Meg’s shoulder. “So, Miss Brains-n-Beauty, how many hearts you broken at your fancy schmanzy music college?”

Dripping with sarcasm, Meg said, “As many as you’ve broken with your bright red crayon in art class, Little Brother.”

“Touché,” Her dad said, giving Nathan a look to drop the subject.


Stomachs full, the family of four retreated to their usual conversation spot on the front porch. As was the custom, Meg and her dad sat together in the wooden swing, her mom in the rocking chair, and Nathan on the top step leaning against the iron railing. The wind chimes hanging above her head rang a soft, familiar tune. This feels so right. I’m home.

“So…you happy, Meg?” Her dad always had a way of surpassing small talk.

“Of course she’s happy, George. You’re doin’ whatcha love, right, Meg dear? It makes us happy just knowin’ you’re happy, doesn’t it, George? ” Her mom smiled nervously and nodded her head up and down while she rocked.

Loneliness could not stay quiet any longer. “Actually? I’m miserable…I miss my family.” Meg’s confession released her tears, and her daddy scooped her wet cheek to his shoulder.

Nathan swallowed hard. “We miss you too, Sis.”

Her mom’s rocking chair ceased its dancing. “Yes, Dear. It’s been awful quiet without you singin’ and playin’ the piano. Don’t we miss her singin’, George?”

Stroking Meg’s hair, her dad sighed. “This is what I miss. Us—as a family, right here on the porch. Talkin'. Laughin’. Prayin’.”

Meg felt a tear warm her scalp. “Me too, Dad.”

“Well…” George stood up and motioned for everyone to gather together. “Let’s do some of that prayin’ right now then.”

The wind chimes hummed in the background as they prayed.

In the Key of HE,

Dueling Duo

Dee at My Heart's Dee-light is hosting Fiction Fridays today, so hop on over there for more great fiction.

Dueling Duo

Jan jerked the slippery strap of her purse back onto her shoulder for the umpteenth time. She could feel her frustration rising with each strained step.

“I SO do not need this today,” she grumbled. “Stupid school. This’d better be important.”

She flipped her overgrown bangs from her face as she approached her son’s fifth grade classroom. Opening the door, her purse slid down to her wrist yet again. She grumbled and then looked up to see that Mrs. Kern was not alone.

“Helen?” Jan grimaced at the sight of her mother-in-law sitting in front of Mrs. Kern’s desk. Just add to my nightmare.

Helen smirked, looking at her watch. “Yes, Jan, at least one of us was here on time.”

“Well, some of us have a full-time-job,” Jan snipped.

“I had a job, too, remember? It was called Full-Time Mom.”

Mrs. Kern cleared her throat. “Hello, Mrs. Jacobs. The other Mrs. Jacobs and I have already become acquainted.”

Reaching out to shake Mrs. Kern’s hand, Jan was suddenly aware of the pitiful scene her son’s teacher had just witnessed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kern. I’m sorry, Helen. I’ve just had a tough day.”

“And I’m sorry, too. That was disrespectful of us to carry on in front of you, Lois.”

Did she just call Mrs. Kern “Lois”? Talk about disrespectful.

“It’s okay.” Mrs. Kern forced a semi-smile on her face and continued. “The reason I called you both in here today is to discuss Justin with you.”

Helen gasped. “Justin’s not in trouble, is he?”

“No,” Mrs. Kern reassured her. “He’s a good kid. But—um—he’s been rather—sad lately.”

“Sad? What on earth makes you think he’s sad?” Helen squawked.

“Helen, just let her talk, for goodness’ sake.”

Mrs. Kern squirmed in her chair. “Well, he hasn’t been participating much, and he’s been doodling and daydreaming during the time that he’s supposed to be learning.”

“You called us here about some doodling and daydreaming?” Jan complained.

“Well,” Helen chastised, “some people would call that a problem.”

Jan deliberately ignored Helen’s remarks. “So, Mrs. Kern, if you don’t mind my asking, why did you choose to involve Justin’s grandmother with this?”

“She obviously doesn’t think his mother will take care of it on her own,” Helen mumbled, tucking her chin in her neck.

Clearing her throat a second time, Mrs. Kern brought out some papers from her top desk drawer. “I want you to see the poem Justin wrote for English class. Since both of you are subjects of the content, I thought it wise to invite both of you to come in and read it. But before I show it to you, I’d like to tell you one more thing: After class on the same day he turned in the poem, Justin asked if he could have it back. Now I had already read it, but he didn’t know that. I thought maybe he was embarrassed and wanted to re-write it. However, when he returned it to me, he had added the last stanza. That last stanza is the reason I asked you here today. Please take your time reading it and discussing what Justin felt compelled to share. Thank you for coming.”

At that, Mrs. Kern handed them a copy of the poem and made a deliberate exit, shutting the door behind her.

Unsettling silence hung over them as they each read Justin’s poem.

Dueling Voices
by Justin H. Jacobs

Mom tucks me in and reads me a story.
Grandma gives me hugs and tells me not to worry.
Mom sings me songs and helps me with my math.
Grandma tells me jokes and always makes me laugh.

But I’m sick of them both just acting like kids!
Don’t they know what it’s like when they blow their lids?
I wonder why they can’t just try to get along.
The Bible says that their attitudes are wrong.

As my teacher, can you please give them both a detention?
Then—maybe then—it will get their attention.
“Gramma, love my mom. She’s your son’s loving wife.”
“Mom, respect Gramma. She’s lived a long, wise life.”

They looked up at each other, stunned.

Helen’s face was as white as a blank sheet of paper. Jan shifted awkwardly in her seat, pinching the temple of her throbbing forehead. The sound of the school bell shattered their silence.

“Well, well, well,” Helen declared, “I do believe that Mrs. Kern has given us an after-school detention.”

“Yes, Helen—And Justin’s definitely managed to get our attention.”



In the Key of HE,

Tangled Reflections

Yvonne at My Back Door is hosting Fiction Fridays today, so hop on over there for more great fiction.

The bathroom mirror reflected more than outward appearances that day. Nancy’s grim face was lined with frustration, and her eight-year-old daughter was shrieking with anger.

“Moooooom, You’re hurrrrrrrrting my head! STOP!” Splotchy patches of pink covered Melissa’s tear-stained face.

“I’ve told you a hundred times to comb your hair every day, Missy.” Nancy’s biting continued. “These are your consequences. When you don’t comb your hair out, it gets tangles. Then when you do try to comb your hair out, it hurts. It’s as simple as that.” She couldn’t help patterning the strokes of the hairbrush after the rhythm of her nagging tone.

“OUCH, not so hard, Mom. It hurrrts.”

Her shrill sobbing sent a twinge of pain through Nancy’s forehead. “Yeah, well it hurts me when you don’t obey me. Your room is a mess. The house is a mess. YOU’RE a mess.”

Having had enough of her mom’s condescending tone and painful grooming, Melissa shouted, “FINE, then give me the brush and I’LL fix it.” She yanked angrily away from her mother and grabbed the sweaty hairbrush from her.

“Go ahead, you do that!” Nancy slammed the bathroom door behind in a huff.

I’m so sick of the whining. Doesn’t she know how much that grates on my nerves? Nancy grabbed a wet towel off the floor and started up again. “Wrinkled wet towels get moldy, you know.”

As she stomped through Missy’s messy room, she stepped on a sharp Lego. “ow, Ow, OW!” She could still hear her daughter sobbing behind the closed door as she hopped on one foot through the hallway.

Why do I even bother? “NOBODY helps me around here, and I’m just so sick of all the mess. PLEASE STOP CRYING.”

“I hate it when you’re frustrated! Why can’t you just be patient?” Melissa lashed out at her mother loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Even through the walls, Melissa’s tantrum sent waves of frustration through Nancy’s body. She put her hands over her ears and proceeded to the kitchen. “Better start getting supper ready. Who even cares that I haven’t had a chance to clean up from lunch yet?” She slammed a pot down on the stove burner. “No ONE. That’s what I thought.”

She looked out her kitchen window and noticed a hummingbird outside as she washed her hands. Her stained-glass sun catcher reflected a convicting message: 'And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:7.'

All of a sudden, she noticed the house was totally silent. Oh, thank goodness, she’s finally quit crying. "I’m so sorry, Lord. Please help me to spread peace instead of anger.”

Nancy began to feel compassion for the small trauma that her daughter was experiencing and decided she would turn it into a teachable moment. I’m the mother. I’m supposed to be the calm one. Before she could get to her, the wailing had begun again.

“Ma-maaaaaa. Help!”

Nancy ran the rest of the way. When she opened the bathroom door and looked at her daughter in the mirror, she could not believe her eyes. Although her heart was racing, she kept a tender tone. “Sweetheart, what did you do?”

Little Melissa was standing in a pile of jet-black hair. She sniffled and whimpered in between words. “I—was--sooo—mad—at—you. I wanted to make you mad, but now…” She looked in the mirror again and started to yowl. “Now look at iiiiiit. I look like a weeeirrrrrdoooo.”

Scooping Melissa up in her arms, she overcame the horror she felt at the sight of her beautiful daughter’s hair. It was ruined beyond help. Melissa’s school scissors lay on the vanity surrounded by locks of tangled curly hair.

God, please help me work through this tangled mess I’ve made.

“Sweet Missy, I am so sorry for my anger,” Nancy whispered into her daughter’s hair-filled ears. As she noticed a near bald spot right above her ear, she kissed it tenderly. “Next time we’re mad at each other, Mommy will just stop and say a prayer, okay?”

Melissa whimpered. “I’m sorry, too. She dug her shagged hair into her mama’s neck. “I feel so ugly, Mama. Can we stop and pray now?”

Yes, the bathroom mirror reflected more than outward appearances that day. Nancy’s grim face was lined with regret, and her eight-year-old daughter was sobbing with sorrow. But the glorious reflection of God’s grace shone brightly through it all as they prayed.


*Scripture reference taken from the NIV.

In the Key of HE,