Muckledunberry

I thought I would post a short story I wrote about 7 years ago.I re-worked it a little bit. A few special true life memories of my grandfather are mixed in with this piece of fiction. I hope you enjoy it. 

I spun and watched myself in the mirror. I like my new dress. Mom let me choose what I wanted. It’s yellow with a border of pink flowers and tiny green leaves along the hem-line. I especially like the shiny satin sash Mom ties into a perfect bow in the back. It makes my tan look dark and the gold flecks in my hazel eyes sparkle when I wear it. I think Grandpa will like it.

I stick out among my family in the front row of the church. Everyone else is dressed in dull dark colors. My feet don’t quite touch the ground, so I swing my legs back and forth, admiring my new sandals on the upswing.

People are sad and I hear a lot of nose blowing goin’ on. We sang hymns. I don’t know why, it’s not Sunday. Some old people stand and take turns saying nice things about my grandpa. They tell funny stories and remind us what a hard worker he was.

***

Grandpa lived in a muckledunberry world ‘cuz he was colorblind. Mostly all he saw were different shades of yellowy-browns. That’s why he called it muckledunberry.

Sometimes I’d sit on his lap while he watched baseball. I’d ask him, “Grandpa, what color are my eyes?”

He’d say, “Muckledunberry.”  Then he’d steal my nose. I’d just giggle even though I was getting too old for that joke.

On the way to town, he always stopped at the single blinking yellow light at the bottom of the hill. I’d say, “You can keep going, Grandpa, its yellow. Blinking yellow means go very carefully."

“All lights look the same to me, Sweetie. I have to stop at all of them just to be sure.”

I gave up. I couldn’t convince him to roll on through the intersection.

Last year Grandpa got sick. Mom said he got cancer in his pancreas. I don't know what a pancreas is but I know cancer is bad. She said I can’t climb around on his lap anymore, ‘cuz it probably hurts him, but Grandpa would never tell me that. I’d sit at his feet and lean my back against his chair. He’d pat my head and run his fingers through my summer blonde hair. Sometimes, he’d scoot over and let me sit in the chair with him and we’d cuddle. I’d always be real careful. He sure got quiet after he caught cancer.

After a few months, I noticed his skin started looking sort of yellowy. Not too long after that his eyeballs weren’t white anymore. They were sad and matched the color of his skin. He tried to smile, but I knew he didn’t feel like smilin’ too much.

When I realized how sick Grandpa was I asked Mom, “Does grandpa know his eyes are yellow now, bein’ he’s color blind and all?” Mom said she didn’t know but told me not to ask him.

 ***

Pastor asked if anyone else wanted to say something. I raised my hand and waited to be called on like in school. He told me I could stand up by him so everybody could see me. 

“My grandpa was color blind. He couldn’t tell what color tomatoes or watermelons were. He didn’t know when his grass needed watered or that I have gold flecks in my eyes. He said most colors blended together into one brownish-yellow mess. Muckledunberry is what he called it. That’s not a real color. Not even in the biggest box of crayons, you won’t find a muckledunberry.” Everyone laughed when I said that.

“I picked this dress at the store to wear special for today. It’s bright yellow, not muckledunberry like he’s use to.” I pulled the hem of my dress up a little bit and pointed at the flowers. “It has pink and green in it and Mom said it makes the gold flecks in my eyes sparkle.”

 “I learned in Sunday School that when we go to heaven we aren’t sick no more. That means Grandpa’s cancer is all gone now. So, I think his colorblindness is gone, too. Today Grandpa is walking on the streets of gold. I think that’s pretty cool.”

Mom sniffed and blew her nose and then she winked at me.

 “I chose this dress so Grandpa can look down from heaven and see me in full color.” I spun around to show off my dress and people giggled. “And now,” I looked up at Pastor and smiled big, “he knows what color my eyes really are.”

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The Star is Gone

Recently I entered the following short story in a Christmas contest sponsored by Journezine, the online magazine for Heart of God International Ministries. I'm excited to say that my entry won first place in their annual contest. The topic, "According to the Plan", pushed my imagination to think of the Christmas story from a totally new angle in which I let my Biblical fiction brain weave this story. Journey with me as I ponder how God's plan could not be destroyed by the evil, insecure King Herod. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

THE STAR IS GONE

                At last our small village appeared to be returning to normal. The recent census had stirred up a hornet’s nest with so many people arriving in the land of their fathers to be counted. Then there were the rumors of the shepherds encounter with angels on the hillside announcing the birth of the long awaited Messiah.

                People traveled to the shepherd’s fields to see the exact location of the supposed materialization of the angelic host and hear their stories. Then they would journey into town to the place where the brilliant new star appeared to hover over a baby in a manger. Not to mention the latest unusual caravan; men in their extreme finery, asking questions about a king being born and how they had followed the vivid star right to our town.

                Father said people believed it because they needed something to hope in. That everyone was piecing together prophecies of old to fit what they wanted to be true. Mother loved to tell us girls the latest information she’d gathered after going to the market. Father, the pessimist, doubted the Messiah would ever come or that Yahweh even cared about his chosen people anymore.

                After last night’s terror, he may never believe.

***

                I bolted out of bed when I heard an ear splitting scream in the distance. I peeked out the window and saw men on horses, carrying torches and rushing through the streets, barging into homes. When our door burst open my eyes locked with the dark ones of a soldier.

                “I’m here on official business for King Herod.” His piercing gaze and gruff announcement backed me into the darkness of the far wall. “Is there a baby boy residing in this home?”

                I shook my head no. My knees quivered and I was fearful he might consider our Elias a baby, when in fact he was a toddler. Just then Elias cried out for Mother.

                “He’s not a baby!” I shouted with more bravery than I knew existed within me. Instantly my legs propelled me towards the back of our home darting in front of the soldier. My three younger sisters, Mother and Father, and our beloved only male child Elias, were stirring on the other side of the partition.

                With a shove of his meaty hand, my body flew through the air. The flash of his sword was the last thing I saw before my head hit the wall and I slumped to the floor. When I awoke, a blood smear marked where my skull had connected. I reached up and felt my head. My fingers became sticky and caught in a matted, tangled mess.  I winced in pain.

                Then I saw Mother. She lay on her bed, soaked in blood. I could see Elias’ tiny hand poking out from under her…lifeless…blue. My sisters were huddled in a corner, crimson splatters on their night clothes and faces. The more my eyes could focus the more blood I saw.

                “Where’s Father?”

                My sister’s all glanced towards the door. I stumbled to my feet and ran outside. Father knelt in the street, tearing at his clothes and his hair, throwing dirt and rocks over his head, beating his chest and crying out in anger to the heavens. 

                “Why?” He cried over the wails of several neighbor’s equally mournful shouts. “My only son! You took my only son!” He shook his fists at the dark skies.

                Four-year-old Miriam wrapped her arm around my leg and stared up at me. I scooped her into my arms and attempted to wipe the dried dots off her innocent face. I turned to go inside to protect her from the angry mournful scene in the streets.

                “They were looking for the Christ child,” she whispered. “But Rebekah… He’s gone now.”

                Her soft voice stopped me in my tracks. I stared into the distance and listened to the moans of all who appeared to be grieving their infant sons’ gruesome death at the hand of King Herod’s soldiers. “How do you know anything about the Christ child?” I asked, processing my own gleaned information from the many months of gossip.

                Light began to break in the east. The terror of the dark now gave way to the reality of our living nightmare. Father, despondent and filthy, collapsed on the floor near Mother who sat rocking the slaughtered body of our beloved Elias.

                After cleaning my sisters up and feeding them a small meal, I took them out of the house.  We crept around the inn and wandered the well worn path to the stable. Instantly I knelt at the feeding trough and wept, letting the strain of the vivid night’s events be released into the musty hay spilled on the ground around the manger. Miriam found her way into my lap while Rachel and Mary scooted in close.

               I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “Do you girls believe the Christ child was born here like the shepherds have told everyone?” My hand rested on the edge of the temporary baby bed.

                Miriam nodded emphatically but the other girls shrugged their shoulders.

                “There’s been a lot of talk about the old time prophecies that have been fulfilled when that baby was born here. The shepherds, those rich men that came through following that star we see every night and now Herod having baby boys killed…” I gulped and choked on my tears. “If that baby was the Christ child, did they kill him too?”

                “But Rebekah…” Miriam’s little face was so close to mine I could smell her breakfast on her breath. She placed her hands on my cheeks and stared me straight in the eyes. “The star…it’s gone.” She nodded as the impact of this realization hit me.  

                “We must have hope in Yahweh’s plan,” I announced to my little sisters in a motherly tone. “The Christ child...the promised Messiah…He is safe.”

 Proverbs 21:30 There is no wisdom, no insight, no plan that can succeed against the LORD. (NIV) 

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I Wear the Boxers Around Here

A little flash-fiction-fix for my writing soul today. (Re-worked an older story)

My wife’s smile was way too big for my liking when she walked out the door.

“Hmph, Girl’s Getaway.”  I slumped into the couch, grabbed the remote, and eyed the clock. Just twenty-four hours. Four PM to Four PM…she promised.

“ Mikey peed his pants,” six-year-old Kaitlin announced.

“Just a minute.” I stared at sweaty men running back and forth on the basketball court.

“Daddy,” Mikey called from the bathroom. “I need panties.”

“Ahhrgh!” I jumped to my feet and threw the remote on the couch with a bit more force than necessary. “They aren’t called panties, Little Man.”  I fished around in the top dresser drawer and handed my three-year-old his Batman underoos.

“Waaaaa…waaaaa.”

“Great, Mikey. You woke Gracie.” His sad eyes ridden with the guilt I threw on him didn’t even faze me. I pushed past him to the baby’s room. “Ewww, that’s the nastiest smell ever.”

“Nope, she’s done worser,” Mikey whiffed the air; self-appointed baby poop expert.

“Mommy puts the nasty diapers in the outside garbage,” Kaitlin informed me when I stuffed the offending item into the can under the sink. In my absence, she commandeered the remote and contentedly watched some Disney channel stupidity.

I pulled the diaper out and wrapped it in a plastic grocery bag. “Kaitlin, come take this outside.”

Her mouth dropped open.

I shook the bag. “Now, please.”

“But Mom…”

“Do I look like Mom?”

Plopped back on the couch, I changed the TV back to the game. A sideways glance at the clock made me groan. Five o’clock…seriously? This is going to be the longest twenty-four hours of my life.

“I’m hungry, Daddy.” Mikey stood between me and the TV.

“Move Mikey. Oh man! You made me miss the shot at the buzzer.”

“He missed,” Kaitlin pouted from the other end of the couch. “Game’s over. Can I watch something now?”

“I’m hungry, Daddy,” Mikey persisted.

“Fine,” I tossed the remote at Kaitlin. It hit her shoulder but I pretended not to notice. She sulked and turned the TV off.

I managed to pull together a meal of mac-n-cheese and peanut butter bread. Load ‘em up on carbs. That should fill them up, right? Then I noticed the note on a casserole dish in the fridge with instructions for the meatloaf.

“Now I find this?”

“Mom told you she made dinner.” Kaitlin noticed the red hot burner and smoldering pot holder. “Daddy, look!”

“Cotton pickin’!” Trust me; I wanted to say something way worse than that.

The hours between six and eight ended up being total chaotic mayhem and the kitchen testified to the fact. I did what every good husband does…I turned off the lights and walked away. Four down, twenty to go. Ugh.

~ ~ ~

Meanwhile: 

Amanda raised her hands in passionate worship. Tears flowed freely and soaked the front of her shirt. Her three best friends sat close enough together their hips touched. There’s no personal bubble for this foursome.  Besides…it’s a girl thing.

Everything the speaker shared touched Amanda to the core. After an extended time of prayer, puffy-eyed and naked of make-up; the girls stopped at the store and loaded up on chocolate, Chunky Monkey, and diet Pepsi. Heaven forbid they drink sugary soda.

“If we’re ever going to wake up for the morning session, we better go to sleep.” One of the girls pointed to the clock. They were shocked to see it was two in the morning.

Amanda curled up close to her best friend in the middle of the Queen-sized bed.  They whispered and giggled long after the other pair snored softly. One day was all she had and she was going to enjoy every moment. The last time she saw the clock before she drifted off, it was four AM.

“Twelve more hours,” Amanda yawned.

~ ~ ~

Back at home:

I rolled over and was greeted by bright-eyed Mikey.

“Can we have pancakes?”

“Do you have any idea how little I slept without your mom here?”

“And bacon?”

“Guess not,” I groaned and rolled out of bed.

“Your panties are twisted, Daddy.”

“Boxers, Mikey. I wear boxers. You wear underwear. Gracie wears diapers. Mommy and Kaitlin wear panties.”

“Why?”

“Never mind.” I grabbed my phone when it vibrated and read the text while I stumbled out to the kitchen: Love you so much. Being refreshed and blessed.  “Well goody for you.” Sarcasm dripped from my lips.

I ignored the kitchen disaster I fully planned to leave for Amanda, and it only got worse by the time I finished my pancake efforts.  

My phone vibrated off the table with several messages at once. Enticed by the sudden steamy texts from Amanda, I set aside my bruised ego and cleaned like a maniac and prepared for my wife's arrival home. 

That day I discovered my hidden househusband and I’m not too proud to say: Girl’s Getaway changed my life.

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Mr. Preston's Daughter

Growing up stuck in the middle of sisters could really be a burden to a boy. Girls can be so annoying. When the moving truck pulled up a few houses down the street, I jumped on my bike and raced over to see if they needed any help. In my ten-year-old mind I truly did plan to help and be neighborly, but what I really wanted to know was if there were any boys moving into the female infested neighborhood.

You can only imagine my disappointment when two girls emerged from the mini-van. After dismounting my bike in my typical hop and drop motion I sauntered over to the man of the house, stuck my right hand out like Daddy taught me, and welcomed Mr. Preston to the neighborhood.

That day I stuffed my selfish disappointment over the lack of Mr. Preston’s ability to produce male offspring and hauled boxes for the newcomers. My sisters…? They showed up later with warm gooey cookies and by the end of the day were besties with the Mr. Preston’s daughters.

Throughout the year our families began to join together in neighborly activities: Bon fires, fishing, picnics, swimming. One time we all went camping at the ocean. Out of boredom, I flopped myself in a grassy strip full of tiny daisies. I proceeded to pick one, slit my thumbnail through the stem creating

an “eye” to thread another daisy stem through like Mom taught us. After chaining a few together I finished it off and headed back to camp.

I bestowed the daisy crown upon my mother’s head of dark curls and kissed her on the cheek…just because.

That’s when it happened. Our eyes connected and she smiled. The oldest of Mr. Preston’s daughter’s face glowed. My heart raced as if I had just hop and dropped my bike after a fast trip to buy ice cream at the corner store. Only better.

I’ve decided I like hanging out with my sisters and their friends, especially Emily Preston. Who looks rather lovely with a daisy crown, if I don’t say so myself.  

*These pictures were taken at Pacific Beach, WA with my phone on a latte run break from a ladies retreat I was ministering at. I enjoyed the few moments of solitude, and the story began to brew with each snap of the phone shutter.




In case you want to learn how to make a proper Daisy chain:

How To Make a Daisy Chain on Howcast

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Oh My Emmanuel

I stuffed a stick into the fire and watched the sparks fly. I wasn’t worried about wild animals. The old men’s snores would scare away any threats to the flock. Being the youngest, the lot fell on me to stay awake through the night.

A random bleat mingled with the dull clang of a sheep’s bell startled me and forced my chin off my chest with a jerk. I couldn’t risk getting caught nodding off or I’d forever be stuck on night watch until I learned my lesson.

I stoked the fire again. The sensation of blazing heat on my face, coinciding with the cool night air on my backside, inspired me to spin around to warm my hind-end. Facing the inky blackness, my eyes struggled to adjust.  I rubbed them with my fist but a blurred, halo-white form remained.

“What is out there?” I swiped at my watery eyes with the back of my hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” a voice boomed out of nowhere.

I jumped back and felt my foot land in the warm ashes. In the heart of the whiteness, a figure moved towards me. Cornered, I reached for my staff but froze when the voice spoke again.

“I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day, in the city of David, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign to you: You will find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.”

Afraid I’d gone mad in my sleepless imaginings, I was thankful to hear the others stumble to their feet.  Just then, the horizon lit up and crystal clear voices cried out saying: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace and goodwill towards men!”

Everyone fumbled over the partial words they heard, piecing them together to make sense of it all in their grogginess.

“Father, Father,” I shoved my way through the men. Toe-to-toe with the man who diligently taught me the scriptures, I whispered for his ears only. “Emmanuel…from the words of the prophet Isaiah…could it be?”

Father stroked his beard and gazed past me to the city below. “The house of David...”

The others huddled in closer. Father placed the palm of his hand over my heart. I’m sure the sound of it thumping could be heard by everyone.

 “Indeed, it could be.”

We rushed down the hillside and through the streets of Bethlehem, not knowing where we were to turn next, yet we ran straightway to the place where He lay.

I stared at the tiny swaddled infant. We could see His eyes, nose, and His sweet lips were pursed, freshly satisfied with nourishment from His mother. Before I dared to step forward, I glanced at my father, his beard moist with tears. 

The mother nodded to welcome me. She couldn’t have been any older than I, yet I stood looking into the eyes of the virgin we all spoke of from the familiar prophecies. The magnitude of it hit me and I fell to my face and whispered, “God is with us…Oh my Emmanuel.”

***

I stumbled through the streets, balking at the crowds, with my sacrificial lamb wrapped around my neck. The preparations for Passover caused mayhem in the city, but an unmistakable tension filled the air.

My father always called me a tender soul, able to sense when the Spirit of God mingled among us. Today my heart hammered in my chest. I remembered a time long ago on a grassy hillside when it pounded so hard. I sensed the Almighty’s presence, but not in the same way.

Ahead of me a mob shouted, “Crucify him!”

I could barely breathe. I used my bulk to force my way through the masses and followed the throng to Golgotha. One quick glance into the eyes of a distraught woman and I knew who hung on the cross.

The prophecies swirled through my memory. I clutched my bleating sacrifice to my chest in an effort to quiet my heart. Intermittent words from the Man on the cross pierced through my soul. The guttural cries of His mother’s agony ripped at me.

“Father, into Your hands, I commit my spirit.”

The animal in my arms quivered.

“It is finished.”

Instantly, the earth shook and darkness enveloped us. I fell to my knees, buried my face into the snow white fleece of the lamb, and whispered, “Oh my Emmanuel!”

_________

** Portions of scripture have been quoted from the NKJV.

Luke 2:10-14

Matthew 27:46

John 19:30

Luke 23:46

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A Heart Set Free

It's been a long time since I've posted something for Friday Fiction. I've dusted off this little treasure and spruced it up a bit in honor of our veterans...and the ones who love them with an ever lasting love. 

♥ ♥ ♥

I love my job. Some may think it appears mundane, but the thrill of the hunt gives me a sense of adventure every day. I’m the sorter at a thrift store. I rummage through boxes and bags of donations and decide if things are sellable or trash, and separate it into various departments. 

“Whoa, Marj. You’re gonna like this stuff,” Ricardo unloaded several boxes. “There’s some old stuff in here.”

I could hardly focus on the piles in front of me. I kept looking at the stack Ricardo mentioned. I knew there’d be treasures in there. I could feel it in my bones.

“Can’t stand it can you, Marj?” Emily giggled.

“What can I say? Fifteen years on this job and it never gets boring.”

By break time I made it through the first pile and the good stuff would be ready for me when I returned.

The next half hour I pawed through boxes that appeared to have been sealed up, stored, and never opened again. “There’s a story here. I can feel it.” 

I began to notice the items were all women’s things…until I opened what quickly became known as: the box. This is when the story began to unfold. 

“Oh, Emily,” I held up a vintage wedding gown. “Who would ever get rid of this?”

Emily gasped and fingered the pearls and lace embedded into the delicate fabric. “It’s beautiful.”

“That would look good on you, Em,” Ricardo winked. 

Emily ducked her head to hide her flushed face.

I gently pulled out a perfectly folded WW2 military uniform; everything from hat to shoes. Beneath the uniform I found a small cedar chest and a tin box. I lifted the wooden lid and discovered a set of dog tags, a pocket watch, and his and her wedding bands. 

“Look at these,” my eyes were wild with wonder. I held in my palm two perfect gold rings. “There’s not a scratch on them…like they’ve never been worn.”

“Wow, I wonder about the dress. Do you think it was ever worn?” Emily held the lacey bodice to her chest. 

I reached in for the aqua painted tin. “Oh my goodness,” my hand flew to my mouth. “It’s full of letters.”

“Love letters?” Emily reached across me and picked one off the top of the pile. 

“My dearest Rose,” Emily read out loud. “I will never forget the forlorn look on your face when we were forced to part. It pulls at my very soul. Sometimes when I lay in my bunk at night I see those doe eyes of yours; big, round, brown eyes, full of fear. I pray every night for you to have peace in your heart concerning my well being.”

“They’re stacked in chronological order,” Ricardo thumbed through the treasured letters. “None of them are written to him, they’re all addressed to Rose.”

“Not quite,” I held up a flowery envelope. “This was in the cedar box.”

Ricardo took it from me for a closer look. “There’s no stamp or address.” He slid the crisp stationary out of the never sealed correspondence. 

“My Beloved Henry,” Ricardo smiled. “Why don’t we talk like this anymore? No one writes letters constantly declaring their love these days.”

“Just read it already.” Emily blushed, unable to hide her anxious nerves. 

“Your mother and father were notified today that you were missing somewhere in France. They couldn’t verify if you are dead or alive. I’m stunned with grief, but I want you to know that I will wait for you. My heart belongs only to you. I will dutifully pray for your safe return upon which I will proudly become Mrs. Henry Moore. All my love, Rose.”

“Do you think he made it home?” Emily’s eyes glistened.

“Hey Marj,” Shelly called from her office. “Did you find a box with a WW2 uniform and some letters in it?”

“We’re looking through them right now,” I hollered back.

“You need to put it all back together. It wasn’t supposed to be donated. The owner is on his way to pick it up.” 

“Hey, look at the last letter.” Ricardo handed me a modern envelope.

“My Precious Hank,” I scowled at the change in the name. “Someday I hope you will receive this box. Even if you don’t, I believe the act of recording the truth with pen and paper has helped to set my tormented heart free. Please read these letters in the order they are written and know that you were conceived in deep abiding love.”

Emily gasped next to me. “She was…”

“Yes, and he…” Ricardo interrupted Emily’s detective mind at work.

“So tragic, yet beautiful,” I tried to process it all. “Let’s box it back up before the owner gets here.”

It wasn't long before a frantic man arrived to claim the box full of love, passion, secrets, and repentance. I went back to sorting but my mind churned with thoughts about Henry and Rose…and Hank.

I love my mundane job.

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Life Lessons

I have a short story that will be printed in an anthology published by Write Integrity Press. The book is called: Life Lessons from Grandparents...a trip down memory lane.

It will be available in the next couple weeks. I am allowed to order copies at cost to sell or give away. If you are interested in purchasing a book from me, I'm selling them at my cost plus shipping. At $8 this collection of endearing stories about grandparents would make an awesome Christmas gift.

Please let me know if you are interested in purchasing a book asap. I will need to put my request in very soon.

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That's What it's all About

It's Friday Fiction, hosted by Yvonne Blake. 

Each week, a few bloggers link together to share a sample of their writing. If you go to the bottom of Vonnie's blog post you can find some little nuggets of fun reading.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Hokey-Pokey saved my life. I know that sounds strange, but it’s true. Let me explain.

Two years ago I took my daughter, Lizzie, and four of her little friends to Skate Palace for her seventh birthday. Me on roller-skates, not a good mental image. Let me tell you, Grace is not my middle name.

I spent most of the time at the table. Dubbed the official guardian of the “stuff”, I preferred to plant my seat firmly on the round cafeteria style stool as opposed to the floor of the rink. When I did venture onto the skating rink I chose to hug the wall while Lizzie and her cute little show-off friends giggled past me.

The pimply-faced DJ announced, “It’s time to do the Hokey-Pokey.” 

I popped a cheese-dipped bite of pretzel in my mouth when Lizzie rolled up and grabbed my hand, “Come on, Mommy. Let’s do the Hokey-Pokey.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Baby-cakes. There’s a lot of hokey in me and yes I’m a bit pokey, but I don’t put those two words together anymore.”

“Come on,” five little pairs of eyes pleaded. “We’ll help you.” 

Things began pretty safe. I put my right hand in, and took my right hand out. I proceeded to shake it all about while I did the Hokey-Pokey and I turned myself about. The hands were easy. When I had to stick my right foot in, that’s when things got out of control.

Lizzie didn’t have that right vs. left thing figured out quite yet. She stuck her left foot in instead of her right. Her left skate somehow slid under my right wheels. She took off to turn herself about and my right foot went with her.

I desperately flailed my arms to keep my balance and somehow landed in a pretzel-like contorted heap minus the cheese sauce. The sickening sound of my right humerus-bone when it snapped stopped everyone cold in their pokey. It was anything but humorous. 

Tiffany’s mom arrived to get the girls and I took a little ride in an ambulance. The next few hours were a painful blur and resulted in a full armed cast that would prevent me from shaving my armpits for six weeks.

Lizzie spent the night with Tiffany and asked if she could go to Sunday school in the morning. Since the pain meds made me drowsy, I decided that would be a good plan. 

The next afternoon Lizzie burst through the door. “I asked the Sunday school teacher to pray for you, Mommy. Do you feel better?”

I didn’t believe prayer made any difference, but I certainly didn’t want to squash her sweet efforts. I did what I thought every good-intentioned mother does. I lied. 

“I think I do. Your smile always makes me feel better.”

“But Mommy, Miss Teri said Jesus can make you better.”

Lizzie began to talk in rapid fire phrases; Miss Teri this, Miss Teri that. A knock on the door interrupted Lizzie just when I was sure she would say that Miss Teri could walk on water.

Lizzie flung the door open and announced, “Miss Teri’s here.”

I knew I shouldn’t have let her go to Sunday school. Now the religious nuts would never leave me alone.

“Miss Teri brought food, Mommy.”

Not only did Teri bring food, but she dished it up for Lizzie at the table. Then, like she had known me for years, this young stranger pulled a footstool over and proceeded to feed me.

Teri came by everyday that week. She either brought food, or made meals from my own cupboards. She cleaned my home. She bathed my daughter. She even washed my hair and styled it.

She never once pushed her religion on me until I asked her, “Why are you doing all this? Is it because you want me to let Lizzie go to church?”

Teri’s simple answer caught me off guard. “I have no hidden agenda. This is simply what I do. God shows me a need, and I fill it.”

Teri became a sermon walking. I absorbed the joy she radiated. One question at a time, one day at a time, Teri led me to the foot of the cross and enabled me to make an informed decision regarding the condition of my heart. 

Thanks to Lizzie’s prayers, Jesus did make me better. 

You see, the Hokey-Pokey saved my life. And that’s what it’s all about.

Now the chicken dance, that’s a whole ‘nother story.

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CHRISTMAS EVE FRIDAY FICTION

WooHoo! My first time hosting Friday Fiction. 
(even if it's unofficial)

If you'd like to join the fun, scroll down (BELOW MY STORY) and add your link to the linky tool at the bottom of this post. Then be sure to come back and follow the links to our other participants. And don't forget to leave an encouraging word to let the writers know you are reading! (We thrive on that, you know.)


My Christmas Eve FF story was written during the Christmas quarter of Faithwriters under the topic "Christmas Carols".

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Gladys McKnight and the Kings

“Slow down, Gladys,” Millie begged. “Give me a chance to let the caboose catch up.” Millie referred to her own large square-shaped-back-side.

“Well, hurry it along. This steam engine is ready to roll.” Gladys yanked the chain of her imaginary train whistle.“Woot-woot!”

The daring duo, rebels in their old age, escaped unseen from the confines of the assisted living home to enjoy the annual Christmas tree lighting at the court house.

“Do you see what I see?” Gladys exclaimed pointing upward.

“What?” Millie squinted, “I can’t see anything since my cataract surgery flopped.”

“A star,” Gladys urged Millie to look again. “That star looks like it’s dancing in the night. See, with a tail as big as a kite?”

“Hrmph, all I see is black sky.” Millie’s pessimistic attitude could block out the brightest star.

Millie paused to catch her breath. Earlier, she balked the idea of leaving the comfort of the home. She could see the tree lighting just fine from her spot by the window, but Gladys’ granddaughter was singing and that made it worth the venture.

“We need to get closer so I can take a picture,” Gladys urged, zigzagging through the crowd.

Millie clutched her cane with one hand and firmly grasped Gladys’s coat-tail in her other. “Oh, do you hear what I hear?” Millie jerked on the fabric wadded in her fist.

“No, I can’t hear very well, remember? That’s why we need to get closer!” Gladys fished in her pocket for her camera.

“I hear Melinda singing. Her song is floating high above the trees. I know her voice anywhere. It’s as clear and big as the sea.”

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But Wait...

I haven't posted a Fiction piece in a long time. Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Catrina Bradly at A work in Progress. 

Have you ever thought of well known Bible stories and wondered...what if...? This is one of those stories I dared to imagine outside the small boundaries of a few verses and used what my childhood pastor, John Tappero, used to call our sanctified imagination. What if...?

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“Yes, I’ve been redeemed,” I assured the dear girl who took time to care of an old woman like me. “I had a personal encounter with the Promised One.”  I struggled to sit upright. I needed to tell this young soul my story. “But wait…there’s more.”

I can’t help but think how blessed I am to have walked in the footprints of the promised Messiah.  From the seed of Abraham, to the house of David, and the fulfilled prophecy of Isaiah…for unto us a child is born…and his name shall be called Wonderful!

He is Wonderful. I remember when I first saw Him. I watched from a distance when He healed the lame and the blind. I heard what people said about His miracles. I knew if I could get close enough, He’d sense my need and heal me, too.

I watched Him leave in a boat and the crowds gather on the shore. They knew eventually He’d be back. I waited too.

When He returned, people swarmed around Him. I eased my way through the crowd hoping no one noticed me because I was unclean. Suddenly, a leader from the synagogue pushed through the crowd and fell at His feet. He begged Jesus to come heal his dying daughter.

 I panicked. Not yet! I screamed in my mind. I need His touch, too!

In a final desperate effort, I did the unthinkable. I reached out and touched the edge of His cloak. Instantly, I felt whole. Amazed, I stood still while the crowds forged their way around me, my mission complete.

But wait…there’s more.

He stopped and looked among the throngs of people. “Who touched me?”

Fear welled inside me. His disciples tried to brush it off and continued toward the dying girl’s home, but Jesus wouldn’t have it.

“I felt power flow from me.”

Somehow I knew He knew. How could He not know? I sensed He was calling me out for a higher purpose. I fell at His feet and confessed my unclean condition, weakened by years of blood loss. I told Him I knew He had the power to heal me if I could only get close enough.

Amidst the shoving and pressing crowd, He took the time to assure me my healing was complete. “Your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”

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Tadpoles, Mice, and Other Girly Things

My Blog has been severely neglected. Today I thought I'd re-write and older short story and post it for Friday Fiction. I hope you enjoy it. Hop on over to my dear friend, Karlene's blog, Homespun Expressions, and read a few more great short stories.

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Mama worked on taming my hair with two perfect French braids that hung down below my shoulders. I winced when I tried to look at her. “Do I hafta wear a dress when they come, Mama?” 

She leaned in toward my ear, “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

I turned to smile, but she jerked my head around. “Sit still, Nikki.”

“They’re here.” Daddy announced. 

I wiggled and peeked out the window. “Sit still,” Mama thunked me on the head with her thumb and forefinger. 

“Ow.” I began to tap my foot impatiently.

“There…go.” Mama released me and I ran clumsily out the screen door to greet my summer guest.

“Samantha, you’re finally here.” I threw my arms around my favorite cousin, and my hand became entangled in her long uncut hair. “We’re going to have a blast,” I whispered into her ear.

She toyed with the ends of my braids and held me tight. “Oh Nikki, I missed you so much.”

We finally pulled away from our embrace and examined each other carefully. My overalls with the worn out knees were a sad comparison to Samantha’s pretty green ‘everyday’ dress. I could feel her smile melt through my whole being, she was just as excited to see me as I was to see her. 

I squirmed under my prudish Aunt’s scrutiny. I wrinkled my freckled nose and indicated with a slight nod that we should excuse ourselves from the adults and sneak away for a private welcome. 

“Ummm, if you would please excuse us, we will let you visit privately. You can find us at my place enjoying refreshments.” I said this with all the dramatic flair of a twelve-year-old and attempted a curtsy towards my aunt. “Ta-Ta,” I added with a girly wave.

I grabbed Samantha by the hand and we ran down the hill in the back yard and headed straight for the tree house, the place where all our adventures began that summer. 

Samantha headed up the ladder first. I had to boost her in through the trap door by pushing her bottom. She landed on her head and we fell into a heap of giggles. Oh my goodness, we laughed until our bellies ached.

“Guess what?” I handed her a peanut butter cup. 

She daintily took nibbles. I proceeded to dissect the chocolate refreshment, making a melted mess in my hands. “Guess what, Sami. Mama bought some things at the thrift store for you to play in. It’s a secret. Daddy doesn’t even know. I’m sure glad my parents don’t think I should wear dresses all the time.” 

Perking up Samantha shoved the remainder of her peanut butter cup into her mouth and gave me a chocolate toothed grin. “I get to be called Sami for two whole weeks.” Samantha had just checked out and made room for Sami to come play.

For two glorious, summer funtastic weeks we ran barefoot through the hayfield hand-in-hand, made flower chains to place around our heads like crowns, caught tadpoles while we waded in the creek, and moved rotted logs just to see the field mice scurry away. Almost every day we took bike rides to the corner store for candy or ice cream and threw rocks at an old abandoned car in the sticker bushes. 

We slept in my tree house or snuggled in my twin bed. We even stayed out all night under the stars. We shared our deepest, darkest secrets, dreams, and frustrations. One night we talked about boys and other girly things that were beginning to happen to us.

“I hate being a girl,” I expressed in disgust. “Before school got out, Mama took me shopping…said it was apparent that I needed some new undergarments.” I emphasized this by dramatically placing my hands over the growing bumps on my chest.

Sami laughed so hard, she snorted. 

“I’d rather just wear an ace bandage,” I blurted out. “Mama said she could picture me on my wedding day, my poor husband having a difficult time unwrapping me like a mummy.” This seemed to be Sami’s undoing. She attempted to stifle her snort-laughs by placing her pillow over her face. She doubled up laughing so hard she wheezed and about fell out of bed.

Exhausted from our moment of hysteria, Sami breathed a huge sigh to settle down and snuggled up close to me. 

“My mother’s clueless what my body is doing.”

“I know.”

Nikki?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you think your mom would take me bra shopping?”

I could feel her warm tears soak through my shirt. 

I held her tight and whispered, “Sure, but… I have an ace bandage you can borrow.”

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