Friday Fiction, The Family

Welcome to Friday Fiction! It is my privilege to host it right here this week. Once again, due to a busy week, this story is one you may have read before, a little story I wrote for fun a couple of years ago. I am apparently out of the linky loop (I didn't know the rules had changed!) so if you are participating with your own fiction, please leave a comment with the url to your blog and story.


THE FAMILY

“What’cha see?”

“Just the family. Baby’s taking a nap.” He doesn’t answer, but I know he’s thinking I should put the binoculars down and get on with my own business. He’s probably right, but it’s hard not to be fascinated.

At first it was just the two of them. They arrived on the scene several months ago, and they were such a delightful pair, this new couple. He seemed a bit independent, mind you, but if you ever wanted to know where he was, all you had to do was look at her. Her eyes were always on him like a compass needle pointing north. It seemed more than admiration, as though she could not bear to be without him for a moment. Not that you could blame her, he was quite the handsome sort.

The day did come, though, when he just disappeared, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had gone for good. I also couldn’t help feeling badly for her as I watched her through the long, cold winter. I knew she had to be incredibly lonely.

Visitors were few. Once some children came with a few kind words, and I could tell she was grateful, but it didn’t change anything. Another time there was a scruffy loner who seemed somewhat interested in her, circling about as though she were prey. I admired her courage because she ignored him entirely, behaving as though he didn’t even exist. It was apparently the right thing to do, because he left after a short while. I was relieved, and yet sorry to see him go just because I rarely saw his sort hanging around here. Just a bit of morbid curiosity, I suppose.

“You know,” I had mentioned to my husband around that time, “I think she’s going to have a baby.”

He didn’t react much. Just a “Hmm,” and a shrug, that’s about it.

When the time came, I couldn’t help but gloat a bit. “I told you she was going to have a baby!” Earlier I had noticed that the object of her affection had returned, and was he ever racing about! Now I think it had to be because of all the excitement of the new baby, and he was a very proud papa.

All speculation, of course. I have never spoken to them nor they to me, and all these affairs are their own business. If I did speak to anyone, though, it would be to the rancher who owns them. I would ask him if he couldn’t move them to the closer pasture, so I wouldn’t have to use my binoculars so much. They are beautiful, and I fully intend to keep watching them, especially now that the baby is really gaining his legs. My, how that foal can run! Even if the rancher does move them to the closer pasture, I’ll still be using the binoculars, if only to keep an eye out for the scruffy coyotes that occasionally loiter about.

***
Psalm 147:10-11NASB He does not delight in the strength of the horse; He does not take pleasure in the legs of a man. The LORD favors those who fear Him, Those who wait for His lovingkindness.

Friday Fiction Wolf in a Bunny Costume (Rerun)

Welcome to Fiction Friday! Catrina Bradley of Speak to the Mountainis the host for this week. Be sure to head on over there to read some great fiction. If you are participating today with your own fiction, you'll find the Mclinky following her story.

I just have not found time of late for writing something new for Friday Fiction - I am working on two novels when I can, usually more "editing" than actually writing. But FF is fun, so at least I can join in with a rerun! If you've been around my blog for awhile, you may have read it before...

WOLF IN A BUNNY COSTUME

Baleful shifted uncomfortably in his bunny rabbit costume. He tried to nibble on the grass, but it was difficult to manage through the makeshift mouth of the mask. Grass wasn’t nearly filling for a wolf anyway. Nearby, rabbits chewed happily. How did the green wispy stuff keep their tummies full? At least now they were happily munching rather than arguing about the newcomer.

“He can’t really be one of us,” one had said. “He’s big and funny looking.”

“I say we let him stay. He looks like a rabbit – sort of.”

“Yeah, it’s okay if he’s big and funny looking. Close enough is close enough.”

The argument ended when hunger turned their attention to the lush foliage of the hillside. Baleful sighed with short-lived relief. Wise Old Bunny had not hopped away with the others, and now nibbled on grass nearby, even hopping closer for a blade or two. Did he know? Why did he keep stopping to sniff the air?

At last Wise Old Bunny spoke. “You don’t make a very good rabbit.” Not looking directly at Baleful, he nibbled on another blade of grass.

Baleful tried to stifle a whine, which came out as a nervous whimper. Only yesterday Wicked, the wolf pack leader, had made a similar pronouncement. “You don’t make a very good wolf,” he had snarled.

“I can’t eat bunnies,” Baleful had wailed. “They’re too cute.”

“Cute?” Wicked had growled menacingly as the rest of the pack circled and howled in laughter. “They’re not cute, they’re food! What do you suggest we eat instead?”

“Well,” Baleful said with a hopeful sniff, “Maybe we could eat grass like the bunnies.”

This was too much, and Wicked’s snarling mouth was now inches from Baleful’s quivering throat. The pack stopped circling and watched expectantly. Suddenly Wicked stopped snarling and sat back on his haunches. “Very well. You like the bunnies. You shall become one of them. Yes,” he said with a sly, toothy grin, “You will live with them until they become used to the smell of a wolf. That way you can eat all the grass you want and we shall be able to sneak up and catch all the bunnies we can eat!”

The pack had howled approvingly, and a costume was constructed from past hunts. Baleful wasn’t happy, but the menacing pack gave him no choice, and he, a wolf, had gone to live among the bunnies.

Now nothing was going right, and Baleful crouched on the ground with his nose between his rabbit hair covered wolf paws. “No,” he admitted to Wise Old Bunny, “I’m not a rabbit, I’m a wolf. But I’m not a good wolf, either. I can’t eat bunnies.” He resisted an urge to sit up and howl mournfully.

Wise Old Bunny didn’t seem alarmed at the news, and ate another blade of grass before speaking again. “You know, if you really were a rabbit, you would be satisfied eating grass.”

Baleful stopped sniffling and sat up. “Are you saying I could become a real rabbit?”

“It happens. But there is only one way. You have to go to the Big Bunny Master, and ask him to transform you into a real rabbit.”

Baleful had heard the story of the Big Bunny Master, but had not been sure it was true. The story was that the Big Bunny Master had been killed by wolves, but instead of really dying he had somehow become bigger than any mere rabbit could ever be, and now had complete power over the realm of not only the bunny rabbits, but the wolves as well. The story, naturally, was forbidden to be told in wolf lairs. He listened now as Wise Old Bunny continued, “There is one nonnegotiable condition.”

“What is it?” Baleful’s wolf ears twitched under the fake bunny ears.

“You have to drop the mask, take off the costume, and come to the Big Bunny Master just as you are, a wolf.”

Baleful hesitated. “But I’m a despicable wolf. When the Big Bunny Master sees me… and if the other wolves see me… and if the bunnies see me…”

“Well, that’s it. Not an easy choice, but the only way.”

Baleful thought earnestly for a time. At last he removed his costume and spoke quietly, “Will you take me to him?”

Soon after, Baleful and Wise Old Bunny munched grass contentedly side by side while other bunnies nibbled grass nearby and hungry wolves howled in the distance.

Friday Fiction Marcy's Choice

Welcome to Fiction Friday! I haven't been joining in the fun in quite awhile, but hey, today I'm hosting, so here I am! If you are participating today with your own fiction, you'll find the Mclinky following the story.

This is the first new fiction I have written lately, and it wasn't at all what I would have chosen to write just for fun, but I felt the Lord nudging me about it...

Marcy's Choice

Looking out over the snow-covered field, Marcy let her eyes rest for a moment on the snowy branches of a pine tree. A tiny bird, a junco, hopped from branch to branch, dislodging some of the white powdery crystals. She wondered how the little birds ever found enough to eat in the frigid terrain. It hadn’t yet warmed up enough to melt the powder into slush, and she wondered how long it would be before the weather would finally restore the winter white to the usual winter brown. The green of spring was surely a long way off. She wondered, too, how long it would take for the cold in her heart to melt away.

The doctor had told her to expect a certain amount of depression, that was normal following the procedure. But would it ever really go away? Would she ever really not feel any sense of guilt over what she had done? She had been reassured that she should not feel guilty, that it was not reasonable to think she had to be responsible for the life of the baby she didn’t want. It had all been just a mistake, she hadn’t planned on being pregnant, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to let her whole life be turned upside down. But wasn’t that the way it felt now, anyway?

Marcy turned away from the window with a dismal sigh and sat down on the sofa. She had thought she might catch up on some reading, but she couldn’t seem to get past reading the first few pages of any book she picked up. The magazines didn’t hold her interest either, they were so full of advertisements that even the articles seemed to screech, “Buy, buy, buy!” That thought brought up an unnerving memory of the doctor. He’d said all the right words, to be sure. It was not her fault, and it was really just a simple procedure, and everything would be okay. And yet, she couldn’t shake the impression he’d left her with. For him, was it really nothing more than money, a mere business transaction? “Buy, buy, buy…” Somehow she was beginning to wish she hadn’t. She eyed her cell phone on the coffee table and thought again about calling her sister.

Amy lifted her cell phone only to put it back down for what must have been the tenth time that morning. I should call her, she said to herself. I can’t call her, she doesn’t want to talk to me. I asked her to please call me before she made any choices after seeing that doctor. She hasn’t called. I can’t force her. “Lord, please help her, if it’s not too late, to choose to let that child live. Lord, is it too late? It’s been over a week now and I haven’t heard a thing. If it is too late, what do you want me to say? Condemning her, making her feel worse than she surely already does won’t help. But neither will ignoring it and treating her as if she’s just had nothing more than a tooth removed. Lord, I don’t know what You want me to do. Lord, please help me, and most of all, please help Marcy.”

Marcy stepped out of the house and started down the walk to the mailbox. She stopped in a bit of surprise as she heard the trickle of melting snow flowing steadily through the rain gutters. There had been snow on top of snow for what seemed like such a long time. But today the sunshine was different and she knew spring was finally coming. She stood still for a moment, letting the sun warm her face. Looking at the snow from inside the house had made her get her jacket even for such a short walk, but she knew now it could have been left inside. The warmth of the sun seemed to penetrate her being. She proceeded slowly down the walk, wishing she had more excuse to be outside than just fetching the mail.

As she sorted through the few items on the way back inside, she stopped again, this time to open an envelope. It was from a lady she had met in a Bible study she had recently started attending. Inside the envelope she found a greeting card with a pretty flower on the outside and a simple greeting on the inside, Welcome to our little group, we are so glad you have found us! Be blessed today! Amy had invited her to come to the group, assuring her that she would fit in just fine. She had been right, they had all made her feel welcome and even cared about.

Although for such a long time Marcy had resisted Amy’s efforts to talk to her about God, she had finally come to the conclusion that if indeed He was real, and Jesus was real, then it was time for her to receive forgiveness, just as Amy had said. Amy had been right about a lot of things, and the most important thing was that the only thing to do with guilt was to bring it to the cross and leave it there. All her efforts to reassure herself and reason the guilt away had done nothing to dislodge it. But leaving it at the cross – knowing that God only required her to acknowledge the guilt, and let Him remove it, because He had placed all that guilt on Jesus, and knowing that He still loved her, and that He forgave her, and even had a wonderful plan for her life – knowing all these things filled Marcy’s heart with more warmth than the sunshine ever could. “Lord,” she whispered, “It’s just like springtime in my heart, like everything is new again!” With a happy smile she went inside.

Friday Fiction Don't Panic

Welcome to Fiction Friday! Christina Banks of With Pen in Hand is the host for this week. Be sure to head on over there to read some great fiction. If you are participating today with your own fiction, you'll find the Mclinky following her story.

As for my contribution? Sigh.

Uh-oh. That was the doorbell. Glancing around at the disarray, Sheila smoothed her hair and headed toward the door. Maybe they wouldn't look around. Maybe they wouldn't notice the boxes and rearranging and general messiness (aka: maybe they wouldn't notice the mess as she rearranged her blog design.)

As she opened the door and greeted her guests, she noticed for the first time that it was raining.

"Hey, is that your car in the driveway? Because I noticed it's been washed - must be why it's raining, it's all your fault!" (aka: "I noticed you finally took the snowman off your blog. Yesterday it was Spring, now it's snowing again. Must be all your fault!") Her dinner guest took the hat off his head, shaking off the water as he stepped inside.

Her hopes that they would not notice the mess were squashed as he asked,disheartened, "Uh - you did know we were coming, right? You did invite us over for dinner tonight, didn't you?" (aka: "You did remember it was Friday, didn't you? You did click on the McLinky dude, right?")

"Yeah, gee, I don't smell anything cooking, and I am kind of hungry!" his partner piped up as she entered behind him, also looking around at the mess. (aka: "You didn't get the next installment of "Dusty Dreams" finished, did you? I'm so disappointed!")

Sheila (aka: Sherri) sighed as she responded, "I am so sorry, I did lose track of time rearranging and cleaning out my apartment, but if you will stay we can have leftovers reheated in the microwave!" (aka: "I had good intentions, but so much going on that I did not get the next installment done, but if you would like you can stick around and read a rerun, "Don't Panic.")


DON'T PANIC


Reubal cursed. Zipter was running toward him, shaking in fear. “I gave you an assignment,” Reubal growled as Zipter fell at his feet. “Why aren’t you in her room, keeping her gripped in fear as I ordered you to?”

“I can’t,” Zipter wailed. “He was there!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know! HIM! HE was in her room!”

Reubal cursed, then stared silently at the demon crouching and wailing at his feet. “Shut up and get on your feet! What was He doing? At least give me a report on the situation, you cowardly twit!”

Zipter sniveled and got up shakily. “Well, He seemed to be feeding her.”

“Feeding her what, food?”

“No, He seemed to be feeding her words.”

“Words?”

“Yes,” Zipter replied, standing up a little straighter and speaking with more confidence than he felt. “He was feeding her words of faith.” He hoped his tone was matter-of-fact enough to allow no room for argument.

Reubal thought for a long moment, then scrutinized Zipter through evil slits of eyes. “So, she is being nourished on words of faith, while you cower here in front of me?”

Zipter silently stared at the floor. He had a retort in mind – “Why don’t you go in there if you’re so brave?” – but he dared not breathe it aloud.

Tracy tried to ignore the sounds of the noisy hospital hallway. Morning was still a long way off. She rolled over and closed her eyes. Sleep could help her forget her living nightmare.

“Tracy.” It wasn’t an audible voice – had she really heard it?”

“Lord, are you here?” Tracy prayed silently. “Lord, you have to get me through this. Jesus, I am afraid.”

“I know, Tracy. I understand. There are some things I want you to remember. First is that I love you.”

“I love you, too, Lord.”

“Second is that I am right here and I will not leave you.”

“Okay.” Tracy was beginning to feel a deep sense of peace.

“And third is this: Don’t panic.”

“Don’t panic?”

“Don’t panic. Is there any situation I can’t control?”

“No.”

“Trust Me. Don’t look at circumstances, look at Me.”

“Okay.” Tracy drifted peacefully into sleep.

Reubal had a plan. “Use someone to carry the message, that way it won’t really be you saying it!”

“Well, I don’t know if I can…”

“Shut up! Get to her door, and use whoever goes into that room! Your assignment is to get her firmly gripped by fear! I don’t care who you use, just do it!”

Zipter tripped over himself in his haste to get away.

Tracy aroused from sleep. Even as she realized she had slept through the rest of the night, she recalled that The Lord had spoken some things to her and she focused on trying to remember what they were. Oh – that He loved her. She did know that. It was something she had been told since childhood and she didn’t doubt it.

The second thing – that He would never leave her. What a comfort that was, especially now! But the third thing, what was it? It was a bit odd, she did remember that. “Well, Lord,” she prayed silently, “you are going to have to help me, because right now I don’t remember it.”

For no reason he could discern, Dr. Marin was feeling exceptionally sour this particular morning. The patient would appear fearful, they always did. The news was the worst possible. She would cry. He would be polite and make his exit. What a routine. He stepped into the room with a heavy sigh.

His hopeless message was delivered, but Dr. Marin was baffled. A little voice inside his head made him repeat, “It’s cancer. It’s inoperable. There’s nothing we can do.” He felt oddly almost angry that his words didn’t seem effective. “I hate to be the bearer of such hopeless news…” Was the woman deaf?

The voice in his head was getting louder. “Tell her she’s dying. Say it again!” the voice raged.

“Don’t panic,” Tracy remembered, and smiled slightly. “What an amazing God I serve,” she whispered to herself. “Jesus, I love You. I won’t panic, if You will help me not to.”

Aloud, she said, “Thank you, Dr. Marin. Now I want to call my pastor and some friends from church.”

The voice inside the doctor’s head screamed, “They can’t help you! It’s cancer! All your little church friends can’t do anything!”

Dr. Marin said politely, “I’m sorry.” As he left, the voice kept screeching, “It’s cancer! It’s cancer!” Dr. Marin sighed and muttered, “I really need a vacation.”

“You failed!” Reubal screamed. “Can’t you hear the sounds coming from her room? That’s a celebration! She should be crying in fear! Instead they are praising God for His goodness! Get out of here before I kill you!”

Zipter fled.

***

Friday Fiction Wolf in a Bunny Costume

Welcome to Fiction Friday! Shelley Ledfors of The Veil Thins is the host for this week. If you are participating with your own story, be sure to link up with the Mclinky on her blog.

Part of the reason my own contribution is yet another rerun, other than perhaps some not-so-good choices in how I spent my time this week, is that I have to make some decisions in the direction of the novel itself. Every writer of fiction has "what's next?" moments... okay, sometimes weeks. As for at least one of the other reasons - I have been working on my new Etsy shop. Heard of Etsy? It's art, not writing so much... You can visit my brand new shop Butterfly Feet Shop if you are interested. Meanwhile, here's my rerun, truly a personal favorite.

WOLF IN A BUNNY COSTUME

Baleful shifted uncomfortably in his bunny rabbit costume. He tried to nibble on the grass, but it was difficult to manage through the makeshift mouth of the mask. Grass wasn’t nearly filling for a wolf anyway. Nearby, rabbits chewed happily. How did the green wispy stuff keep their tummies full? At least now they were happily munching rather than arguing about the newcomer.

“He can’t really be one of us,” one had said. “He’s big and funny looking.”

“I say we let him stay. He looks like a rabbit – sort of.”

“Yeah, it’s okay if he’s big and funny looking. Close enough is close enough.”

The argument ended when hunger turned their attention to the lush foliage of the hillside. Baleful sighed with short-lived relief. Wise Old Bunny had not hopped away with the others, and now nibbled on grass nearby, even hopping closer for a blade or two. Did he know? Why did he keep stopping to sniff the air?

At last Wise Old Bunny spoke. “You don’t make a very good rabbit.” Not looking directly at Baleful, he nibbled on another blade of grass.

Baleful tried to stifle a whine, which came out as a nervous whimper. Only yesterday Wicked, the wolf pack leader, had made a similar pronouncement. “You don’t make a very good wolf,” he had snarled.

“I can’t eat bunnies,” Baleful had wailed. “They’re too cute.”

“Cute?” Wicked had growled menacingly as the rest of the pack circled and howled in laughter. “They’re not cute, they’re food! What do you suggest we eat instead?”

“Well,” Baleful said with a hopeful sniff, “Maybe we could eat grass like the bunnies.”

This was too much, and Wicked’s snarling mouth was now inches from Baleful’s quivering throat. The pack stopped circling and watched expectantly. Suddenly Wicked stopped snarling and sat back on his haunches. “Very well. You like the bunnies. You shall become one of them. Yes,” he said with a sly, toothy grin, “You will live with them until they become used to the smell of a wolf. That way you can eat all the grass you want and we shall be able to sneak up and catch all the bunnies we can eat!”

The pack had howled approvingly, and a costume was constructed from past hunts. Baleful wasn’t happy, but the menacing pack gave him no choice, and he, a wolf, had gone to live among the bunnies.

Now nothing was going right, and Baleful crouched on the ground with his nose between his rabbit hair covered wolf paws. “No,” he admitted to Wise Old Bunny, “I’m not a rabbit, I’m a wolf. But I’m not a good wolf, either. I can’t eat bunnies.” He resisted an urge to sit up and howl mournfully.

Wise Old Bunny didn’t seem alarmed at the news, and ate another blade of grass before speaking again. “You know, if you really were a rabbit, you would be satisfied eating grass.”

Baleful stopped sniffling and sat up. “Are you saying I could become a real rabbit?”

“It happens. But there is only one way. You have to go to the Big Bunny Master, and ask him to transform you into a real rabbit.”

Baleful had heard the story of the Big Bunny Master, but had not been sure it was true. The story was that the Big Bunny Master had been killed by wolves, but instead of really dying he had somehow become bigger than any mere rabbit could ever be, and now had complete power over the realm of not only the bunny rabbits, but the wolves as well. The story, naturally, was forbidden to be told in wolf lairs. He listened now as Wise Old Bunny continued, “There is one nonnegotiable condition.”

“What is it?” Baleful’s wolf ears twitched under the fake bunny ears.

“You have to drop the mask, take off the costume, and come to the Big Bunny Master just as you are, a wolf.”

Baleful hesitated. “But I’m a despicable wolf. When the Big Bunny Master sees me… and if the other wolves see me… and if the bunnies see me…”

“Well, that’s it. Not an easy choice, but the only way.”

Baleful thought earnestly for a time. At last he removed his costume and spoke quietly, “Will you take me to him?”

Soon after, Baleful and Wise Old Bunny munched grass contentedly side by side while other bunnies nibbled grass nearby and hungry wolves howled in the distance.
***

Friday Fiction The Yellow Dress

Welcome to Fiction Friday! It is my privilege to host it right here this week. My story is something I wrote for Friday Fiction awhile back, and I don't think I posted it more than once before, so hopefully you all won't be too bored with it! If you are participating with your own story, be sure to link up with the Mclinky at the bottom of the post.

The Yellow Dress

Marianne stared at her long-legged reflection in the full-length mirror. The hem was perfect; she had measured and sewed straight enough. She glanced at the six inches of bright yellow linen lying on the floor, the six inches which had made the dress seem more suited to her mother than herself. “I love this dress,” she said quietly as she caressed the round neckline and sleeveless edges of the straight sheath. “It was just so unstylish and long, so – matronly! I am not my mother!”

“Marianne,” a voice called from downstairs, “Hurry or you’ll miss the bus, and I don’t have time to drive you to school today!”

“Okay, Mom!” Marianne glanced nervously again at the hemline and tugged on the skirt as though to make it long again. Her mother wouldn’t approve, but she doubted that she would go so far as to stop her from going to school in it.

As she expected, her mother noted the new skirt length with a frown. “Oh honey, what have you done to your beautiful new dress?”

“Oh, Mom, don’t be so old fashioned! All the girls are wearing mini-skirts these days!” Her words boasted far more confidence that she actually felt, but she buried her sense of rising regret under an air of determined resolve. “Bye, Mom!” She grabbed her purse and books and bounced out the door.

Connie was conceited and gregarious, and had never had anything kind to say to Marianne. The spiteful remarks she often made usually targeted her clothes, hair and makeup. The other girls would laugh and agree, feeding Connie’s obvious need for eminence and popularity.

The new yellow dress had caused just one such outburst the first day Marianne had worn it. “That dress would look great on your mother. Don’t you think it’s just a little long for you?” Connie had smiled smugly and turned away to the approving giggles of her girl fans.

Marianne sat now at her desk in Social Studies, uncomfortably shifting to one side and then the other as she willed her legs to stay locked together. “I hate short skirts,” she thought woefully. She could almost sense the Lord agreeing with her, but actively tried not to think about everything that just might be on His mind today. She tried to focus instead on the teacher’s lecture. His voice droned on about food and water supplies in a dry climate, and Marianne’s thoughts wandered again, this time to the inevitable encounter at the lockers that would follow class.

As she expected, Connie looked her up and down for a long moment while they exchanged books from their lockers. Then, however, Marianne was caught a bit off-guard as she made some uncharacteristic comments. “Well, your mother will never wear that dress now! It looks nice, I like it.”

They stared at each other for a moment before turning to go to their next class. “Thanks,” Marianne said, trying to sound casually indifferent as she walked away.

That evening after helping her mother with the dishes, Marianne sat in her room at her desk, trying to study for a test in history. Her thoughts kept turning to the yellow dress, which now hung in her closet, as though waiting until she worked up the courage to wear it again.

“Traitor.”

“Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry!” Tears began to form, blurring the words on the history book page.

“Does Connie love you?”

“No, Connie loves herself.” Marianne grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and blew her nose.

“Do I love you?”

“Yes, Lord, You love me.”

“Did you feel good wearing that dress today?”

“No, I felt awful all day!” Marianne sighed despondently. “But Lord, You just don’t know what it’s like to have to be so different from everybody else.”

“Nobody likes to be different. But you are wrong, child, I do understand. Take a break from the history book.”

Marianne pushed the history book aside, and after a moment picked up her Bible instead. As she read, tears again filled her eyes. “Lord, You do understand! You were despised and rejected, and scorned, and mocked, and if all that weren’t bad enough, you were beaten and then crucified. Will you please forgive me once again, not only for the dress, but for pouting and whining, and most of all for preferring what the other girls think of me to what you think?”

“Of course I forgive you, child! Are you going to wear that dress again?”

“No, and I’ve ruined it so no one can ever wear it!”

“What about Jenny?”

“Lord, You are so smart! Jenny’s shorter than I am, but she wears the same dress size. On her it will be long again!” Marianne’s brooding gave way to elation. She wouldn’t ever have to wear the dress again, but it wouldn’t have to be tossed out. Jenny’s family didn’t have a lot of money, and Marianne was pleased to have a way to help. Best of all, Marianne would go to school in the morning with a clear and peaceful conscience, dressed in that old green corduroy jumper and a white blouse, an outfit that even her mother could wear!

Friday Fiction The Preacher

Welcome to Fiction Friday! Yvonne Blake of My Back Door is the host for this week. If you are participating with your own story, be sure to link up with the Mclinky on her blog.

I hope to have a new episode of my series, Dusty Dreams, ready for next week. My contribution for this week is a link to a challenge entry at FW that actually placed - but I don't think I've ever posted it here before - so you can read it there, but come on back here to post a comment if you would like. Have a fun Friday!
The Preacher
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Friday Fiction, Henry's Rock

Welcome to Fiction Friday! Sharlyn Guthrie of Dancin' On Rainbows is the host for this week. If you are participating with your own story, be sure to link up with the Mclinky on her blog.

Although I have been working on my "DD series" I didn't get the next part finished, so my own contribution is a story that got published on Faith Writers Magazine way back in '05. Click to go to Henry's Rock. Hope you enjoy it and the other great fiction on Sharlyn's blog!

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Friday Fiction Martha, Let Go of the Tablecloth

Karlene Jacobsen is hosting Friday Fiction today. Be sure to visit her blog, Homespun Expressions, for some great fiction. If you are participating with your own fiction, you will find the Mclinky on her post.

My own contribution is my very first ever submission on FW, and this is now the second time I am posting it on A Candid Thought for Christmas.

A Christmas Play - Martha, Let Go of the Tablecloth

The Characters:
Samantha, the mother
Darrel, the father
Caitlin, the 13-year-old
Jeremy, the 5-year-old
Jesus – the usually silent, white-robed figure, standing in the background of every scene

The Story: It’s almost Christmas! Samantha is focusing on all the cleaning, cooking and decorating with her usual style of frantic over-achievement. In the midst of the chaos, 5-year-old Jeremy asks a pertinent question – but is anyone listening?

(Scene 1)
Setting: Our story opens in the living room. Samantha is multi-tasking. While talking on her cell phone, she is attempting to trim the tree, wrap some gifts and oversee the efforts of the children, who are impeding, helping or otherwise entertaining themselves.

Samantha: “Carol, have you seen Brenda since – well, you know… yes, mmm-hmmm.” [She briefly interrupts her phone call.] “Jeremy, don’t play with the nativity set,” “Oh yes, I know! I saw her at church on Sunday, and she said the same thing! Isn’t it awful? Jeremy! Stop and put the baby, Jesus, back in the manger. No, I’m still here, Carol. By the way, what are you planning for Christmas dinner? I still can’t make up my mind. The problem is my Aunt Bertha. She always makes that casserole with green beans, and really, what does that go with? It’s so … outdated!” [She laughs.] “Caitlin, please help me with your brother! He shouldn’t be playing with the nativity set, it’s too fragile, and I am trying to have a conversation here!” [She hangs another ornament on the tree. Caitlin appears not to hear, and Samantha goes on with her phone conversation.] “Carol, did I tell you about the tablecloth I’m going to make for Christmas dinner? No? Oh, it’s going to be beautiful! I found the most gorgeous red and green linen fabric at Sews-a-Lot! And I had this great idea for the napkins - I’m going to make them look like angels – well, it’s hard to explain, but it will be so pretty!”

Caitlin: “Mom, do you think Dad will like the present I got for him?” [She is sitting on the floor with wrapping paper and a gift in front of her.]

Samantha: “Of course he will like it, dear! Carol, are you having relatives over for Christmas? Oh, you’re going there? How lucky not to have to do all this cleaning and decorating - oh, I know! Jeremy, put that back, and this time I mean it!”

Jeremy: “Mom!” [He stops playing and carries the baby Jesus over to stand by his preoccupied mother.] “Mommy, is Jesus still a baby?” [He pats her to get her attention.]

Caitlin: “Mom!” [Spoken a bit louder than last time.] “Do you think Dad will like this?”

Samantha: “Of course he will like it, dear!”

Caitlin: “How do you know he will like it? You haven’t even looked, and you don’t know what it is!” [Caitlin puts the gift behind her back in a challenging manner.] “Hmm, Mom, how do you know he’ll like it if you don’t know what it is?”

Jeremy: “Mo-o-omm, is Jesus still a baby? Tell me!” [He pats her harder now.]

Samantha: “Carol I can’t get a moment’s quiet around here. I’m going to have to call you back – maybe when the kids are, say, eighteen? I hear they’re either out of the house or glued to the computer in their rooms by then! Ha ha! Okay, see you then!” [Samantha clicks off the cell phone, then gently but firmly takes the baby Jesus from Jeremy and puts it back in the manger.]

Samantha: “It’s not a toy, sweetheart, if you play with it, it might break, so let’s just leave it in the manger. Caitlin, let me see what you got for your dad – yes, he will definitely like that. What is it?” [She looks slightly mystified, but only for a moment as the phone still in her hand rings and she answers and begins a conversation with Aunt Bertha.] “Oh, Aunt Bertha, it’s so nice of you to call. Yes, we are looking forward to your spending Christmas with us, too. No, it won’t be too much trouble at all! Oh, of course you can bring the green bean casserole. You know everyone is looking forward to that!”

Jeremy: “Mom, not green beans! I don’t like green beans! Tell her to bring chocolate cake! Mom, Becky at school says Jesus is only a baby and you can’t talk to Him. I told her you talk to Him. Is Jesus still a baby? Mom, Mom! Is Jesus still a baby?” [He starts patting to get her attention again.]

Caitlin: “Jesus still a baby!” [She laughs.] “Little brothers are so dumb!”
Jeremy: “I am not dumb. Girls are dumb! They talk all the time and they never answer any questions!” [He walks away from his mother with his arms folded resolutely.]

Samantha: “Oh dear! Aunt Bertha, I’m going to have to call you back – the kids apparently need some attention. Okay, mm-hmm. Okay, we’ll see you then.” [As she clicks the phone off and starts to focus on the children, she glances at her watch.] “Oh my gosh, do you see what time it is? Your father will be home soon and I haven’t even thought about what to fix for dinner yet.”

Caitlin and Jeremy in unison: “Yay, pizza, pizza!”

Samantha: “We can’t order pizza every night!”

Caitlin: “Oh, Mom! Why not?”

Jeremy: “Yeah, Mom! Why not?”

Samantha: “Because the food police will arrest me for being a bad mother. Come on, let’s go to the kitchen. Caitlin, we’ll make a nice salad and open a can of chicken or something. Jeremy, you can set the table for me.”

(Scene 2)
Setting: The kitchen. Samantha is in her robe, hair in curlers. She’s holding a large coffee mug in one hand and a bible in the other. Darrell is pulling boxes of cereal out of the cupboard. Caitlin and Jeremy are at the table, still in pajamas.

Samantha: “Can you all manage if I disappear for a few minutes? I really need to have my quiet time.”

Jeremy: “Mommy, are you going to talk to Jesus?”

Samantha: “Yes, dear, I’m going to talk to Jesus.” [She tousles his hair and pats Caitlin on the back.]

Jeremy: “Becky says you can’t talk to Jesus because He is still a baby.”

Darrell: “We’re fine, dear. Don’t take too long, though. I have to get to work early this morning.”

Samantha: “Okay.”

Caitlin: “Mom, I don’t want to wear the blue skirt this morning. I want the pink one I wore Monday.”

Samantha: “I washed it, dear, and it’s not ironed yet. We’ll see if there’s time to iron it before school.”

Caitlin: “You know there won’t be time, there’s never time for anything. We’ll be rushing out of here at the last minute, like always! This family is never on time. This family is whacko!”[Samantha starts to respond, but Darrell pushes her gently out the door.]

Darrell: “We’re fine, dear. She’ll wear the blue skirt. Go!

Caitlin: “Dad! I want the pink one!”

(Scene 3)
Setting: Samantha’s quiet room – a small back bedroom, a sometimes-guest room, reading room, sewing room, and the place Samantha chooses to spend her quiet time each day with God. Samantha is presently seated on a small sofa, bible in her lap. Jesus stands behind her.

Jesus: “Martha, Martha, Martha!”

Samantha: [quietly] “Is that you, Lord?” [She laughs slightly.] “Lord, You know my name’s not Martha. You know my name is Samantha.”

Jesus: “My child. I surely know you.” [No one speaks for awhile.]

Samantha: “Lord, I’m sorry for being so – detached from You. I know I said that yesterday, too. I know I’ve been distracted. It just seems like there’s so much to do, especially now – You know – with Christmas coming in just a few more days.” [She sighs.] “I know. It’s supposed to be all about You, a celebration of your being born as a baby here on this earth. And I keep making it all about cleaning and cooking and decorating.” [She pauses again. Jesus is silent.] “But Lord, You know all those people really are expecting dinner and – well, it is a special occasion, it has to be nice, and who is going to do all this stuff if I don’t? I really do wish some of these people would see I just can’t get it all done and they should help me. I do everything myself, all the time, and sometimes I just feel so tired of it!” [She pauses, almost sulking, and looks at her nails.] “And besides all that, I need a manicure and a pedicure and a facial! I mean, really, do I have to look like an absolute frump when everybody gets here?”

Jesus: “Martha, Martha, Martha!”

[Samantha pauses, sighs, and opens her bible, but she doesn’t read it long.] "Okay, Lord. I’m being a Martha. And I’m whining. And I’m not paying enough attention to what’s really important. But I’m here now. I’m trying to be Mary now.” [Another pause and sigh.] “Lord, I need your help.”

Jesus: “I will help you. Focus on what’s important.”

Samantha: “You’re important. I do love You, Lord.”

Jesus: “Why are you here, Samantha?”

Samantha: [After thinking.] “I’m here because I need You more than anything. And because I said I wanted to learn to listen to You. I want to hear Your voice. I want to know what’s on Your heart. And I need to give You the first of my day, because I need You with me all day long.”

Jesus: “I am with you always. And I’m glad that you seek Me early. People are on My heart. Listen to me, and learn to listen to people. Jeremy asked you a question.”

Samantha: “I heard him, Lord. He asked if you are still a baby.” [She laughs slightly.]

Jesus: “I want you to answer the question.”

Samantha: “Lord, he’s so young, and I hardly understand You myself! How somehow You are the very God who created the universe, and yet You came to earth as a baby, You lived and walked as God in the body of a man, and then You died for the sins of all mankind, and You rose again to live as God in heaven and yet You live in our hearts through the Holy Spirit – and You’re always everywhere all at the same time - how am I supposed to explain all this to a five-year-old?”

Jesus: “It’s important that you not ignore his questions about Me, Samantha. When you speak, I Myself will give you wisdom what to say. He will grow to understand. Remember, it’s not about man’s ability to perceive Me – it’s about My ability to reveal Myself. Let the little children come to Me.”

Samantha: “You’re right, I know. Of course You are, You’re always right.”

Darrell: [Calling from the kitchen.] “Sam, I have to go!”

Samantha: “Coming! I gotta go, Lord. Please be with me and help me today!” [She starts to exit.]

Jesus: “Martha!”

Samantha: “Uh-oh.” [She stops with her hand on the doorknob and stands, head down slightly, not moving, waiting.]

Jesus: “Martha, let go of the tablecloth.”

Samantha: “Oh, Lord, my beautiful tablecloth I want to make for Christmas dinner? But Lord, I already bought the material! It’s so pretty – and if I can make the napkins stand up and look like angels – won’t it be just the prettiest Christmas table you ever saw?” [Jesus doesn’t respond. She hesitates, before sighing and speaking.] “I know. I really don’t have extra time for sewing right now, do I?”

Jesus: “Let go of the tablecloth. It will give you time to talk to the Jeremy.”

Samantha: “I guess the green one I made last year will do. And I have that beautiful red and gold ribbon to use for napkin rings, it won’t take any time. Okay, Lord. I will talk to Jeremy instead of sewing my tablecloth tonight.”

Jesus: “Samantha, it’s about ‘worth.’ Talking to Jeremy is worth far more than having the tablecloth. Remember, I love you!”

Samantha: “I know You do, Lord. I trust You and I love You, too!”[She exits.]
THE END

Friday Fiction, The Family

Karlene Jacobsen is hosting Friday Fiction today. Be sure to visit her blog, Homespun Expressions, for some great fiction. If you are participating with your own fiction, you will find the Mclinky on her post.

My own contribution is a rerun, due to a very busy week! This was just a fun little piece, I hope you enjoy it.

THE FAMILY

“What’cha see?”

“Just the family. Baby’s taking a nap.” He doesn’t answer, but I know he’s thinking I should put the binoculars down and get on with my own business. He’s probably right, but it’s hard not to be fascinated.

At first it was just the two of them. They arrived on the scene several months ago, and they were such a delightful pair, this new couple. He seemed a bit independent, mind you, but if you ever wanted to know where he was, all you had to do was look at her. Her eyes were always on him like a compass needle pointing north. It seemed more than admiration, as though she could not bear to be without him for a moment. Not that you could blame her, he was quite the handsome sort.

The day did come, though, when he just disappeared, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had gone for good. I also couldn’t help feeling badly for her as I watched her through the long, cold winter. I knew she had to be incredibly lonely.

Visitors were few. Once some children came with a few kind words, and I could tell she was grateful, but it didn’t change anything. Another time there was a scruffy loner who seemed somewhat interested in her, circling about as though she were prey. I admired her courage because she ignored him entirely, behaving as though he didn’t even exist. It was apparently the right thing to do, because he left after a short while. I was relieved, and yet sorry to see him go just because I rarely saw his sort hanging around here. Just a bit of morbid curiosity, I suppose.

“You know,” I had mentioned to my husband around that time, “I think she’s going to have a baby.”

He didn’t react much. Just a “Hmm,” and a shrug, that’s about it.

When the time came, I couldn’t help but gloat a bit. “I told you she was going to have a baby!” Earlier I had noticed that the object of her affection had returned, and was he ever racing about! Now I think it had to be because of all the excitement of the new baby, and he was a very proud papa.

All speculation, of course. I have never spoken to them nor they to me, and all these affairs are their own business. If I did speak to anyone, though, it would be to the rancher who owns them. I would ask him if he couldn’t move them to the closer pasture, so I wouldn’t have to use my binoculars so much. They are beautiful, and I fully intend to keep watching them, especially now that the baby is really gaining his legs. My, how that foal can run! Even if the rancher does move them to the closer pasture, I’ll still be using the binoculars, if only to keep an eye out for the scruffy coyotes that occasionally loiter about.

***

Psalm 147:10-11NASB He does not delight in the strength of the horse; He does not take pleasure in the legs of a man. The LORD favors those who fear Him, Those who wait for His lovingkindness.

Friday Fiction, The Truth About Marty

Welcome to Fiction Friday! This week it is my privilege to host it right here. If you are participating with your own fiction, be sure to link up with the Mcklinky at the bottom of the post.

My own contribution is a rerun titled The Truth About Marty. It's a different sort of story for me - a bit dark, I suppose, and since I am not a psychologist, it's a bit of a stretch, still, I liked the way it turned out. Hopefully by next week I will get back into the Dusty Dreams series.

THE TRUTH ABOUT MARTY

Dr. Moore removed her glasses and sat thinking for a moment, placing a few pieces of loose paper on the small table in front of her. She finally spoke. “You know, if this were a creative writing class, this would be graded excellent in many ways. It has wonderful style and characterization.”

“Oh, do you like it?” Marty’s voice sounded childishly hopeful.

This was not going to be easy. Dr. Moore sighed even as she remembered briefly her motivation for becoming a psychologist. She looked at her patient with a sense of compassion, but knew she had to remain firm. “Marty, you are a talented writer. However, it saddens me that you didn’t even try to follow the instructions of your assignment.”

Marty’s smile quickly turned into a defiant sneer. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She turned away from the psychologist’s keen gaze. Twisting a strand of her long dark hair, she glanced around the room as if looking for a place to hide. Her eyes stopped at the bed.

“Your assignment was to write out any recollection from your past. It was simply to be a truthful account with as much detail as you could remember.”

Marty folded her arms across her chest and continued to stare at the bed.

“It didn’t have to be momentous or significant in any particular way, just a truthful event from your own past that you could write out as completely and accurately as possible.” Dr. Moore waited silently, but added in her thoughts, “Something that could get us started talking about you. Something that could help you open up about the things in your past you want so badly to hide. If we could do that, we might get you on the road to healing. If you could just open up there might be some hope…” The silence became heavy as she realized there would not likely be any such revelations from Marty’s past today. Continuing to admonish her for not completing the assignment wasn’t going to help.

Changing tactics, Dr. Moore asked, “What is it that you like about Deanna, Marty?”

Marty’s eyes left the bed in surprise and focused once again on Dr. Moore. “Deanna?”

“Yes, the main character in your story here.” She gestured toward the papers on the table as she spoke.

“What’s not to like?” Marty’s eyes narrowed as she stared shrewdly at the doctor. Cautiously, she went on, “She’s got everything. Looks, money, youth…”

“Okay.” Dr. Moore nodded. “But if you had to choose just one thing about her that appealed to you most, what would it be?”

Marty stared at her suspiciously, indecisively. Finally she stated flatly, “Power. Deanna has … power.” She stared defiantly, as though challenging the doctor to disagree.

“Can you explain how you mean that she has power?”

Marty looked irritated that the doctor had gotten her to play her psychological game. Then she shrugged as though she didn’t really care whether the doctor understood what she meant by power or not. “She makes her own choices. Nobody tells her what to do.” She hesitated, glancing around furtively before continuing with growing intensity. “She has money so she never has to do without anything. She’s beautiful so everybody likes her. She’s confident, so she dominates.” She stopped, quelling the rising passion.

“She’s a bit unscrupulous.”

“Well, if she had to be limited by principles, she couldn’t get everything she wanted, now could she?” Marty smiled slyly. “Where’s the power in that?”

Dr. Moore hesitated, reminding herself again of her reasons for her chosen profession. Just how deep was the dark reservoir inside this woman, and how willing was she, as the professional, to draw it out?

“Marty, it really is time for you to start telling the truth. Do you think you could tell me how long you have been living life through your fantasies?”

Marty’s eyes flashed with anger. “What I think is that none of this is any of your business!” The game was over. Truth would not be forthcoming.

“Marty, unless you want to write about something from your real life as I asked you to, I am going to take away the pens and paper.”

With proud defiance, Marty stood slowly and walked over to the bed. Sitting down, she pushed herself backward until her back rested against the wall. One at a time, she drew her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms tightly around them. In a voice laced with venom she said quietly, “Dr. Moore, you took away my books. Now you’re taking away my paper. But you can’t take away my mind. If you want me to stop living in fantasy land, I guess you’re going to have to do to me what I did to Pa.” With that she closed her eyes and dropped her face against her knees, blocking out the sight of Dr. Moore and effectively ending the session.

As Dr. Moore left the room she prayed silently. “Lord, I know I asked for this. I said I wanted to be in a position to help people no one can seem to help. Now I can really see I didn’t know what I was asking for. But God, she is one of your own creation. Help her to see that You love her. Help her to find life in Jesus. Help her to live in reality. Help her to know you love her and she can trust You.

“Tracy.” Dr. Moore sensed the quiet whisper.
“Yes, Lord?”

“Tracy, I would still be in that room.”

“Lord, if I tell her about you, I could lose my job.”

“Tracy, I want you to take that risk.”

Even as Tracy turned to walk back into the room, she realized it was too late. Dr. Peppard was already there, peering through the small glass window at Marty, who was still sitting on the bed with her face hidden. He turned to face Tracy with a smirk. “I told you this was a waste of time. Give her back her books and let her escape life. She’s not worth the effort.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
***

Friday Fiction, The Recipe

Welcome to Fiction Friday! This week it is being hosted by Karlene at her blog, Homespun Expressions. Make sure to head over there for more great fiction! If you are participating with your own fiction, be sure to link up with the Mcklinky at the bottom of her post.

My own contribution this week isn’t much of a story – but the recipe it’s wrapped around is real. My sons grew up on this Italian marinara, and it has become a tradition in our family, sometimes even making it to the holiday tables in lieu of more traditional holiday fare. This simple story is also a reflection of the time of year (harvest season), what’s on my mind (a garden full of tomatoes), and why I don’t have much time for such things as WRITING!!! If you try the recipe, I truly hope you enjoy it.

THE RECIPE

Stella smiled as she hung up the phone. They’d all be here in an hour or so. Sons and daughters-in-law chatting and laughing, squealing grandchildren running all over the house. Cats fleeing for hiding places unreachable by grubby fingers. There would hardly be room to move about the kitchen, which seemed to draw people like bees to pollen. All the more reason to scurry and get as much done as possible now, before they got here.

“Honey, could you bring up a couple jars of sauce from the basement? I’ve got to get the sauce going, they’ll be here soon!”

“Two be enough?”

“Yes, with the sausage and tomato paste, it will be enough.” To herself, Stella thought about all the ingredients already in her home-canned sauce. Dried oregano, basil and parsley. Sugar, salt and pepper. Garlic and onions. And of course, the most special ingredient of all, her home-grown tomatoes. She’d have to check the jars to see if they contained fennel seed. Sometimes she added it when canning, and sometimes she didn’t. It wasn’t in the original recipe, but it sure added flavor.

With a slight twinge of conscience, she remembered a promise she had still to keep. If she didn’t do it soon, the woman would think she had forgotten, or, worse, wasn’t the type to share her most special recipes. Well, maybe when she had the sauce cooking she’d take minute to make that phone call.

She grabbed the large cutting board, the French knife and a small paring knife. Garlic and fennel seed were soon sizzling lightly in extra-virgin olive oil. In went the tomato paste, one large can, before the garlic had time to burn, and then the two quarts of tomato sauce. She stirred in more basil and oregano, but the amount of salt, pepper, sugar and parsley already in the jars was ample for the spaghetti sauce. She already had sausage browning in a large skillet.

After draining the sausage on paper towels she added it to the sauce, and then added the final ingredient – two bay leaves. She’d let that simmer for about an hour before putting on the water to boil for the pasta. She knew what everyone would say when they arrived – “Wow, does it smell good in here!” They always said that, she thought with a smile.

The phone rang, jarring her from her reverie. “Oh, Dorothy, I’m so glad you called! You know, I was just thinking about you, and I wanted to give you that recipe you asked for – you know, for the spaghetti sauce? Are you ready to write?”

Friday Fiction, Angry

Welcome to Fiction Friday! This week it is being hosted by Catrina Bradley on her blog, A Work in Progress Be sure to visit her blog for more great fiction! If you are participating with your own fiction this week, be sure to link up with the Mcklinky at the bottom of her post.

Once again my own contribution is a rerun, not even a favorite, but I think it may be the one to post this time... I know I can use the reminders in it myself!

ANGRY


Stephie sighed as she lay in bed. Grandma Norie always said if you wanted God to hear you, then you’d best be on your knees and praying out loud. Grandma Maurine always said that if Jesus was your Savior, you could be upside down on your head praying silently and He would still hear you. She believed in her heart that Grandma Maurine was right. Still, she always felt better if she did kneel and pray out loud, even if God could still hear her if she didn’t.

Pushing aside the covers, she got out of bed and knelt. “Lord, Father God, I’m just too tired to carry this anger any more. Will You carry it for me? I suppose that bugger deserves a little punishment, considering all he’s done to me. But I don’t suppose you are angry at him, too. You are so patient, loving and kind. If You were ever as angry at me as I get at him, there might not be much left of me since You are so very big and I am so very small. You see and know it all – even all the things in me that could make You angry if You had a mind to be.

There are a lot of things in this world that are so much bigger than me. They are so much more than I can handle, far more than I can bear. Just thinking about them sometimes makes me weary. Sad, too. How is it that You don’t seem worried? Things like justice and revenge are far too much for me to endure. I can’t take being bitter and unforgiving – it takes more energy than I have to spend. All this stomping about in a fit of anger and rage just wears me out.

Father, will You help me to learn to sit back and trust You, and to lean on You and let you deal with him? I really do want to sit back and rest a bit, and let You carry this burden.

You’ll probably forgive him. Just like You’ve done with me so many times before. I’m thankful that You forgive me. How could I live without your forgiveness? I couldn’t, of course. So I suppose while You are forgiving him, You’ll have to forgive me, too, just for being unforgiving and angry. I can’t really keep all your forgiveness for myself, can I? So, I thank You for your mercy and patience and kindness and forgiveness, not only for me, but for him as well. He certainly needs you, too. Father, I do forgive him, in Jesus’ name!

And Lord, while You are at it – carrying the burden of my anger and forgiving me, too – could also You please do something with this weariness? Sitting back and letting You carry all my heavy loads could become a pleasant habit, but I wouldn’t want to become guilty of laziness! With a smile that turned to a giggle, Stephie climbed back into bed and went peacefully to sleep.

***

The Pastor's Wife

Welcome to Fiction Friday! This week it is my privilege to host it right here. If you are participating with your own story this week, be sure to link up with the new Mclinky at the bottom.

My contribution is a rerun - hope you all aren't worn out by the summer reruns!


THE PASTOR’S WIFE

Mattie sighed. She brushed some crumbs off the counter, scooping them up with her other hand and tossing them into the sink. Eyeing the phone again, she carried the plates to the kitchen table. “Lunch is on the table,” she called out loud enough for all to hear. They wouldn’t all come right away, they never did. Even as she headed for the boys’ room, the phone rang, and with a resigned determination she turned back to answer it.

“Yes, it was a truly fine sermon, I certainly agree.” Mattie sighed again. If only Clara would leave her comments at that.

“Of course, Pastor Jerry doesn’t exactly know my own situation. You know, things are easy to say until you have to live in reality.”

“Clara, I’m sure Pastor Jerry does understand.”

“Oh, no, there is no way he understands. If he did he wouldn’t tell me to be thankful. He would know how unfair my situation is. God can’t possibly expect me to be thankful in this circumstance.”

Silently Mattie wondered for what must have been the billionth time if the woman really knew the Lord at all. “Clara,” she said patiently, “Life is unfair. It is not as though God has singled you out for trouble and difficulty.” She hoped her words didn’t reveal the strain which had been building over the months of trying to smooth over the Pastor’s sermons for Clara, nearly every Sunday afternoon.

After a few minutes more of trying to help Clara understand the sermon, and of explaining how it might be practically applied to Clara’s unfair situation, Mattie gave up and excused herself. “Clara, dear, I really enjoy our little talks, but the boys and Pastor Jerry are waiting for lunch.”

Gruffly, she marched once again to Tim and Tom’s bedroom. “Lunch is on!” she scolded. Dropping their toys, the boys raced to wash hands and be seated as Mattie poked her head into Jerry’s office. “Lunch is on.”

Moments later, they held hands at the table and prayed. Mattie sighed and added her own silent prayer. “Lord, forgive me once again for feeling so impatient with Clara.” Aloud, she added to Jerry’s meal time prayers, “And Lord, help Clara with her unfair situation.”

“Tom, leave Tim alone. Don’t poke him with your fork,” Jerry patiently instructed his son. “What’s Clara’s unfair situation this time?” he asked between bites.

“Nothing new. Same old, same old. She just doesn’t think your sermon this morning applies to her because, after all, it is all so very unfair.” Mattie sighed again as a wave of bitterness suddenly rose up inside. “I’ll tell you what’s unfair! It’s unfair that she ruins our Sunday afternoons Sunday after Sunday with her whining! That’s what’s unfair!” Even as the words poured out, Mattie regretted them. Tom and Tim had stopped eating and were staring, wide-eyed at her vehemence. She didn’t look at Jerry for a moment.

When she did, she was surprised to see him smiling. “Sorry,” she said quietly before asking suspiciously, “Why are you smiling?”

“You’re right,” he said agreeably. “It’s totally unfair. I guess it’s way too unfair to apply anything I said in the sermon to. We’ll just let this morning’s sermon be for Clara. After all, God wouldn’t expect…” He stopped and laughed as Mattie playfully slapped his shoulder.

A few moments later, Jerry thoughtfully spoke. “Perhaps there is something we can actually do for Clara. I don’t mean to change the situation, I don’t see what can be done there. But just to encourage her. After all, she lives alone, and maybe the real reason she calls to discuss the sermons with you every time is she just wants someone to talk to.”

Mattie nodded. “We don’t really need all those cookies I baked yesterday. Maybe we could stop over with a few. First, though, I need to stop and pray that God would really help me to be thankful in and even for this situation with Clara.” Even as she said it, Mattie felt lighter in heart and realized something life-changing. Clara hadn’t been ruining Mattie’s Sunday afternoons. Mattie was the guilty one herself by not being thankful in all circumstances, and for not seeing in Clara the opportunity God was presenting to live out what she believed. She looked at her husband and smiled. “Thanks for the sermon, dear. I really needed to hear it!”

Time Out!

Welcome to Friday Fiction! This week it is being hosted by Patty herself, so be sure to visit her at Patterings for more great fiction.

***

Okay, time out! Have you ever started something that seemed simple enough when you planned it, but once you got into it almost before you could blink you began to realize a few things – like your own level of ignorance on the subject? I have to confess that I have never done research for any piece of fiction I have attempted to write. Until now. Therefore, I am placing myself in Time Out! At least until I get some research done on at least one of my fictional endeavors.

Starting ‘Dusty Dreams’ was easy. Just a fun bit of fiction… until questions begin to arise in my mind. Like, “Okay, where are they exactly, now that the wagon is abandoned by the wagon train?” and “Just how far does a wagon train travel in two months?" And on and on. Like I said, ignorance. So, I went to the library, and just how soon I will get the next little bit done on ‘Dusty Dreams’ for Friday Fiction, who knows, but hopefully it won’t be long.

So, for this week, my contribution for Friday Fiction is a rerun, with a link to the story on Faithwriters Magazine way back in July of '05.

Henry's Rock

***

The Yellow Dress

Welcome to Patty Wysong's Friday Fiction! This week it is being hosted by Sharlyn, so be sure to visit her at Dancing on Rainbows for more great fiction.



Marianne stared at her long-legged reflection in the full-length mirror. The hem was perfect; she had measured and sewed straight enough. She glanced at the six inches of bright yellow linen lying on the floor, the six inches which had made the dress seem more suited to her mother than herself. “I love this dress,” she said quietly as she caressed the round neckline and sleeveless edges of the straight sheath. “It was just so unstylish and long, so – matronly! I am not my mother!”

“Marianne,” a voice called from downstairs, “Hurry or you’ll miss the bus, and I don’t have time to drive you to school today!”

“Okay, Mom!” Marianne glanced nervously again at the hemline and tugged on the skirt as though to make it long again. Her mother wouldn’t approve, but she doubted that she would go so far as to stop her from going to school in it.

As she expected, her mother noted the new skirt length with a frown. “Oh honey, what have you done to your beautiful new dress?”

“Oh, Mom, don’t be so old fashioned! All the girls are wearing mini-skirts these days!” Her words boasted far more confidence that she actually felt, but she buried her sense of rising regret under an air of determined resolve. “Bye, Mom!” She grabbed her purse and books and bounced out the door.

Connie was conceited and gregarious, and had never had anything kind to say to Marianne. The spiteful remarks she often made usually targeted her clothes, hair and makeup. The other girls would laugh and agree, feeding Connie’s obvious need for eminence and popularity.

The new yellow dress had caused just one such outburst the first day Marianne had worn it. “That dress would look great on your mother. Don’t you think it’s just a little long for you?” Connie had smiled smugly and turned away to the approving giggles of her girl fans.

Marianne sat now at her desk in Social Studies, uncomfortably shifting to one side and then the other as she willed her legs to stay locked together. “I hate short skirts,” she thought woefully. She could almost sense the Lord agreeing with her, but actively tried not to think about everything that just might be on His mind today. She tried to focus instead on the teacher’s lecture. His voice droned on about food and water supplies in a dry climate, and Marianne’s thoughts wandered again, this time to the inevitable encounter at the lockers that would follow class.

As she expected, Connie looked her up and down for a long moment while they exchanged books from their lockers. Then, however, Marianne was caught a bit off-guard as she made some uncharacteristic comments. “Well, your mother will never wear that dress now! It looks nice, I like it.”

They stared at each other for a moment before turning to go to their next class. “Thanks,” Marianne said, trying to sound casually indifferent as she walked away.

That evening after helping her mother with the dishes, Marianne sat in her room at her desk, trying to study for a test in history. Her thoughts kept turning to the yellow dress, which now hung in her closet, as though waiting until she worked up the courage to wear it again.

“Traitor.”

“Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry!” Tears began to form, blurring the words on the history book page.

“Does Connie love you?”

“No, Connie loves herself.” Marianne grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and blew her nose.

“Do I love you?”

“Yes, Lord, You love me.”

“Did you feel good wearing that dress today?”

“No, I felt awful all day!” Marianne sighed despondently. “But Lord, You just don’t know what it’s like to have to be so different from everybody else.”

“Nobody likes to be different. But you are wrong, child, I do understand. Take a break from the history book.”

Marianne pushed the history book aside, and after a moment picked up her Bible instead. As she read, tears again filled her eyes. “Lord, You do understand! You were despised and rejected, and scorned, and mocked, and if all that weren’t bad enough, you were beaten and then crucified. Will you please forgive me once again, not only for the dress, but for pouting and whining, and most of all for preferring what the other girls think of me to what you think?”

“Of course I forgive you, child! Are you going to wear that dress again?”

“No, and I’ve ruined it so no one can ever wear it!”

“What about Jenny?”

“Lord, You are so smart! Jenny’s shorter than I am, but she wears the same dress size. On her it will be long again!” Marianne’s brooding gave way to elation. She wouldn’t ever have to wear the dress again, but it wouldn’t have to be tossed out. Jenny’s family didn’t have a lot of money, and Marianne was pleased to have a way to help. Best of all, Marianne would go to school in the morning with a clear and peaceful conscience, dressed in that old green corduroy jumper and a white blouse, an outfit that even her mother could wear!

The Family

Welcome to Friday Fiction! This week it is being hosted by Joanne Sher, so be sure to visit her at An Open Book for more great fiction.


THE FAMILY


“What’cha see?”

“Just the family. Baby’s taking a nap.” He doesn’t answer, but I know he’s thinking I should put the binoculars down and get on with my own business. He’s probably right, but it’s hard not to be fascinated.

At first it was just the two of them. They arrived on the scene several months ago, and they were such a delightful pair, this new couple. He seemed a bit independent, mind you, but if you ever wanted to know where he was, all you had to do was look at her. Her eyes were always on him like a compass needle pointing north. It seemed more than admiration, as though she could not bear to be without him for a moment. Not that you could blame her, he was quite the handsome sort.

The day did come, though, when he just disappeared, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had gone for good. I also couldn’t help feeling badly for her as I watched her through the long, cold winter. I knew she had to be incredibly lonely.

Visitors were few. Once some children came with a few kind words, and I could tell she was grateful, but it didn’t change anything. Another time there was a scruffy loner who seemed somewhat interested in her, circling about as though she were prey. I admired her courage because she ignored him entirely, behaving as though he didn’t even exist. It was apparently the right thing to do, because he left after a short while. I was relieved, and yet sorry to see him go just because I rarely saw his sort hanging around here. Just a bit of morbid curiosity, I suppose.

“You know,” I had mentioned to my husband around that time, “I think she’s going to have a baby.”

He didn’t react much. Just a “Hmm,” and a shrug, that’s about it.

When the time came, I couldn’t help but gloat a bit. “I told you she was going to have a baby!” Earlier I had noticed that the object of her affection had returned, and was he ever racing about! Now I think it had to be because of all the excitement of the new baby, and he was a very proud papa.

All speculation, of course. I have never spoken to them nor they to me, and all these affairs are their own business. If I did speak to anyone, though, it would be to the rancher who owns them. I would ask him if he couldn’t move them to the closer pasture, so I wouldn’t have to use my binoculars so much. They are beautiful, and I fully intend to keep watching them, especially now that the baby is really gaining his legs. My, how that foal can run! Even if the rancher does move them to the closer pasture, I’ll still be using the binoculars, if only to keep an eye out for the scruffy coyotes that occasionally loiter about.

***

Psalm 147:10-11NASB He does not delight in the strength of the horse; He does not take pleasure in the legs of a man.
11The LORD favors those who fear Him,
Those who wait for His lovingkindness.

Butterfly Feet

Welcome to Friday Fiction! This week it is being posted by Patty Wysong herself, so be sure to visit her at Patterings for more great fiction.

My own contribution reflects the busy time it has been in our household, hence a rerun and it isn't even exactly fiction - more like a devotional with a fictional element.


Butterfly Feet

Big brown eyes stare warily. A man is approaching, in knee-high waders, with a straw hat blocking the sun. He carries a bucket and a shovel in gloved hands. The big brown eyes belong to a black bull calf. The man comes to muck out the stall.

After a moment of fumbling with the latch the man swings the gate open. The calf stares at the open pasture before him in bewilderment. The man gives him a nudge and watches for a moment as the calf walks cautiously through the gate. Then he turns and begins his murky task.

The calf surveys the pasture as if he’s not sure which way to go first. Understanding takes hold, and a wriggle of excitement takes over his entire body. He leaps with all the effort he can muster, as though to take on the wings of a butterfly and fly away in freedom’s exhilaration. He lands, not softly on butterfly feet, but awkwardly with the cloddy hooves of a baby cow. Surprised, he gives his head a playful shake and tries again. No wings, no flight.

It matters not. He moves again in the kind of clumsy frisking only a calf can achieve. His playful antics are watched with an amused chuckle by the man cleaning out the stall. “Enjoy it while you can, little guy!” the man says. He turns back to his work with a sigh.

***
Sometimes I’m surprised by my own clumsiness. In my heart, I float on butterfly wings and land softly on butterfly feet. Outwardly, I struggle daily with the unmentionable signs of aging. Sigh. Someday… someday I will dance and fly and sing. Someday I will be as surprised and ecstatic as a calf frisking from its stall…

***
“But for you who fear My name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings; and you will go forth and skip about like calves from the stall.”
Malachi 4:2 NASB

The Truth about Marty

Welcome to Friday Fiction! This week it is being hosted by Beth at
Laughing At the Days.

Dr. Moore removed her glasses and sat thinking for a moment, placing a few pieces of loose paper on the small table in front of her. She finally spoke. “You know, if this were a creative writing class, this would be graded excellent in many ways. It has wonderful style and characterization.”

“Oh, do you like it?” Marty’s voice sounded childishly hopeful.

This was not going to be easy. Dr. Moore sighed even as she remembered briefly her motivation for becoming a psychologist. She looked at her patient with a sense of compassion, but knew she had to remain firm. “Marty, you are a talented writer. However, it saddens me that you didn’t even try to follow the instructions of your assignment.”

Marty’s smile quickly turned into a defiant sneer. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She turned away from the psychologist’s keen gaze. Twisting a strand of her long dark hair, she glanced around the room as if looking for a place to hide. Her eyes stopped at the bed.

“Your assignment was to write out any recollection from your past. It was simply to be a truthful account with as much detail as you could remember.”

Marty folded her arms across her chest and continued to stare at the bed.

“It didn’t have to be momentous or significant in any particular way, just a truthful event from your own past that you could write out as completely and accurately as possible.” Dr. Moore waited silently, but added in her thoughts, “Something that could get us started talking about you. Something that could help you open up about the things in your past you want so badly to hide. If we could do that, we might get you on the road to healing. If you could just open up there might be some hope…” The silence became heavy as she realized there would not likely be any such revelations from Marty’s past today. Continuing to admonish her for not completing the assignment wasn’t going to help.

Changing tactics, Dr. Moore asked, “What is it that you like about Deanna, Marty?”

Marty’s eyes left the bed in surprise and focused once again on Dr. Moore. “Deanna?”

“Yes, the main character in your story here.” She gestured toward the papers on the table as she spoke.

“What’s not to like?” Marty’s eyes narrowed as she stared shrewdly at the doctor. Cautiously, she went on, “She’s got everything. Looks, money, youth…”

“Okay.” Dr. Moore nodded. “But if you had to choose just one thing about her that appealed to you most, what would it be?”

Marty stared at her suspiciously, indecisively. Finally she stated flatly, “Power. Deanna has … power.” She stared defiantly, as though challenging the doctor to disagree.

“Can you explain how you mean that she has power?”

Marty looked irritated that the doctor had gotten her to play her psychological game. Then she shrugged as though she didn’t really care whether the doctor understood what she meant by power or not. “She makes her own choices. Nobody tells her what to do.” She hesitated, glancing around furtively before continuing with growing intensity. “She has money so she never has to do without anything. She’s beautiful so everybody likes her. She’s confident, so she dominates.” She stopped, quelling the rising passion.

“She’s a bit unscrupulous.”

“Well, if she had to be limited by principles, she couldn’t get everything she wanted, now could she?” Marty smiled slyly. “Where’s the power in that?”

Dr. Moore hesitated, reminding herself again of her reasons for her chosen profession. Just how deep was the dark reservoir inside this woman, and how willing was she, as the professional, to draw it out?

“Marty, it really is time for you to start telling the truth. Do you think you could tell me how long you have been living life through your fantasies?”

Marty’s eyes flashed with anger. “What I think is that none of this is any of your business!” The game was over. Truth would not be forthcoming.

“Marty, unless you want to write about something from your real life as I asked you to, I am going to take away the pens and paper.”

With proud defiance, Marty stood slowly and walked over to the bed. Sitting down, she pushed herself backward until her back rested against the wall. One at a time, she drew her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms tightly around them. In a voice laced with venom she said quietly, “Dr. Moore, you took away my books. Now you’re taking away my paper. But you can’t take away my mind. If you want me to stop living in fantasy land, I guess you’re going to have to do to me what I did to Pa.” With that she closed her eyes and dropped her face against her knees, blocking out the sight of Dr. Moore and effectively ending the session.

As Dr. Moore left the room she prayed silently. “Lord, I know I asked for this. I said I wanted to be in a position to help people no one can seem to help. Now I can really see I didn’t know what I was asking for. But God, she is one of your own creation. Help her to see that You love her. Help her to find life in Jesus. Help her to live in reality. Help her to know you love her and she can trust You.

“Tracy.” Dr. Moore sensed the quiet whisper.
“Yes, Lord?”

“Tracy, I would still be in that room.”

“Lord, if I tell her about you, I could lose my job.”

“Tracy, I want you to take that risk.”

Even as Tracy turned to walk back into the room, she realized it was too late. Dr. Peppard was already there, peering through the small glass window at Marty, who was still sitting on the bed with her face hidden. He turned to face Tracy with a smirk. “I told you this was a waste of time. Give her back her books and let her escape life. She’s not worth the effort.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Friday Fiction, The Prodigal's Brother

Well here it is, time for Fiction Friday - sneaked right up on me again! The weeks do go by so quickly... Here is another re-run, so if you've read it before feel free to scoot on over to Julie's blog,
The Surrendered Scribe for more great fiction.

THE PRODIGAL'S BROTHER

The old man stood gazing out the window, only half listening to the discourse of his eldest son, who sat at the table behind him finishing a sandwich.

“Pa, I really think if we just give the east pasture a rest and let the grass grow back some, then we can move the herd from the upper field. Haulin’ them to the high country every summer is gittin’ too dang costly.

“Well, son, if that’s what ya think ‘d be best….”

“Pa, are you listenin’?”

“Hmmm?”

Hank sighed wearily and stood up from the table. “Pa, quit starin’ out the winda! Yer son is gone and he ain’t never comin’ back. You need to accept that as a fact and git on with yer life! We got work ta do, Pa!” When there was no response, Hank shoved the chair against the table and grabbed his hat. “I’ll be clearin’ out the ditch iffen ya git a mind to help.” Pulling his hat over his head, he was across the kitchen in a few long strides. He let the door slam shut behind him as he left.

Jesse sighed. He knew Hank could be right, but the knowing wouldn’t change anything. He would continue daily spending time watching, hoping and praying. Eventually he turned and found his hat, leaving his own sandwich untouched on a plate. He walked out slowly to find his son and try to be of some help.

He could sense and understand Hank’s frustration, and wished in a way he could stop watching the dusty dirt road leading to the ranch house. His younger son had taken that road, leaving and taking the inheritance given by his father with him, saying he would never come back to work on the ranch again. That had been many long months ago, and there hadn’t even been a phone call from him. “If only I knew he was alright, that he was happy with his choice, then maybe…”

Jesse knew his hopes were unfounded. Rumors circulated and reached the ears of Hank, who seemed almost glad to deliver the bad news. “Yer son’s livin’ it up with prostitutes, Pa, and he ain’t never comin’ back here, so ya’d best git used ta it. He’s spendin’ all yer hard-earned money, so why ya’d want him back is more ‘n I kin figure anyway.” Jesse knew the rumors were likely true, but that didn’t stop his heart from aching for his son. He did wish Hank wouldn’t say such things, true or not.

He reached the dry ditch and climbed down into it alongside Hank, pulling an old pair of gloves from the back pocket of his dusty coveralls. The work of hauling accumulated debris and brush out of the ditch to clear it for water passage seemed an almost soothing distraction from his heart’s unrest.

Later that day, Hank had gone to pick up a few things from town. As he walked into the kitchen through the backdoor, he was a bit surprised not to see his father gazing out the window. He set a bag of groceries down on the counter, his eyes missing a note now covered by the bag. Sifting through the bag for cold perishables to be refrigerated, he called out, “Pa? Where are ya?” There was no answer, so he left the remainder of the bag on the table and headed to the answering machine on a nearby table. The light blinked, so he pushed the button to hear the message.

Pa sounded excited, a bit confused, and as if Hank should already know where he was calling from. “Hurry, Hank, come and join us! This is a wonderful celebration, and we don’t want ya ta miss it!” There was laughter, and then, “Oh, the number here is 448-0293, just in case ya need ta call.”

Call he did, and was a bit surprised to learn it was the Old Apple Barrel, one of the fanciest restaurants in town. “Yes,” the hostess responded to his query, “Your father is here with quite a few others. They are celebrating something, you know, and there are balloons and all. Would you like me to inquire as to the reason for the celebration?”

“Uh, no, that’s okay. Just set a place fer one more, I’ll be joinin’ ya shortly.”

He got a quick shower and jumped back into his pickup truck. As he made the short drive into town, he pondered on possible reasons for this unexpected celebration. It wasn’t anybody’s birthday that he could think of. Why the fancy restaurant? An unbidden daydream began to form. Perhaps Pa had finally realized he should recognize his oldest son’s faithful service. Somebody sure ought to recognize it! Hank thought back over the years of backbreaking, palm blistering labor on the ranch. Yes, surely that must be it. His father had put together a glitzy celebration in his honor. He was still smiling over his fanciful speculations as he pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.

“Hank, Hank,” Jesse cried out on seeing his oldest walk into the reserved banquet room. “You’re here, oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” He jumped to his feet and ran to hug him. Then he continued happily, “Now we’re all here, together again, one happy, happy family!”

It was only then that Hank saw the reason for the gaiety. Clint, his wayward lowlife of a brother, sat at the head of the table, looking both somewhat ashamed and very apprehensive. Stunned, Hank stared speechlessly as Clint said quietly, “Hey, Hank. How are ya?”

Jesse noted the shocked expression on Hank’s face with a bit of confusion. “Hank, didn’t you see my note? I left it on the counter for you.” When Hank didn’t answer, he continued, “I told you in the note, your long-lost brother has returned to us, and we would be celebrating at the Old Apple Barrel.”

There was a moment of silence in the room before Hank finally turned to his father. “No, Pa, I didn’t see it. Frankly, I’m not sure why you think this is a cause fer celebratin’ anyhow.” With that he turned and walked outside.

Jesse was quick to react. Grabbing his newly regained son by the shoulder, he said, “I’m so happy you are back, and nothin’ can change that. I love you. Now ya sit right here and don’t move. I have a little somethin’ to attend to.” With that, he ran out to find Hank who was pacing the walkway in front of the restaurant.

Seeing his father, Hank spoke roughly, “I’ve worked the ranch harder ‘n any o’ yer hired hands. I did everythin’ ya ever asked me ta do, n’er left anythin’ undone! Yet ya never did anythin’ like this fer me! You hardly seem ta notice a dang thing I do around the place fer ya, and yet that no good son o’ yers has never stopped bein’ a pain to ya since the day he split, spendin’ all yer hard-earned money…”

Jesse interrupted, “Son, you are right, I know all that. But Son, I want ya ta know iffen it’d been you that left… I woulda watched and waited fer you jest as much as I have fer yer brother. Ya woulda broke my heart just the same, cain’t ya see?” He watched closely as Hank’s angry expression began to soften. “Ya see, Son, yer brother lost his way fer awhile, but he’s come home to us. He’s changed his tune, so ta speak So now it’s time ta celebrate. Son, I love ya and we’d be havin’ this celebration jest the same iffen it was you.”

Hank stared hard at his father’s face. He knew the words he spoke were true. Here was his father, a hard-working man that loved both of his sons dearly, and would do anything for them. Stiffening, he looked away from his father’s pleading look. He knew that even now if he himself left, taking his own share of inheritance from his father, the old man’s heart would be inconsolable. Still, he thought briefly about doing exactly that. Staring out over the parking lot and busy street beyond, he felt the aches of constant labor. He was tired. Life on the ranch was never easy. It ought to be his lazy, irresponsible brother’s turn to tackle it all for awhile.

He turned back to face the love and concern in the eyes of his father once again. There was really only one reason to stay. “Okay, Pa,” he said with a resigned sigh, placing an arm around the old man’s frail shoulders, “Let’s go make that wayward son o’ yern feel welcomed home.”