Category Archives: Stories by the fire

A Change of Pace

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They walked past the house every day at the same time: the man with green tennis shoes and the Scottie dog. He didn’t scroll through his phone like some walkers did, and the Scottie dog was content to match his master’s pace without pulling on the leash. And then one day they didn’t.

It gave the man who noticed them every day pause. He’d grown used to taking a second sip of decaf and looking up from watching the news at exactly 6:10 every evening. He barely noticed he did it. But this evening was different. This evening he noticed because the man with the green tennis shoes and the Scottie dog didn’t walk by. He put down his coffee, rose from his chair, and peered out the window; then, seeing nothing, he hurried down his front steps and looked both ways down his street. No one. Nothing.

The next night, the man took a first sip of decaf and sauntered over to the window. No reason. No man with green tennis shoes. No Scottie dog. It shouldn’t bother him. It really shouldn’t.

The third night, the man didn’t pour a cup of coffee at all. He didn’t turn on the news. He sat on his front steps and watched the street. A neighbor slipped quietly into his driveway and tinkered on the new car he’d purchased just a month ago. Another neighbor stared blankly out her picture window, petting the cat in her arms.

The fourth night, the man gave a tentative wave to his neighbor who happened to, once again, be tinkering with his new car. The lady with the cat in her arms mistook his wave, and waved back.

The fifth night, the lady ventured into her yard – minus her cat. She set out a card table with lemonade and lemon cookies. The man tinkering on his car went over and chatted as he ate a cookie.

The sixth night, the three neighbors found themselves once again in the lady’s yard eating cookies and drinking lemonade and talking all at once. Did something bad happen to the man with the green tennis shoes? What about his Scottie dog?

More neighbors congregated on the seventh night – so much so, that the lemonade pitcher had to be refilled three times. And then – then a hush fell over the crowd as they watched the man in the green tennis shoes and his dog stroll by. He waved. They all waved back. And that, dear reader, is how a week’s vacation can help a neighborhood.

Image: pexels-ray-piedra-1456738.jpg; beverage-black-and-white-black-coffee-2360894.jpg; imagesX15DD7Q1.jpg; pexels-julia-zolotova-1320997

A Last Look At The Upper Room

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It was clean except for one – no, two things. They were unobtrusive, but caught her eye. On the floor near the wall lay a towel; a muddy towel, now dried. And near it sat a basin of dirty water. Strange things left in such a clean room.

She wandered over to the table. She’d heard the stories. You couldn’t live here and not have heard about the man who said things so remarkable they sent shivers down your spine; who healed – healed! – lame people who hadn’t felt the earth beneath their feet for years, if ever; and who talked with anyone, not just the important or educated or honored. Oh yes, she’d heard. She, herself, had heard from her neighbor’s daughter’s friend about a woman caught in a situation that shouldn’t be spoken of and, instead of hurling accusations with the rest, he had asked some questions that had sent her accusers running. There was something very gratifying in that, though she couldn’t say exactly what.

She’d heard the rumors, too. He had said – reportedly, mind you – that “Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father”. The Father. God! He’d actually said that! That comment right there did it for some people. It was a bridge too far. But others? Not so much. They’d stuck with him. They believed it was true.

And herself? Hmmm. She wasn’t sure. But those healings – you couldn’t deny them. Or the creepy guy in the tombs who was freed from demon-possession. Really. Who does that? Or the huge storm that was stilled in an instant. Seriously.

And now the worst. Because whether you believed him or not, he hadn’t done anything deserving a crucifixion. Those were the whispers spreading through the city. The ones who were offended by his defense of unremarkable, diseased people were crowding together. It’s the way mobs were. And others joined in, of course, because they did whatever anyone else did. They thought whatever anyone else thought. It was almost like they didn’t know they could act or think for themselves.

A loud sound startled her. As it grew louder, she ran to the window and looked out. Oh no! The man! No! NO! Soldiers surrounded him. One of them flicked a whip his way every once in awhile for his own amusement. The man was carrying a cross – those heavy, dirty, terrible, tortuous things. As her breath caught in her throat, he glanced up at her for an instant. And in that instant, her doubt vanished.

Tears started slowly, then ran down her face as her body shuddered with heavy sobs. Why did some people blacken light with dark? Good with bad? What was the point? She wished she could fix it. She wished there was something she could do to chase away the hardened hearts and evil mobs. She wished she could drive them from the whole world, or, at least, from hers. From here. From the street the man with the cross was trudging down.

He was so good. Really good. And kind. And, as she thought about it, one of the purest souls she’d ever known – or at least known about. She harshly brushed her tears away.

Her eyes roamed the room in a last once-over. Ah. Here was a crumb on the table. Unleavened bread. How could she have missed it? Oh. And a drop of wine. She began to clear them with one swipe, hesitated, and placed them on the tip of her tongue instead. Then she picked up the towel and basin and walked out.

Image: jackson-david-8qudl9pDZJ0-unsplash.jpg; Scripture text: John 14:9 (on second thought, why don’t you read the whole chapter); Image: mads-schmidt-rasmussen-v0PWN7Z38ag-unsplash.jpg

Winds of Change And the Witch

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Rain blew through the forest as the storm tossed limbs and branches in its torrential fury. On through the night the wind blew, lightning flashed, and thunder rolled and crashed. The crack of a birch, weakened by unseen pests eating it from the inside out, reverberated over the commotion as it slammed to the ground, crushing the brush and bushes around it.

     And then – in an instant – it was over. Droplets glistened on both bough and leaf. A nearby river rushed loudly with the memory of the storm just past. A chipmunk’s bright eyes peeked out of its hiding place and a couple of deer took tentative steps nearby. And the oldest tree of the forest seemed to shake itself as the sun caressed its shadow.

It was on that night that a little girl was born. She was given all she desired and more than she needed. And she grew, through the seasons and signposts of life, diligently working toward her goals, finding beauty and glory and seeking more. Always more.

And every year she visited the forest that called to her and spent a day at the base of the old tree thinking – no, pondering – as hope and discouragement, good and evil, light and dark played tag in her soul.

And although myriad paths lay open to her, she considered prestige and power a worthy aim and chose that path which offered most and best. And she got it. For there are in life ways some do not recognize or chose to know; but for those who seek them, their allure calls clearly and relentlessly.

She attended the best schools where she learned to think in the accepted manner; not only learned, but embraced the lessons that scoffed at old wisdom and blessed those that tore its fabric. She acquired beauty at the cost of dignity, fortune at the cost of integrity, and success at the cost of legitimacy.

She followed the clear and relentless path to dark places and shadowy travelers. She made everyone around her a servant and thought of those she did not know, slaves. Others’ lives became a means to an end, and she didn’t hesitate regardless of hurt or harm her actions might cause; until life became as expendable as used package wrapping.

She gave in to gluttony, but was never satiated. Whatever of the many things she’d dreamed and worked to gain were never enough. She began to think of herself as a god, really. No one was higher or should be. She was greater than anyone! Larger than life, even bigger than creation! She had it all and would control it all, too!

And then a storm came; quietly and slowly at first, as some storms do. It continued, and disturbed her. Putting her hands over her ears, she demanded it stop. But the wind rose higher and the rain pelted harder. On through the night the wind blew, lightning flashed, and thunder rolled and crashed.

It occurred to her that the old tree beneath which she had sat and pondered and planned in her youth, and later neglected until it was forgotten, could be a shelter. Running to the forest, she looked but couldn’t find it. At last she was spent. Raging at the storm and any who had the audacity to cross her, she lay on the ground, cursing until the very end. The ground swallowed her weaselly body, and the rain washed away the filth of her life.

And the oldest tree of the forest seemed to shake itself as the sun caressed its shadow.

Images: pexels-pixabay-53459-; pexels-nejc-kosir-338936.jpg; pexels-kyle-killam-106006.jpg; pexels-veeterzy-38136.jpg

Great Worship

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“It’s just easier, you know? I click the link, sip coffee in my pajamas, and even get a little housework done during the boring parts.”

“Plus I don’t worry about the kids getting antsy. God is there where two or three are gathered, right?”

The people in Berea were more open-minded than those in Thessalonica. They were so glad to hear the message Paul told them. They studied the Scriptures every day to make sure that what they heard was really true.

And continuing daily with one accord in the temple, and breaking bread from house to house, they ate their meat with gladness and singleness of heart.

“What a great sermon!”

“I just can’t get enough of him, can you?”

“I don’t know how he does it week after week. But he does!”

And upon the first day of the week, when the disciples came together to break bread, Paul preached unto them, ready to depart on the morrow; and continued his speech until midnight.

“And the worship! I felt transported!”

“The worship is the best around, for sure.”

Therefore, since we receive a kingdom which cannot be shaken, let us show gratitude, by which we may offer to God an acceptable service with reverence and awe; for our God is a consuming fire.

Speak to one another with psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your hearts to the Lord.

And God watched. He heard their voices and music and words. And He listened to what hearts were saying.

Image: edwin-andrade-6liebVeAfrY-unsplash.jpg; Acts 17:11; Acts 2:46; Acts 20:7; Hebrews 12:28-29; Ephesians 5:19

Apple Slices Dipped in Caramel

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It wasn’t that he was the most handsome man she’d ever met nor even the most quick-witted. But he was kind. She’d witnessed it whenever she saw him with other people or animals or birds. And there was something in his eyes that indicated he was thinking beyond what was heard or spoken. She couldn’t say what it was that kept her thinking of him even when he was out of sight, why she thought of him as she left the office each day and when she got home, nor the reason she saw him in her dreams.

The problem, of course, was that he had no idea she existed. None! She sat at the same spot every day, reading while she ate her favorite lunch – apple slices dipped in caramel, a favorite because when she was a little girl, her grandfather had made it their very own treat, and memories of love and home rushed in whenever she ate them.

And the man passed the very spot every day, chatting with a friend or looking at his phone or simply whistling. Today was no different. He’d passed without noticing. Enough! She gathered her things and slid them into her bag. She wasn’t someone who approached attractive strangers nor any stranger, for that matter. It just wasn’t in her. Maybe one day she’d find someone like him; someone kind who had more within him than he let anyone know. Today would be the last day, she decided. No more pining. No more wishing. She’d take lunch at her desk and let go of thoughts of which only she was aware.

And she did. And it was boring. Oh, she made mindless conversation with co-workers who took lunch at their desks, too. She read a book, but it felt flat. She distracted herself with Pinterest. But she missed her little spot near the fountain outside her office building.

Depressed. That’s what she felt, though nothing had really been lost other than an intangible hope of something more. She still passed by the fountain after work. At least there was that, but she did not sit. She did not read. And something in her heart broke a little. Until.

Until a week had gone by. And there, as she passed the fountain after work, waiting for her, was the not most handsome man holding something out to her.

Apple slices dipped in caramel.

Images: pexels-john-finkelstein-1630588.jpg; pexels-fabio-lima-770225-scaled.jpg

Waiting for the Dawn

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Tucked in between two mountains sits a quiet little village where generations of people live and love, struggle and survive. Smoke rises from the chimney of the northernmost house and with it the prayers of each inhabitant within. For their very existence is threatened tonight by those without care for the cost their hostile plans elicit. And across the village, each house sends the same prayer. Come Lord Jesus. Help us.

Snow swirls in the wind, rushes across the plain, and hits the town community center, shaking it with gusts topping fifty miles an hour. But the townspeople within ignore it. They join in little circles of twos and threes and fives as they pray for help against a force far greater than the wind outside. Come Lord Jesus. Heal us.

Lights blink on and off in the city where light and dark coexist. But in little apartments, fancy penthouses, small neighborhoods and boroughs throughout the meandering streets come whispering voices. For down those streets walk those whose intentions are for usurpation. Come Lord Jesus. Rescue us.

 

And through the expectant air of a Christmas Eve comes their answer. If hopelessness expects nothing, it usually receives it. But if hope calls for a miracle? Oh that blessed, beautiful miracle will come as surely as the One from whom all hope of heaven and earth descended and brought forth glorious LIGHT!

This miracle story depends upon the reader. It waits to hear the prayer, to learn the heart, and to examine the faith. Pray, my dear readers, pray as though your life depends on it. And we of stout heart and unquenchable faith will wait together through the night as we watch for the miraculous dawn.

Images: pexels-maria-orlova-4947573-1.jpg; pexels-plato-terentev-5891763.jpg; pexels-zichuan-han-3583571.jpg

Partial to Lambs

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Dust moats swirled lazily in the air as dim rays of the setting sun filtered through cracks in the wooden slats. A lamb, one day old and too sick to live, bleated. The boy pulled it close to him.

“Are you sure, honey? There’s not a thing any of us can do.”

“Pleease,” his eyes met those of his parents’, speaking what he could not.

His father looked down at the boy’s leg, still and swollen.

“You cover up good. The cold seeps in faster than you know.”

“But you always say the animals keep the barn warm,” countered the boy, before his mother could object.

“That’s a fact.”

“I’ll keep the bottles right next to me. He can eat whenever he wants. See?”

His mother sighed audibly. “Keep the phone close now. If anything happens, you call the house.”

The boy nodded quickly. He’d done it!

“Hey little guy,” he whispered in the lamb’s ear as his parents walked out. “We’re going to be roommates tonight. I know you’re hurtin’. I know.”

He rubbed his bum leg and rocked back and forth, then began to sing quietly – Christmas carols mostly. It seemed right for Christmas Eve.

Finally, as the lamb snuggled close and his own eyes drooped, he uttered the prayer he’d prayed through the day.

“God, heal this little lamb. He’s a good one – I can tell. Give him a chance. Please, God, please. I know what they all think. But let this one be different. Don’t let him die.”

Hours passed. Boy and lamb slumbered together as rays of starlight swept over them. The boy didn’t know what hour of the night it was, but light as bright as high noon abruptly filled the stall.

“You love football?” the man standing there asked.

“How’d you know?” The boy rubbed his eyes as he took in the tall form. He was wearing a cowboy hat and jeans with a warm jacket. The boy glanced through the slats into the darkness, then at the man’s bare feet.

The man smiled. They talked about the boy’s dreams, how it felt to be left out sometimes, of this and that as the man knelt and patted the little lamb. And then he was gone. The boy blinked, turned, looked around. . . the stranger had disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.

Just before daybreak his dad stepped into the barn to dispose of the lamb’s dead body.

“What’re you doin’ awake so early?”

“I’ve been awake since . . .”

The little lamb stood shakily, then walked over to him.

“How in the world?” His father uttered under his breath.

And the story the boy had to tell was told over and over again; passed from family members to cousins, townsfolk to passersby, until the barn became something of a tourist destination every Christmastime. They say the boy, now a famous football player and rumored to have the fastest running speed on record, returns, too, each year. He sleeps in the barn every December 24th.

For one year a man appeared to him on Christmas Eve: a man whose feet and hands were scarred, who healed a boy given no hope of healing, as well as the lamb with him because, the man had said, he was partial to lambs.

Image: daniel-sandvik-IQBqIpa8VgI-unsplash.jpg

The Scent

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The door creaked slightly and the scent greeted him. He called it the Holy Spirit scent. Many churches had it. Others didn’t. Tonight he was glad for it. Ever since the troubles, churches had found themselves in a different place, a place requiring a larger faith than they had ever experienced. It was good, but it was hard, too. The sifting had left them smaller than ever. It was clear that depth of faith mattered more than numbers through the door, but you’d have to be crazy to not miss the large fellowship. He prayed again one request: just an extra soul at the manger tonight. One single soul won out of the many lost. The longing ended in a sigh, then a tired smile. At least the Holy Spirit scent had stayed. If only he could witness it’s miraculous work!

It was Christmas Eve. The worship team had arrived early and someone had put on the coffee. He placed the plate of cookies his wife had sent ahead with him next to the disposable coffee cups, unlocked his office door, shrugged out of his coat, and picked up tonight’s message. It would be short. To the point. A timeless story of the event that changed the world and the world’s chances of heaven. It was what was needed now. No jokes, though they could all use some laughter; no cultural tripe, though some might love to hear it; but hope. And truth.

Someone walked past his door. He recognized the black jacket, a four inch tear on the left seam. The man had stood outside the church off and on for a month. One time the minister had called out the door for the stranger to come in from the cold for a hot cup of coffee, but the man had pulled up his collar and quickly walked away. He shot up a quick prayer for him, but he had a nagging feeling. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

Cold air rushed in as the entrance door opened and attendees filtered in. Families, friends, and singles dotted the sanctuary as Christmas music softly echoed over the pews.

As he walked to the pulpit, the man in the black jacket shrugged uncomfortably as though he meant to take it off, then thought better of it. And again. The minister began his short homily, attendees’ eyes shone with anticipation, and the stranger fidgeted. And the scent – the Holy Spirit scent – grew stronger. Strange. That hadn’t happened before.

“. . . The event we celebrate so gloriously this time of year was as expansive as the cosmos and as intentional as a train whistle. It started in simple surroundings so that each of us could approach it in a way we could understand. Some come to the manger with the eyes of a child. Some, with jaded sight, like perhaps, some of the shepherds or the innkeeper, himself. And some with humble beauty, like the wise men did later on. So you see, at this very moment in history – what scripture calls ‘in the fullness of time’ . . .”

The man in the black coat stood and, as though driven by an unknown force, the minister stepped into the aisle, away from his notes, and continued, “It’s hard for us to grasp, isn’t it? The fullness of time. Because we are used to not having to wait. We grow impatient.” What was he saying? Nothing he’d planned.

“Our questions remain unanswered. We become angry. Maybe even defiant. It doesn’t occur to us that it could be because we’re not yet ready to hear the answer. But God, Who is patient with us beyond reason . . .”

The man stepped into the aisle. The minister continued walking slowly toward him. The Holy Spirit scent increased.

“He watches us. And waits so very patiently. We might even sense it, but choose to ignore it. Even run from it. And if we run, He waits at the place where we run to.”

The minister stopped in front of the stranger. “He’s waiting for you, you know.”

The man fled, and it was only then that the minister saw the butt of a gun peeking out of his coat pocket. The minister wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. What had just happened?

He led the congregation in a prayer for wandering souls on dark streets. They finished with Silent Night sung in quavering voices and left without eating his wife’s cookies.

One more night his prayer was unanswered, thought the minister as he pulled out of the parking lot. What had he been thinking? He had chased the stranger away!

 

And beyond the candlelight of the darkened church, the Holy Spirit scent reached a lost soul just outside the door, obscured by the night.

 

Images: pexels-nikolett-emmert-10385833.jpg; pexels-rahul-695644.jpg; Love Came Down at Christmastime and Come, Messiah! by Connie Miller Pease @ http://bit.ly/2y1z08E

Clompy And Perfect

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She blew on her chai, causing a pause in the wafting steam. It had snowed last night, and she missed again the steady scrape scrape of her husband’s early morning shoveling. The coat closet door stood ajar, beckoning her to the outdoor task, and her eyes darted to the place where his boots had always stood. Always. Rain or shine, heat or cold. She shook her head, but not with disgust like she had done in the past.

In the past the boots had displeased her. Their appearance and the sound they made matched: clomp, clomp, clompy, clomp. She had bought brand new beautiful boots for him that eventually were given to charity. She had bought a different brand. And another. They both rested in a dark corner of the closet until she finally gave up and gave them away as well.

But now? Now she would have given anything to hear clomp clomp clomp and see snow puddles in a line to the closet. She’d asked the dear Lord in heaven to heal him. Asked and asked. But he was gone now and with him so much of what made her treasure her life. And the boots? She’d kept them. It didn’t make sense to her, but grief and love are seldom logical.

She brought her empty chai cup to the kitchen, slightly comforted by the greenery atop the cupboards and the poinsettia by the window. Next year she might have more desire to decorate.

Maybe, maybe after she shoveled, she’d hike out to that place they’d loved. The fresh air would do her good, and she could carry the goodness to the family Christmas gatherings where love and sympathy would bring her to tears in an awkward sort of way.

As she drove to the starting point of her hike, her mind wandered to grief in general. How many people were having their first Christmas without someone this year? How were they handling it? For that matter, what did the baby in the manger, grown to a boy, do when Joseph died? And later – did Jesus’ friends feel that lump in the throat, eyes-burning burden in the days after the cross? Did they wish, hope, pray for a sign? The Christmas story held plenty: a star, a battalion of angels, shepherds . . .

But for her, well, there were no signs. Eternal life seemed far away and seeing him again did, too.

The newly fallen snow had left everything pure and sparkling. The long hike was absolutely what she needed. Slightly out of breath, she squinted at the sundogs and prayed again, though she couldn’t quite find the words to ask for who knew what. A word of thanks for a life, too short, well-lived. Yes. That would do. And she felt better. She really did, even without the reassurances she wished for.

She started back to her car, then stopped. She gazed down intently, squatted and brushed her hand over what she saw. There it was in the untrodden snow. A bootprint. Larger than her own. Clompy and perfect.

"Bootprint" by AmericaninCanada is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

 

Images: pexels-ryutaro-tsukata-6249388-scaled.jpg; Ron St. Amant.  “Bootprint” by AmericaninCanada is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 

Look for a Book for Your Christmas Nook

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