Another Royal Wedding to Anticipate

With all eyes on the Royal Wedding of William and Kate today, I decided to repost a story I wrote about the greatest love story of all time...and the much anticipated Royal Wedding that is to come.

The Peasant and the Prince
by Sharlyn Guthrie

A young peasant woman shuddered at the sight of the prince striding toward her. Shrinking into the shadows she attempted to hide, fearful of his motive in seeking her out. She had spat at him yesterday as he passed, though she hadn’t thought he’d noticed.

The shadows failed to conceal her. He grasped her with firm, yet surprisingly gentle hands. “I saw you on the street yesterday.”

Her eyes scanned the pebbles near his feet and her throat constricted, preventing a reply.
Placing one finger under her chin, he tipped her head, causing her to meet his tender gaze. He wiped a smudge from her cheek, then caught her as her knees buckled.

“I have come to offer you this.” He smiled, extending a roll of parchment tied with red ribbon. “It is a ketubah, a marriage contract. I love you, and wish for you to become my kallah, my bride.”

“You? Marry me?” She searched his face for the mockery she expected to see, but none was found. “I haven’t a dowry,” she managed, ashamed.

“It makes no difference. If you accept my proposal I will see to it that you are housed and cared for until I return to take you as my wife. It’s all here in the ketubah: my love for you, my intent to marry you, and promises to fulfill all of my obligations to you both now and in the future.”

“But where will you be?”

“I am going away to prepare our future home. I can’t say when I will return, only that I will. And when I do, you must be ready for our marriage. Will you accept me as your groom, your choson?”

“Oh yes, I do accept!” She bent to kiss his feet, but was quickly drawn up into his embrace.

“Then you must begin now to act worthy of me. Go, change your clothes and ready yourself for the day of my return.”

One rapturous kiss was shared, and the prince left as quickly as he had come. Word of the betrothal spread, and many were taken aback. Why would a prince marry a peasant woman? Some were angered, while others simply chose not to believe it was true. Still others marveled at the mystery and intrigue of the unlikely match.

The kallah soon discovered that her temporary home was situated in the realm ruled by the prince’s arch-enemy. Still, she cheerfully went about her preparations for marriage, concerning herself with little else. Her new life contrasted sharply with the life she had lived as a peasant. Few had taken notice of her in the past, but with her name now linked to that of her choson, all eyes, it seemed, were on her.

Attractive suitors clamored for her attention –men of strength, ardor, and shocking impropriety. Their attention was flattering, nevertheless. One offered wealth beyond compare, another fame and recognition throughout every worldly kingdom, yet another promised amazing supernatural powers. Such offers sometimes tempted the kallah, who was growing weary, and at times impatient.

Each suitor was seemingly more attractive than the last. When their charming ways failed to entice her, their tactics became less subtle. “Didn’t he say he would return?” they taunted, “Where is your choson? See? He has left you with only a ketubah filled with empty promises. Surely he is dead, or else he has found another lover more worthy of his name.”

Confused, the kallah unrolled the ketubah, seeking her beloved’s wisdom. “Be on the alert for imposters sent by the enemy,” it said. “They are wolves in sheep’s clothing who seek to snatch you away from me. Don’t pay them any heed. Keep your heart pure.”

Years passed, and life went on around her. Most of the kingdom dwellers lost interest in the story of the peasant and the prince. When the aging woman attempted to remind them, they laughed. “You’re still waiting for your prince? You’re missing all the fun. Don’t you know that purity is outdated? A real lover wouldn’t expect you to wait so long.”

Still, the kallah remained faithful, yearning for her beloved. The wait had been long, and sometimes it seemed unbearable. But day after day she reached for the well-worn ketubah, and each day its words rekindled her passion and restored her longing. For once she was merely a peasant woman in soiled garments, but soon her home would be a palace. She knew the prince, her precious choson would come.

If you would like to participate in Fiction Friday or post your own fiction, please visit Writing With Debra.

When Love Came Knocking

When Love Came Knocking
by Sharlyn Guthrie


The street was empty and dark except for flickering television sets illuminating the clouded windows of broken down trailers. A woman’s shrieks shredded the silence, but no one noticed. An infant’s cry soon erupted. Lucy Bryant had given birth to her fourth child. The twenty two year old slumped back onto her filthy bed, leaving the wet, scrawny infant untouched between her legs.

“Mama?” Jasmine’s eyes stretched as wide as lollipops.

“What’re you lookin’ at? Git! And take him with you. He needs a bath.” Lucy used the kitchen knife from the nightstand to slice through the cord.

Regarding the wiggling creature with wonder, the six-year-old gathered him up in a bed sheet. “Mama, can we keep this one?”

“Dunno. Just let me get some sleep.”

“I’d like you gooder if you was a sister, but you can’t help it you’re a boy.” Jasmine filled the bathroom sink half-full of water, dipped her brother in and out several times, then rubbed him dry with the bed sheet. His head wobbled and his legs stiffened as he screamed, reddening his transparent skin.

Several hours later, Lucy found them nestled together, the newborn swaddled in Jasmine’s outgrown Little Mermaid tee shirt. Despair overwhelmed her. Light-headed and weak, Lucy packed a few essentials and fled.

Falls Creek Bible Church would begin its summer children’s program next week. As Laura Rayburn drove home from the planning meeting, something or Someone urged her to turn along the rough, narrow lane she usually passed without a thought. Guilt and shame tore at her tender heart as she drove through the impoverished community. Why hadn’t she or her church family ever reached out to these hurting people?

Silently petitioning the Lord for protection and courage, Laura stretched across two broken steps to rap on a door. Putrid air poured out of the dilapidated trailer, surrounding the wisp of a girl who appeared. Dark half-moons under the child’s eyes made her appear old and haggard.

“Hi, I’m Laura. May I speak to your mother or father?”

“I’m Jasmine. I don’t got no mother or father.”

“May I come in?” The question from her own mouth startled Laura. She hadn’t planned to go inside, and yet something or Someone propelled her forward, through the open door.

Laura gasped when the rag doll on the couch suddenly drew breath and wailed. “That’s my brother.” Jasmine intoned.

‘What’s his name?” Laura questioned.

“I dunno. I just call him Brother.”

Apprehension nibbled at Laura’s insides, but she reached for the child. “May I?”

“You can’t have him. He’s mine.”

“Oh, Honey, I’m not taking him, I just want to hold him.”

“His head isn’t on very tight.”

“Okay, I’ll be careful.” The bit of childish wisdom produced a wan smile.

The infant was weak and much too thin, Laura realized with alarm. He wasn’t even wearing a diaper. “When did he last have a bottle?”

“Oh! I give him one whenever he cries. I found Jake’s old bottle in the cupboard.”

“Jake?”

“He was my brother, too. A social worker took him away with the last baby. Are you a social worker?”

“No.” Laura sank into the couch, nauseated and tearful. “I came here to tell you that Jesus loves you. Do you know about Jesus?”

“I don’t know any Jesus. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Well, yes. He is. He wants to be your friend, too, Jasmine. Could you use some help taking care of this little guy?”

Jasmine’s eyes searched the floor surrounding her dirty bare feet. “I guess so. We’re out of milk. Babies got to have milk, don’t they? He needs diapers, too. I hafta keep changing his shirts. Can Jesus help me take care of him?”

“Listen, Jasmine,” Laura squatted, peering into two deep, serious eyes. “Jesus is God’s Son. We can’t see Him, but He hears our prayers. I’m going to pray right now and ask Him to get you the help you need. Okay?”

Jasmine had an invisible friend, too, but she knew that hers was make-believe. Laura seemed to think her friend, Jesus, was real. Jasmine liked the way Laura smiled when she talked to Him. Brother cuddled into Laura’s shoulder and Jasmine slid slender arms around Laura’s waist, pressing into her as she dialed for help on her cell phone.

Surprised by the warmth surging through her, Jasmine exclaimed, “This must be love!” Then, closing her eyes as Laura had done, she whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.”



Karlene is Hosting Fiction Friday at Homespun Expressions today. Please pay her a visit to find more great fiction or to post your own story.

All That Bristles is not a Broom

Continuing on the subject of wise sayings, I thought I would share this story I wrote for the Faithwriters challenge topic "Illustrate the saying, 'Don't cut off your nose to spite your face'." You can probably tell that I had a lot of fun writing it!













All That Bristles Is Not a Broom
by Sharlyn Guthrie


Tall, lean Bromley Bristlemore is a broom maker. His wiry blonde hair fans out evenly in every direction, meeting his bushy beard on both sides of his face. Bromley himself could easily be imagined as a broom standing up on its stick. His grandfather founded Bristlemore Brooms, claiming the motto, “the best broom money can buy.” Three generations later Bromley was swept into the business with the untimely passing of his father.

Unfortunately, by the time Bromley and his new bride, Bea, came on the scene nobody was buying brooms. Once a stiff competitor, Bristlemore Brooms had lost its edge. “Broom making is all I know,” Bromley stated with a tone of finality as Bea pressed him to discuss their options. And so a disenchanted, discouraged Bromley continued his daily habit of binding broom corn to expertly turned birch handles. Then he stacked each finely crafted specimen in an ever-growing pile –simply because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Bea sat helplessly by until she could take it no longer. The couple needed an income, and Bromley’s brooms were not selling. Not one to despair, Bea got busy instead. First, she swept the cobwebs from the showroom window, cleaning it until it sparkled. Next, she fashioned a viewing counter near enough to the window to be seen by passersby. Finally, she added two words to the sign that hung in the window: Bristlemore Brooms and Bakery.

Bromley mumbled and grumbled, predicting further doom, as his wife buzzed around him, but Bea could not be dissuaded. She baked five loaves of bread and four dozen cookies for the first day of bakery business, all of which Bromley sold by noon. Cautiously optimistic, she doubled her efforts the following day.

The trend continued. Bromley’s deserted Broom shop bustled with activity once again. Occasionally a bakery customer even purchased a broom along with their bag of bagels. In fact, Bromley was so busy waiting on customers that his broom making efforts were all but abandoned.

Bea spent her nighttime hours baking. She whipped up rich red raspberry tarts, light-as-chiffon croissants, angel food cakes as tall as oatmeal boxes, and popovers oozing silky sweetness. Each morning she restocked the counter, and then spent the remaining part of the day sleeping.

News of the fabulous baked goods scattered like dust bunnies throughout the town. Bromley should have been pleased, but instead he despised his wife for her tireless determination, and even more so for her success.

“My compliments to the baker of these fine delicacies,” exclaimed the mayor one morning, swiping cinnamon from the corners of his mouth as he handed Bromley a dollar bill.

“Why, thank you.”

“You mean to say that you, the broom maker, are also the baker? I would have thought the baker might be your wife.”

“You obviously don’t know my wife, sir.” Sarcasm dripped unchecked from Bromley’s lips. “She’s as lazy as a cat in a castle, and just as fat, too. Why, she very nearly eats what I make in profits.”

“You don’t say! Then she must not be the one who stands behind you with that tray full of doughnuts.”

Bromley spun around just in time to glimpse eight dozen hot, sticky doughnuts raining down upon him. One very stunned Bea broke into sobs. Despite being caught in such an atrocity however, Bromley brushed off Bea’s sorrow and her offer of forgiveness as easily as he did the bits of doughnuts clinging to his beard.

Bea accepted the mayor’s offer of a newly remodeled store front for her bakery as part of a downtown improvement project. She hired assistants and moved into the apartment directly above her bakery. Her efforts were rewarded, and her cheerful disposition continues to win and charm customers to this day.

The sign in Bromley’s window now reads “Bristlemore Brooms” once more. The once-sparkling window has grown as clouded and dark as Bromley’s mood and demeanor. His stack of brooms, however, continues to mount even as his back and shoulders bow.

At six-thirty each evening, Bromley glumly wheels his broom cart along the sidewalk toward Bea’s Bakery. He stops at the door, turns the key in the lock, and sweeps up flour and pastry crumbs with the finest broom money can buy. Later he dines alone, munching on day-old bread spread thick with resentment –a table knife clutched in one hand; a grudge in the other.

Because of our innate selfishness, it is often difficult for us to view marriage as the one-flesh relationship God created it to be, but whenever we set out to defeat our spouse both individuals lose. Therefore, it is easy to "cut off my nose to spite my face" in marriage. Have you seen or experienced other situations in which this saying is true? Tell me about them!

Karlene is hosting Fiction Friday this week at Homespun Expressions. I hope you will take time to visit her blog and follow the links to more Friday fiction.

A Duck Out of Water

I have the honor of hosting Fiction Friday today. I hope you will join us. Just sign up on the Linky at the end of this post and link to your own original fiction.

A Duck Out of Water
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Last year I joined a gym. I was only one of the hordes that signed up in January following two months of eating like a ravenous sumo wrestler. After popping the buttons off several pairs of slacks, I knew that it was time to take action.

It had been years since I took physical fitness seriously. My shape had become so frumpy I could barely admit to myself, let alone anyone else, that I had once been an aerobics instructor. Well, it was never too late to make a fresh start. At least that‘s what I had always told those who joined my classes.

I was no fool. I started out easy, first choosing water aerobics and stationary bicycling. Both of these provided good exercise without requiring total concentration. I prayed through long lists of prayer requests during water aerobics. While bicycling, I became engrossed in inspiring Christian music on my MP3 player as I fancied myself cruising along serene country paths.

Long forgotten muscle groups screamed their resistance, but eventually I gained strength and endurance. My confidence grew, and I felt ready to move on.

Scanning the schedule of classes, I discovered that the gym’s offerings had changed during my absence from the fitness scene. For some un-explainable reason, I settled on kickboxing as my next endeavor.

Kickboxing moved at a killer pace as compared to that of water aerobics, and the music was much less serene than what I enjoyed while bicycling. I struggled to match the tempo as sweat formed puddles under my feet. I felt like a duck out of water. Perhaps I was better suited for Bingo tournaments.

While most of the women in the class wore compression shorts and sports bras designed to accent their slender, youthful bodies, I wore baggy T-shirts and sweatpants in order to conceal mine. I had to think and move more quickly than I was accustomed to. On more than a few occasions I turned the wrong direction, narrowly missing my neighbor’s side kick or forward jab. Yikes!

But the maladjustment went even deeper than that. You see, I am a gentle soul –a peacemaker type. Kickboxing is anything but peaceful. Bobbing and weaving while aiming uppercuts at imaginary rivals was simply not in my nature. In fact, it made me laugh. After all, I had no plans to hang out in dark alleys any time soon.

Suffice it to say that I didn’t take my new pursuit seriously. During my first several sessions the instructor exhibited considerable patience and restraint, but that was about to change. One day I settled into the now-familiar routine and allowed my mind to entertain possible ideas for a story I was writing.

“Pay attention! Focus! Your opponent is right in front of you!” The reprimand was directed at me, only inches from my face. Jolted out of dreamland, I heeded the command, my cheeks stinging from more than the heat of exertion. During the remainder of that class every part of my being remained engaged.

Afterwards, I licked my wounds; or rather I licked the residue of hot fudge from my lips after indulging in an unhealthy amount of self-pity.

Finally, though, I confessed to myself that the instructor was right. She had accurately perceived my lack of enthusiasm and attentiveness. Until that day I had no intention of taking kickboxing seriously. I decided then and there that my attitude had to change if I was to continue.

As I considered my dilemma, the instructor’s words resounded. They rang with familiarity and truth, although I couldn’t pinpoint why until I came across this verse: “Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”* The words packed a powerful dummy punch, reminding me that I had lost sight of my spiritual enemy.

Is that what had made me vulnerable to overindulgence and lack of motivation in my physical struggles as well?

Oh Lord, keep me focused and alert. Guard me from growing too comfortable in my spiritual routines. Make me aware of the enemy who seeks to devour me. Strengthen me through the power of Your Holy Spirit. Thank you, Lord, for jarring me out of my complacency.

I returned to kickboxing with a new attitude and a new strategy. My opponent was real. He had a name and a purpose. I would take him seriously, blocking his every move. It added vigor to my workout and prudence to my continued peaceful existence.

My attitude adjustment would not, however, be accompanied by a wardrobe adjustment any time soon.


*I Peter 5:8 NASV

A Prayer in the Witching Hour

I wrote the following prayer for the topic "missionary" in the Faithwriters writing challenge. It earned 2nd place overall. It is fictional, in that I wrote it before I had any personal experience with mission work. It is based on conversations with close friends who had experienced fear, loneliness, and other difficult situations and emotions as foreign missionaries. These are the things that aren't often addressed in a traditional missions update. These are the reasons we should hold our missionaries up in prayer on a regular basis. They are people just like any of us, endowed with every human frailty and emotion.

A Prayer in the Witching Hour
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Where are You, God?

Shadows submerge me in darkness. Gloom enshrouds me like a grave. It is the witching hour and the presence of evil is great. Where is Your Goodness? Heavy, my eyelids close. But sleep eludes me. The pallet is too hard, and I miss my pillow.

Where are You, God?

Today I walked strange paths, lined with unfamiliar sights. People pressed against me, people whose manner and odor were strong. I peered into gaunt faces with toothless smiles. Questioning eyes stalked me. Children pointed and giggled as I passed. Adults touched my pale skin and stroked my silky hair. Uncertain, I continued in silence, fearful of committing a cultural sin or murdering their native tongue.

Where are You, God?

My perceptions are keen, but You are remote. I search for a glimpse of Your beauty, but see only squalor. Where is your fragrance? These streets reek of urine. Your voice is drowned by distant drums rumbling to placate the demons. I cannot feel Your arms around me.

Where are You, God?

I heeded Your call and followed You here. You should be nearer than ever before, but You are absent. How will I speak unless Your Spirit speaks through me? How will I serve without your strength to hold me up? How will I love unless You love through me? How will I live without Your presence?

Where are You, God?

I found you as a child. My family lavished Your love upon me. Your grace brought me through cancer treatments and a concussion. Your Spirit overflowed in the prayer meeting where I met the aging missionary. Your joy surged through me when I promised to come to this distant land as her replacement. Not until now have I doubted. Was I duped? Deceived?

Where are You, God?

I didn’t know that I would feel so insignificant and out of place. I didn’t know that I would ache to hear my family’s voices. I didn’t know that I would feel repulsed by the very people I came to serve. I didn’t know that nighttime could be this dark or this lonely. I didn’t know that You could be so elusive.

Where are You, God?
“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” (Psalm 139:23-24 NIV)


Where are You, God?

You are in the loneliness, the stench, the unfamiliarity, the darkness, the silence. Slay my selfishness. Forgive my unbelief. Dispel my doubts. Quell my fears. Fill this jar of clay. Then, “I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8 NIV)


Today's Fiction Friday is being hosted by Karlene at Homespun Expressions. Please take the time to visit her blog and follow the links to some of the other great fiction.

Redemption in the Back Pew

by Sharlyn Guthrie

Pastor Rob’s office clock chimed four times. Standing, he locked his desk, then stood to leave. A sudden, urgent rapping on the outside door interrupted his ritual. He strode toward the door, supposing he would find a homeless person seeking assistance.

Six months earlier Pastor Rob had left rural South Dakota for inner city Chicago seeking adventure and fresh challenges. The interruptions had been constant at first, and often dramatic. He had promptly organized a city-wide ministry to the homeless. Although the building that housed his congregation composed an entire city block, the congregation had dwindled to less than a hundred. Most drove in from the suburbs out of fierce loyalty to God and the First Baptist Church. An endowment funded the church, but its days were numbered.

The well-dressed man at the door was not what Pastor Bob expected. “How can I help you?”

The man glanced both directions, then pushed past the puzzled pastor. “I need to make a confession.”

“This is a Baptist church, sir, not Catholic…”

“You’ll hear me out, won’t you?” It was said with such authority that Pastor Bob merely nodded his head as he motioned toward a chair.

The visitor loosened his tie and removed his sunglasses, slipping them into the pocket of his white shirt. “The boss wants me to do someone in. I’ve done some bad things, but I draw the line at murder.”

“Well, now. I can’t say I’ve had any experience with this sort of thing.” Pastor Rob’s heart skipped several beats when the man slid his hands into his pockets. The locked desk contained his only weapon –a can of mace left behind by the previous staff. “Listen, I can give you spiritual guidance if that’s what you’re looking for, but I can’t put my congregation in jeopardy.”

“I won’t trouble your congregation. I’ll stay out of the way. There’s plenty of space here. You won’t even know I’m around.”

“Please, Mister…”

“Call me Johnny Ray. My Grandma was Baptist and she prayed for me relentlessly. Guess that’s why I’m here. I don’t mean any harm. I just have to lay low or they’ll take me out too.”

That was the beginning of an unspoken “arrangement” between the two men. Johnny Ray remained holed up in the First Baptist Church, while Pastor Rob feigned innocence. Soon after the service began each Sunday morning, Johnny Ray slid into the back pew. During the benediction he slipped out again.

Pastor Rob kept the kitchen stocked with ready-to-eat items. He scanned the paper carefully each morning for any mention of mob activity. The mace was moved from his drawer to his pocket, and all exit doors were secured twice daily. Otherwise, life at First Baptist Church remained unchanged.

Weeks turned into four months since the day Johnny Ray first pounded on the church door. Then one Sunday the back pew remained empty. Pastor Rob felt a pang of worry mixed with a tinge of relief.

Soon the pastor’s worries turned to a more pressing issue. The church had to make a decision. The remaining endowment funds could be used to move the church to the suburbs, or the church could continue for another year before dissolving. Both scenarios made Pastor Rob cringe. Without the First Baptist Church the homeless ministry would not survive. While moving to the suburbs might secure his job, he may as well move back to South Dakota. He was certain that both his opportunity for adventure and his newfound sense of purpose would be greatly diminished. “Please God, Show us another way,” he prayed.

The annual business meeting began with a surprise announcement. “The following letter was sent to the trustees of First Baptist Church,” the chairman explained. “Dear Sirs, Pastor Robert Dolan saved my life. I have turned from my sinful ways and placed my trust in the Almighty God. I am forever grateful to him and to the First Baptist Church. Therefore, I have deposited five million dollars into your endowment fund.
In Christ’s name, J.R.”

The small crowd let the meaning soak in for a moment, then broke into spontaneous rejoicing. Their stunned pastor was dumbstruck, especially when he read the headlines on page six of the next day’s Chicago Tribune. “Inside sources report five million dollars missing from mafia-controlled bank accounts.”

The following Sunday a bearded man slipped into the back pew. During the benediction his final exit was made with a tip of his hat to Pastor Rob.










I wrote this story as a Faithwriters entry for the adventure genre. It probably could have been more exciting, but I think it was exciting enough for Pastor Bob. Thanks for stopping by. Joanne is hosting Friday Fiction today. Stop by An Open Book and link up to more fiction.

In the Light of the Cross

For Fiction Friday this week I have decided to share a story written from a cricket's point of view. It isn't one of my favorites, but it's fun. While you're here, I hope you will scroll on down the page and read my previous (more thoughtful) post on the cross which includes a recently penned poem.

In the Light of the Cross
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Yes! It’s the band! Chirp chirp. I can make my own marvelous music without attracting attention. Chirp chirp. Seats are filling up and the volume is increasing –all the better for a covert cricket like me. Chirp chirp.

How, you might ask, did a cacophonous field cricket make his home in the pulpit of Christ Community church? Truth is, I was hatched in the flower garden outside. Chirp chirp. I found my way here in search of food. There’s a lifetime supply of peanuts in front of this dusty hymnal, plus half a cherry-flavored cough drop for my sweet tooth. Chirp chirp.

Light streams in through the cut-out cross, which also provides me with a grand view of the congregation. Chirp chirp. The cross is a common sight here, although I’m not sure why. The old hymnal has a cross on its cover; a humongous gold cross stretches from the rafters to the platform behind the pulpit; and a red cross gleams from each stained glass window. Many of the congregants wear a cross on their lapel or necklace. Chirp chirp. Even so, I have never once heard mention of it from the pulpit.

It seems to me that people come here to feel good. Chirp chirp. They shake hands, sing happy songs, and listen to The Reverend speak of their goodness. Smiles grace their faces –whether heartfelt or simply what’s expected, I can’t tell. Chirp chirp.

The Reverend speaks in soothing tones. Chirp chirp. He speaks of human kindness, saving the planet, and performing good works. The men nod off. Their wives elbow them. Chirp chirp. Obediently they straighten, and a placid smile quickly returns to their faces.

Okay, no more chirping. The music has stopped. A feeble old preacher in a pin-striped makes his way to the platform. Where’s The Reverend?

“Good morning. I’ll be filling in for your minister today. Please take the Bible that’s in front of you and turn to Hebrews chapter twelve.” Curious glances are exchanged as the preacher awaits a response. “Verses two and three say, ‘Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.’”*

“Today, my friends, let us fix our eyes on Jesus. Let us look at the cross as we have never seen it before –not the gleaming crosses that adorn our sanctuary, but the cross we find here, in God’s holy Word...”

Whoa! The pounding on the pulpit nearly sends me sailing through my peek-hole. I’ll be safer up here on the hymnal. This is great! Nobody’s dozing this morning. Their eyes are wide open. They’re not exactly smiling, either. This is getting interesting.

“…That cross is hard. It is ugly and offensive. It endures through the ages to remind us of the awful price that was paid for our sins. Jesus laid down his life on that cross for you and for me.”

“Amen.”

Did I hear something?

“AMEN!”

There it is again. Now that’s a new word around here!

“…Maybe you need to make your way to this altar and kneel at the foot of the cross. Confess your sins. Claim the power that is yours in Jesus Christ. Then take up your cross and follow Him. Praise God! Hallelujah!”

Hey! Careful! I nearly lost my balance. What’s happening? People are on their feet. They’re moving toward the front. Tears have replaced their peaceful smiles. Yikes! That Bible thumping preacher just dumped me off the hymnal.

“When I survey the wondrous cross…” his ancient voice quivers with emotion. “…on which the Prince of glory died,” several others join in. Band members leaf through song sheets, looking mighty confused. “My richest gain I count but loss, and pour contempt on all my pride.”**

Amazing! It makes me wonder, though. How could everyone sit here surrounded by crosses week after week and forget a story like that? Then again, why would a common field cricket hide himself inside a pulpit, denying himself fresh air, plump grain, and starry skies? How could I have settled for stale peanuts and a half-eaten cough drop?

Basking in the light of the cross I make a decision. Chirp chirp.


*Hebrews 12:2-3 (NIV)
**”When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” hymn by Isaac Watts

For links to more Friday fiction, please visit Christina at her blog, With Pen in Hand

Merging Roads and Alternate Routes

I am pleased to be hosting Fiction Friday today. If you write fiction and would like to share a short story or poem with other fiction writers, feel free to leave a link to your story and place the Fiction Friday button in your post.



The story I am sharing today is just for fun. It stems from a favorite activity of mine -people watching.


Merging Roads and Alternate Routes
by Sharlyn Guthrie

I plug in my laptop under the booth at Jimmy’s Café as I do every Wednesday, my Sunday column begging to be written. Jimmy’s morning business is light and predictable, an aid to the writing process.

The regulars have pulled two tables together near the kitchen. Nine men and Shirley sit at awkward angles, clutching newspapers and reaching in to set their coffee down. Their lively banter bounces from today’s headlines, to the price of gasoline, to Harold’s nephew, Scott, who is running for mayor.

Shirley, the saucy waitress, pauses in her ribbing and railing to deliver my customary cinnamon roll. I pay her, so as not to disturb her again. This is the finest part of her day, nine men vying shamelessly for her attention like a passel of schoolboys with one puppy.

Another patron, Earl, enters flipping his cell phone shut and slipping it into his knapsack. We exchange pleasantries at the coffee bar.

“Have you seen any wonderful plays lately?” It’s our singular topic of conversation.

“No. Have you?”

Earl elaborates on Wicked, which he saw last week, then slides into the booth directly across from mine. Up close his soft blue eyes were warm and engaging; now, from across the room, they seem to peer down a long and winding road. I cannot tell if the road leads to or away from the place occupying his thoughts. His unruly gray curls seem tamer today, and his sweater with the ragged elbows is missing. He fidgets with his collar and glances often toward the door.

As I rework my introductory paragraph for the third time, the door opens and Earl leaps to his feet. A tall, slender woman charges the stale air inside Jimmy’s as she and Earl embrace beneath the ceiling fan. “You’re gorgeous,” he declares, and she is. Suddenly conscious of my own appearance, I finger my bangs and tuck straying strands into my pony tail.

Perfectly matched in height, the pair regards each other for several moments. Blonde hair brushes the shoulders of her crisp white blouse. Her dark floral skirt flares, ending at the knee. Slender tanned legs stretch elegantly into leather sandals. She flicks a corkscrew curl on Earl’s forehead and they laugh like old friends. “You didn’t tell me about these,” she coos, and continues springing his buoyant curls on all sides.

Try as I might to get back to work, I am too preoccupied with Earl and his lovely companion. Even the regulars have quieted themselves, glancing curiously in Earl’s direction now and then. The couple leans forward across the table chatting, ignoring their cooling coffee cups. Earl has temporarily forgotten that other place and the long road. The two are present here, perhaps seeking a path they might take together. Now I abandon my column altogether, choosing instead to document a romance.

An hour and a half later, Earl draws a small black book -a Bible, from his knapsack. Turning it sideways, he points as he reads. She smiles and nods and they bow their heads, holding hands across the table. The walls of Jimmy’s Café have never been so hallowed. I strain to make out the words Jimmy prays, but even if I could I would not repeat them. They flutter upwards like butterfly wings too delicate to grasp. Finally, they rise and he walks her to the door, releasing her hand only when she is at arm’s length.

Unable to help myself, I promptly join Earl at the coffee bar. “Did you meet your friend at a play?” I ask.

“Sophia? No. Today was our first meeting.” Earl chuckles as I attempt to conceal my surprise and confusion. “My sister gave me Sophia’s phone number. It took me a month to drum up the courage to call her.”

“So that’s it? You called her up and asked her to meet you here?”

“Not exactly. We’ve spent another month getting acquainted over the phone. We talk nearly every day, sometimes for hours. I think I can truly say we’ve grown to love each other, but I never knew until today that she’s so beautiful.”

“Will you marry her?” I chide myself even as I blurt the invasive question.

“No, but I do hope to accompany her down the aisle someday.” Earl grins at my stunned expression. “You see, Sophia’s my daughter.”

My curiosity is satisfied, but I am still blushing. Reigning in my imagination, I return to my booth, determined to get back on track with Sunday's column.

Across the room Earl sips his coffee, peering with pleasure down a much shorter road.

It's All About Bob

by Sharlyn Guthrie

“Do you mind filing today while I watch the desk, Lauren? I’m expecting someone, and I don’t want to miss him.” Christy, Lauren’s co-worker, had that ask me more look about her.

“No problem. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Sort of. I mean, Yes! I met him online, and he’s such a cool guy; a little older than most of the guys I date, but the things he says to me…oooh, I just can’t wait to be alone with him. We’re staying at the resort. That’s one of the perks of working here, you know.”

Lauren gulped. Christy often talked too much, revealing startling naïveté. Lauren was hesitant to interfere, but besides being thoroughly disgusted, she feared for her friend. “Do you really think it’s wise to spend the weekend with someone you’ve never met?”

“I’ll meet him soon, and so will you. You’ll see. Bobby’s wonderful!”

“God, I don’t know what to do. Give me wisdom,” Lauren prayed as she filed. But she was soon interrupted.

“You’ve got to be Christy. Wow! Your picture doesn’t do you justice.”

Filled with dread Lauren turned, and her dread immediately turned to horror. “Bob?!”

“Lauren? I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

I’ll bet you didn’t, Lauren thought. Instead she managed, “What brings you to Lake Geneva?”

“Just a little R and R,” Bob replied, winking at Christy. “Ready to go?”

“You two know each other?” Poor, gullible Christy looked delighted as she glanced from Bob to Lauren and back to Bob again.

“Not very well.” Lauren’s eyes narrowed as she considered the irony of her reply. She thought she knew Bob. In fact, she had once admired him. Now she felt like throwing up.

Christy grabbed her purse and was chattering away about the resort’s amenities. Lauren watched in stunned silence as Christy walked out the door hanging on the arm of her former youth pastor.

Lauren was tormented all weekend; both by Bob’s sleazy charade, and by her unwitting involvement in it. She knew she should do something, yet she had never been particularly courageous. “God, make Bob and Christy miserable this weekend,” she prayed, hoping that the problem of Bob would simply go away.

It had been through Bob’s youth group that Lauren first accepted Christ. She had grown to love Bob and his wife, Carol. In fact, the whole congregation loved and respected him. They would never suspect the double life he was leading. As Lauren continued to pray and consider her dilemma, she knew what she had to do first. It would require extraordinary courage; she would just have to trust the Lord to provide it.

Christy was somewhat subdued on Monday, but she accepted Lauren’s invitation to dinner that evening. “There’s something you need to know about Bob,” Lauren began hesitantly, and from there the whole ugly truth was gradually revealed.

“Bobby, or uh…Bob said he was divorced, but I noticed that quite a few things he told me didn’t add up. I had already decided I didn’t want to see him again. It was really stupid of me to spend the weekend with him. It’s not like you didn’t warn me.” Tears coursed down Christy’s cheeks as she asked, “Do you think God can ever forgive me?”

It was just the opening Lauren had prayed for. She confidently shared the truth of God’s grace and forgiveness with Christy. Christy listened with interest and humility as Lauren read Scriptures on repentance and reconciliation. With a sense of awe, Lauren witnessed Christy’s transformation from friend to sister in Christ. The two held hands and prayed together, tears streaming down their cheeks.

Much later their conversation returned to Bob. “It’s all so wrong, Christy. Bob not only deceived you, but he is also living a lie before God, his family, and the church. Will you help me expose the truth?”

Following a carefully devised plan, Lauren and Christy left early the following Sunday morning and drove two hours to Chicago. They slipped into a back row after the church service began. Bob was easy to spot, sitting near the front with his wife and their four children. “Courage, Lord. I need courage. Make me strong for Your sake, and for Christy’s,” Lauren prayed.

After the service Bob and Carol proceeded to the youth room for high school Sunday school. Lauren made her entrance as class was about to start.

“Great to see you, Lauren!” Bob’s plastic smile looked a little off-kilter. “I hear you’re living and working up north these days. You all know Lauren, right?”

“Hello everyone. Bob’s right. Most of you know me,” Lauren replied, as she pulled Christy through the doorway, “but I’m certain he will want to introduce all of you to his friend.”



The story I’ve shared for Fiction Friday today is based on a true story. Sexual misconduct by church leaders is something most of us would rather not think about, and if we do think about it we often deny that it could happen in our midst. If you are a long time reader of my blog you will understand why this topic is important to me. I hope you will understand, however, that exposing this kind of behavior is not about getting even. God’s grace and forgiveness is sufficient even for the “Bobs” in the body of Christ. For more on this topic, you may be interested in reading two of my past posts: Can God Use Me If I Fail? and Thanksgiving For Dreadful Deeds.

Fiction Friday is hosted today by Karlene at Homespun Expressions.

A Wayfarer's Canadian Anthem

Most people know that the Canadian national anthem begins, “O Canada…” But do you know the rest of the lyrics? With all the buzz over the Vancouver Olympics, I believe that today is the perfect time to share them with you.

Actually, I have to admit these lyrics aren't the official ones. I had a little fun rewriting the lyrics. This version is specifically intended for those of us who are silly enough, smart enough, or adventurous enough to vacation there.


A Wayfarer’s Canadian Anthem

O Canada! Your highways stretch for miles.
They’re threatening our over-eager smiles.
We fear the road shall never end;
but just when we are sure,
our guide begins the tour.

O Canada! Across your prairies wide
I feel a rhythmic rocking side to side
as grasses wave and breezes blow.
I’m feeling mighty sick.
Oh Dramamine, come quick!

O Canada! Your cities buzz with life—
museums, shopping, fine restaurants, nightlife—
best seen in summertime, of course.
Your fashion, culture, art
are modern, hip, and smart.

O Canada! Your famous people shine.
Joannie, Patrick, Toews all skate so fine.
Shania, Keanu, Celine
are but a dazzling few
who tip their hats to you.

O Canada! Your wilderness is wild,
and there I feel as if I’ve been exiled;
cumbersome pack upon my back
while path grows winding, steep
for miles before I sleep.

O Canada! I’ve glimpsed your creatures fierce:
brown bears and loons whose cries my eardrums pierce,
your fearsome goose and mighty moose.
Mosquitoes large as crows
eat me right through my clothes.

O Canada! Your rivers and your streams
run clearer than the visions in my dreams.
I pray before I take a drink
that parasites are dead
and there no moose have tread.

O Canada! O Canada!
O Canada! Forgive this tribute lame
O Canada! I love you all the same.

~by Sharlyn Guthrie













I’m participating in Fiction Friday today. Please visit The Veil Thins for links to more great fiction.

Oh, to See What Uncle Benny Sees

by Sharlyn Guthrie

The phone call announcing Grandma’s death came as unexpectedly as a cold north wind in August. Grief, Death’s cruel step-sister, was of necessity detained.

“Who’ll look after Uncle Benny?” I called, catching up to Daddy.

“We will, of course.” Daddy’s reply fell like a courtroom gavel, firm and final.

~~~~~~~~~

Uncle Benny, the oldest, but most child-like of Daddy’s brothers, lived with Grandma in the small two-story bungalow three blocks from our house. Grandpa had died years earlier, before my birth. I adored my playful, good-natured grandma, but I can’t say I really knew Uncle Benny. He rarely spoke to anyone but himself, and moved constantly about the house grazing walls and furniture with one hand, like a trolley on its cable. His eyes gazed upward, pulling his lips into a slight smile. I once asked if Benny was blind, but Grandma shook her head. “Benny sees so well, he sees things that most of us can’t.” Sometimes I squinted up toward the ceiling, straining to see what glorious sights he beheld.

Uncle Benny meticulously arranged bottles of bubble bath, lotions, and soaps by graduated sizes on the bathroom shelf. I enjoyed moving them around just to see if he’d notice. He was quite astute, returning each to its proper angle and station within minutes of my meddling. Perhaps it was a cruel game, but at least it was an interaction between us.

The most remarkable thing about Uncle Benny, however, was his ability to play the piano. For several hours each day he performed songs that were his alone. His limber fingers waltzed effortlessly over the keys as his upturned head wagged back and forth. His music delighted Grandma and her frequent visitors.

~~~~~~~~

The phone call sent Daddy and I racing the three blocks to Grandma’s house. We found Uncle Benny talking loudly into his flapping hands, while a neighbor attempted to soothe him. Uncle Benny had pounded on her door and led her back to the chair where Grandma still slumped over her open Bible. Daddy probably wouldn’t have taken me along if he’d been thinking straight. The scene was at once alarming and reassuring. It changed me in ways that only death and real life can.

Daddy made some phone calls, and then turned to his brother. “Benny, you know where Mom went, right?”

Silence.

“She’s not coming back, Benny. That’s just mom’s body in there –an empty shell. She was just sitting there talking to Jesus this morning, and I guess He told her to come on up and join Him and Dad. That must have been an invitation she couldn’t refuse. I sure wish I could see her now. She’s in Heaven, Benny.” Benny still stared into his hands, but calm had settled over him like a cool, swelling shadow. “I wonder what the party is like. Do you think they’re dancing, Benny? The angels and Mom and Dad –they must be having a grand time. Mom will be telling them whether the music is good or not, just the way she always told you.”

“Oh Benny, I miss her, too. I don’t know how we’ll manage without her, but we will.”
Daddy didn’t see me poking my nose around the doorframe. He and Benny were locked in an embrace, tears streaming down both of their faces.

The doorbell rang, and the coroner entered to validate what we already knew. He was followed by the funeral director, who carted Grandma’s shell out the front door and into a hearse.

Daddy chose to stay with Uncle Benny at Grandma’s house while making plans for the funeral, believing that gradual change might be easier for all of us. By the day of the funeral, Grief had arrived, along with many sorrowful relatives.

The service was solemn, unlike the rollicking Grandma I remembered. Soothing scriptures and details of Grandma’s well-lived life were unfolded slowly, thoughtfully. Friends and relatives dabbed with tissues at the corners of their eyes. After the benediction was read, Uncle Benny rose and strode to the piano.

We shifted uneasily in our seats, uncertain what to expect. Then, from the piano wafted Uncle Benny’s newly composed song –the sound of angel wings. It straightened our shoulders and lifted our chins. It drew our eyes upward, and our lips into a smile, like his. Tears of joy flowed freely down our cheeks. And for once I saw what Uncle Benny saw –a vision of Heaven so warm and welcoming I envied my Grandma and Grandpa who surely were dancing there.




I wrote this story for the Faithwriters challenge for the topic "uncle." Although it is fiction, it is based on my memories of some very special students I worked with many years ago, and their wonderful families who knew they were blessed to be entrusted with their care.

Sherri Ward at A Candid Thought is hosting Fiction Friday today.

Natalie's Glasses

by Sharlyn Guthrie




Children chattered noisily, attempting to decipher the messages imprinted on each conversation heart. My kindergarten class had just finished playing a phonics game in which the tiny Valentine treats served as rewards. I had never seen my students as enthusiastic about learning to read, so I congratulated myself on my stroke of genius.

Natalie approached me, her hand outstretched. “What does this one say?”

“Why don’t you try to read it?”

Standing on tiptoe Natalie tugged on my sleeve. When I bent close, she whispered in my ear, “I don’t know how to read…I don’t have glasses.”

Uncomprehending, I furrowed my brow. That’s when I noticed several children, candy hearts in hand, crowded around Keegan, the only proficient reader in the class and the only other person besides myself who wore glasses. I smiled as the meaning of Natalie’s words became clear.

It wasn’t hard relating to Natalie’s misperception. I could recall asking my grandmother to read me a story when I was a child. “Let me fetch my reading glasses,” she had replied, heading for the stand that held her Bible and newspaper. After reading the story Grandma had returned to the kitchen. Then I carefully tried on her reading glasses, hopeful that they would work for me. Instead, the words in my storybook grew fuzzy and I felt dizzy. The memory made me smile.

Now here I was, attempting to teach five year olds how to read. The job was often challenging. Today had been encouraging, but on other days I wondered if we were making any progress at all.

If only Natalie were right, and a pair of glasses could make all the difference in the world…

“It’s time to practice reading,” I notify my class.
“First I’ll see that sixteen pairs of glasses have been passed.
Next take out your books and turn them to page twenty three.
Please put on your glasses. You will find it easily.”

Sixteen children flip and then land promptly on the page.
“Ready? Let’s begin.” Each student’s interest is engaged.
Flawlessly they read with meaning and expression.
No one hesitates throughout the reading lesson.

Now my classroom duties have greatly been reduced
More time’s left for play-doh and playing “Duck, duck, goose.”
I rejoice and call it a reading revolution.
Students stumped by phonics now have a quick solution.

News of the wonder glasses spreads across the nation.
Soon there is no need for special education.
Next the lucky lenses bring good fortune to the poor.
Streets once ruled by gangsters grow safe and calm once more.

Countries where the children can’t afford to go to school
are given vast supplies of the educator’s tool.
The benefits of reading, now clear for all to see,
have philanthropists distributing the spectacles for free.

Missionaries use them in the spreading of God’s Word,
Enabling folks to read, who before had only heard.
Miracle reading glasses –an educator’s dream…

“What’s this one say, teacher? Teacher? TEACHER!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Tyler, I must have been daydreaming. Let’s see if you can sound it out...but first, put on your glasses.”

“But teacher, I don’t have any glasses.”

“Oh. Then we’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way, won’t we?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Today I'm participating in Fiction Friday, hosted by Yvonne at My Back Door. Visit her blog for links to more great fiction.

Wake Up, Jimmy

by Sharlyn Guthrie

“Wake up, Jimmy.” Lisa approached the bed and gently shook his shoulder. “Time to rise and shine,” she sang.

“I’m sleeping in today.”

“It’s Sunday, Silly! We have to get ready for church.”

“I’m not going today. Josh and Steve aren’t going. They get to go hunting instead.”

“Yeah? Well it’s their loss. Sundays are for worship and fellowship, not hunting.”

“Fellowship?” Jimmy sat up, rubbing his droopy eyes. “Did you say fellowship? I don’t have any real friends at church.”

“Of course you do, Jimmy. Everyone adores you. Where do you get these ridiculous ideas?”

“Think about it. It’s church. They’re obligated to act nice, but who really cares about me? If I didn’t show up no one would even notice.”

Lisa shook her head. It was no use arguing. A heavenly aroma drifted in from the hallway. “I’ve got to take the muffins out of the oven. They’re chocolate chip…your favorite.” Nearing the door she paused, then turned, reaching inside the closet. She pulled out a crisp blue shirt hung over khaki dress slacks. Jimmy sat motionless as she hung them on the closet door handle, then shot him a look that said, “No more discussion.”

Poking her head in the girls’ room, she saw that they were already primping before their mirror. “The muffins are done,” she announced.

Rachel and Shelby were right on her heels as she reached the kitchen. They chattered noisily as they munched their muffins and gulped their milk. As they finished and scampered off to brush their teeth, Jimmy shuffled into the room. “Morning,” he mumbled under his breath.

Without looking up Lisa quipped, “I thought you weren’t going to church today.”

“I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

Lisa set the plate of muffins in front of Jimmy, placed her hand over his, and prayed. “Father in Heaven, thank You for this glorious day –this day that You have made. Set our minds on You and prepare our hearts for worship. Forgive our apathy and our selfishness. Bless now this food to its intended use, and our bodies to Your service. Amen.”

Jimmy peeled away a muffin paper, avoiding Lisa’s smile, that was no doubt as convicting as her prayer. The space between them hung as silent as the curtains at the kitchen window. Lisa was relieved to see that he was wearing the shirt and pants she had chosen for him. Who knows what he might have chosen to wear?! At least she had managed to avoid additional tension over clothing. Jimmy hadn’t always felt this way about going to church, but Lisa knew that she had said enough, maybe even too much. From her background in Psychology she knew all about phases and life stages. She would just have to commit Jimmy’s moodiness to the Lord and wait.

The family gathered near the door, Bibles in hand. Lisa gave the girls a once-over. She tucked Rachel’s curls behind her headband and re-tied Shelby’s bow, making the loops even. She adjusted Jimmy’s shirt collar and combed his hair with her fingers, finally brushing the back of her hand along the side of his face. His eyes met hers for a brief moment.

Lisa selected an up-beat praise and worship CD for the family to listen to as she drove them to church. She prayed silently as the girls belted out the words to the songs from the back seat.

Music continued as the service began. The worship team skillfully wove scripture and prayer throughout their musical offerings, turning the congregation’s focus outward and upward to God.

After several announcements, a moving piece by the choir, and an update on church finances, it was almost time for the pastor to present his message. Lisa prayed fervently as Deacon Findley nodded in their direction and then motioned with his hand. “Pastor Jim, I’ll turn it over to you.” She watched as Jimmy stood and strode to the podium.

“Shall we pray?” he asked. Then he began, “Father in Heaven, thank You for this glorious day –this day that You have made. Set our minds on You and prepare our hearts for worship. Forgive our apathy and our selfishness…” Suddenly he opened his eyes and winked at Lisa, who sat gaping at him from the front row.

Pursing her lips, Lisa rolled her eyes at her husband.





"Wake Up, Jimmy" is a humorous fiction piece I chose for today's Fiction Friday. Julie is hosting today's Fiction Friday at Surrendered Scribe today, so please stop by her blog for links to more great fiction.

Weasel Ways

By Sharlyn Guthrie

Max snarled as Farmer Jake swung the long gate shut, latching it behind him. A sharp, corrective yip from the Collie’s mother silenced him until the farmer was out of sight.


“A lot of nerve he has, locking us up like criminals. I know. You’re going to say it’s for my own good.”

Mona sighed. “If you will simply stop this nonsense of running around with the weasels, Farmer Jake will start leaving the gate open again.”

“Get off my case. I’m not giving up my friends for you or anyone else.”

“But Max, it’s not natural for dogs and weasels to be friends. Our job is to protect the farm and the livestock. Weasels are thieves and murderers.”

“There you go, judging my friends again. You don’t even know any weasels. You can’t accuse them all just because you’ve heard terrible things about them.”

“I didn’t want to say this, Max, but you’ve left me no choice. It’s not just what I know about weasels that bothers me. It’s the changes I’ve seen in you since you started running with them.”

“Give me a break,” Max growled.

“Just hear me out, Max. For one thing, your attitude has changed. You used to nuzzle and play. You were never disrespectful. Now you snarl, growl, and talk back. Whatever were you thinking, snarling at Farmer Jake like that? Don’t you know his hands are the ones that feed you?”

Mona shook her thick mane before continuing, “You used to take pride in your work around the farmyard, but now you sleep all day and run all night. I don’t even want to think about the trouble you and your slinky friends must be getting into. And that stench! Do you have any idea how bad you smell? You reek, just like one of them! No wonder the dogs want nothing to do with you.”

“They’re just jealous. I’m the one having all the fun. I’m eating better, too. All Farmer Jake gives us is dog food and table scraps. Bor-ring! I’ve developed a taste for fresh food. I like to eat it while it’s still warm.”

Mona shuddered. “Son, I fear for you –for all of us. At least you won’t be prowling tonight; or anytime soon, for that matter. I’m glad Farmer Jake has put a stop to your foolishness.”

Mona curled up in a nest of hay near the barn door, keeping one eye open and trained on Max. As soon as she was convinced he was asleep, she began dreaming of sheep in rolling green meadows. A commotion brought her quickly back to the barn and up onto her strong, narrow legs.

Squawk! Squawk! The disturbance was in the hen house, on the other side of the fence. The other dogs were awake now, too, but the gate remained locked. Screeching and yelping sounds could be heard along with fluttering and squawking. Mona began to bark, and the others joined in the woofing, howling chorus.

Finally, Farmer Jake flung open the farmhouse door and the yard was flooded with light. One long, masked critter streaked out of the hen house and disappeared in the field beyond. Brandishing a shotgun, the farmer stormed into the hen house. Two shots rang out, silencing all but the nervous clucking of a few chickens.

Farmer Jake kicked the door open. Two lifeless weasels hung over one arm, while four dead chickens dangled by the feet from his other hand. He dropped the still forms into a barrel, then re-entered the hen house.

This time he emerged with a limp, shaggy form draped over his arms. Max! Mona searched frantically for him inside the fence, finding only a few tufts of his coat snagged on the wire above a freshly dug hole.

“I’m guessin’ ya got more than ya bargained for, Max,” said Farmer Jake. “Those weasels did a number on ya. If’n ya live through it, maybe it’ll teach ya somethin’, ya thick-headed mutt.” His harsh words were spoken with gentleness.

The wounded dog whimpered then, and Mona replied with a long, mournful whine. She hoped that her wayward son would survive and be a better barnyard dog for the experience. But she couldn’t help but wonder if Max’s pleasing puppy heart had been exchanged for that of a murderous, two-faced weasel.



“He who walks with the wise grows wise, but a companion of fools suffers harm.” Proverbs 13:20 (NIV)










I have the privilege of hosting Fiction Friday today. If you would like to participate, just add your link here:

A Shepherd Named Shimi

by Sharlyn Guthrie

Shabby shepherds hugged quivering lambs to pounding chests -clutched tangled wool with trembling fingers. Moments ago the black sky had hung silent. Now shepherds lay strewn across the hard ground where they fell, shielding unaccustomed eyes from blazing brightness.

Shimi spread the fingers of his grimy hands just enough to peek through them, afraid of what he would see, but also of what he might miss. Winter shepherding was a new experience in this, his twelfth year. Still, the frightful angelic appearance seemed to amaze even well seasoned, ordinarily unflappable shepherds.

The angel was speaking now. “Do not be afraid.” Easy for him to say! “I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.” Why did they choose us? “Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”* A feedbox? Surely the Savior deserves a bed.

The lone celestial being was suddenly joined by a whole company of angels shouting, singing, and praising God. Shimi wasn’t certain when his fear turned to wonder, only that it had. “On earth, peace…” the choir sang in blissful harmony before silently slipping behind ethereal, star-studded shades.

Mesmerized shepherds hesitated briefly, then scrambled to their feet. “We must go and find this infant. If true, this is very good news, indeed!” Two elderly herders agreed to guard the flock while the others gathered their cloaks and began running toward Bethlehem. Shimi’s youthful legs led the pack. Three miles, most of it uphill, was no small distance to cover.

Unlike most of his comrades, Shimi was educated. His father, while living, had insisted he memorize long passages from the sacred scrolls. As he ran, Shimi recalled the foretelling of a king coming from Bethlehem. Would this child fulfill the ancient prophecy?

Shimi had grown up fast. Upon his father’s death, he was obligated to care for his mother and younger siblings. Hireling was the only available job for one so young. Mother would be chagrined by the crude stories that assaulted his ears. Then there was the matter of thieving. Shimi was expected to assist in the unlawful sale of lambs being groomed for temple sacrifice. His refusal to do so resulted in daily ridicule.

The unsavory group slowed as their feet found the cobblestone streets of Bethlehem. Stealthily, in search of a stable, they darted down alleyways. If discovered, their presence near the stables in the middle of the night would certainly be suspect. In general, shepherds were considered mean and untrustworthy characters.

“Over here!” Shimi’s hoarse whisper drew immediate response. A dozen pairs of feet descended upon him. The stable door creaked open a bit, alerting the occupants.

“Who’s there?” A young man protectively wrapped his arms around the young girl beside him.

“It’s just as the angel said,” a shepherd announced. “We’ve found the Christ.”

“Angel, you say?” the young father inquired.

“Yes. An angel appeared in the field…nearly frightened us to death. We have come a good distance to see this for ourselves.” Quietly, respectfully, the men filled the space inside the barn as each gave an account of all they had witnessed. Joseph explained to the shepherds how he and Mary had also been visited by angels.

Shimi knelt by the baby. “May I touch him?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mary replied. “You are but a boy yourself.”

Shimi wiped his dirty hands on the inside of his cloak. Then, ever so gently he traced the back of his finger around the baby’s delicate face. "But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times."** His whispered words did not go unnoticed.

“How is it that you know the Scriptures?” Joseph asked.

“My father taught me. Your son is the long awaited king of Israel, and I…I am one of the first to know.” Shimi swiped an unbidden tear from his cheek. “We must spread this good news!”

Though their hands remained calloused, the adoring shepherds’ hearts were permanently softened. Their thieving ways and ridicule of Shimi ceased, and they told all who would listen of their encounter with the angels, and the good news of the Savior born in Bethlehem.





*Luke 2:10b-12 (NIV)
**Micah 5:2 (NIV)

Arrival and Survival of the City Kids

I'm sharing a little bit of fluff this week. With Thanksgiving coming, I thought about all the fun get-togethers taking place all over the United States this week. I hope these cousins make you smile.


Arrival and Survival of the City Kids
By Sharlyn Guthrie

The cousins all came to visit last week.
They arrived in their city clothes, stylish and sleek.
Uncle told Daddy, voice edged with alarm,
“My kids need to spend some time on the farm.
They’re lazy and soft and don’t have a clue.
I’m sure you and Marge will know just what to do.”

Like Daddy and Ma don’t have enough to do without babysitting.

Each left the mini-van wiping their tears,
backpack in hand, wires hung from their ears;
Zach with his I-pod, Rochelle’s DVD,
Jed’s portable lap-top, a Game Boy for Leigh.
The first thing Dad did was collect each device
and hide them away. He didn’t blink twice.

Do they think they’re on vacation or something?

Ma called us to dinner. She’d made quite a spread:
sliced parsnips, fresh peas, and homemade rye bread,
lamb burgers, taters, and strawberry pie.
They turned up their noses and passed it on by.
Daddy observed them, arching his left brow.
Such finicky eating he’d never allow.

I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow after Uncle leaves!

The boys did the dishes, the girls made the beds;
two rows ‘cross the floor, with heads matching heads.
Then, in the dark, we cousins -all seven-
whispered and giggled ‘til way past eleven.
“Hush! Don’t you know you’ll be up before long?”
Dad hollered, “the farm chores begin before dawn.”

I’ll bet they think he’s foolin’.

Of course Daddy woke us at quarter to five.
How would those city kids ever survive?
Jed helped milk the cows and Rochelle slopped the hogs.
We gathered the eggs, then fed cats and dogs,
gave corn to the chickens, and fed lambs their bottles,
then Zach mowed the hay field with tractor full-throttle.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was having fun.

We rode the hay wagon and baled up the hay,
Then up in the loft we stacked it away.
When dinner time came and the platters were passed
each morsel was eaten, right down to the last;
then straight to our beds with nary a whimper,
and all without Daddy once losing his temper.

Like Daddy would dust THEIR britches, anyway.

After that first day, we mixed work with fun.
We swam in the horse tank and dried in the sun,
played tag after dark –the whole cousin clan-
and swung in the hayloft on ropes like Tarzan;
then back in the corner Leigh glimpsed a cat’s paw
and discovered new kittens curled up in the straw.

You would-a thought she found gold or something.

Our cousins left Sunday; that day was our last.
We cried as we hugged them; the week went too fast.
We gave them zucchini, tomatoes, and beets,
carrots and corn and a kitten named “Deetz.”
They aren’t city kids now, as this story ends;
turns out our four cousins are really our friends.

Hey, wait! They forgot their stuff… I-pod, DVD player, laptop and Game Boy. (Smile.) They’ll be back soon.





Sherri is hosting Fiction Friday today at A Candid Thought. Go right on over there and find some links to more great fiction.

A Corner for Clovis and Me

Today I am sharing a story that came directly from my heart, as well as from what I saw, heard, and experienced in Uganda last summer. This story is not an exaggeration. It is an accurate portrayal of life for hundreds, even thousands of African children today.

My story won 1st place overall for the topic "childhood" in the Faithwriters' writing challenge. It can also currently be found online at Journey Ezine.



A Corner for Clovis and Me
By Sharlyn Guthrie

I hear chanting. As always, I believe at first it is a dream. Silently, I count to one hundred eight, the number of morning mantras. By twenty-five I know it is morning. Roosters crow now, and orange ribbons of daylight spill over our broken brick wall. Clovis sighs, his tiny hand curled around my finger. I curl myself around my sleeping brother. Clovis means fighter. My brother lives because he is a fighter. My name, Palesa, means flower, but I will fight, too, for my brother.

Clovis and I are Karamajong, a tribe known for fighting and stealing. Our people are despised and poor. After Mama died, Uncle sent me to the markets to steal. “Don’t come back empty-handed,” He said. Like all good Karamajong, I can steal, but I don’t like to. Once I brought home potato peels and rotten bananas. Uncle was boozing with his friends under the jackalberry tree, long straws curving from each of their mouths to the common boozing pot in the center. He slapped me so hard my eyes swelled shut.

Clovis was always with me in the markets. Some who saw that I carried a baby pretended not to see me stealing. One day I was grabbed on each side by two soldiers. Though I quickly gave up my loot, they only grunted, heaving Clovis and me into the back of a truck filled with many children. We left Kenya that day. We have not seen Uncle since.

The truck stopped in Jinja and we took to the streets. Having never been to school, I could not count. Now that I can count, though, I think there were one hundred eight of us -the same as the number of morning chants to the Allah god. These chants are heard, if not heeded. We are neither heard nor heeded, but shooed out of the way like rats. In Uganda there are many homeless children. Even potato peels and rotten bananas are scarce.

One day we found Miss Rachel; or she found us. She came looking for us with open arms, asking us our names, gazing into our eyes like we were something special. She began bringing us food, always calling us by name. She told us of Jesus, a Good Shepherd, who knows all of His sheep. He is her shepherd, she told us, and wants to be our Shepherd, too.

Miss Rachel brought posho one afternoon and looked over all who gathered around. “Where’s Lydia? She asked.”

“Lydia is dead,” I told her. “She was so hungry she pulled meat from a dead rat’s mouth and ate it. Then she died.” Miss Rachel cried. She pulled us all to her chest and cried and cried. That is when I first felt the love of the Good Shepherd.

I found a place in the slums for Clovis and me to sleep. One wall of this room has crumbled, but part of a roof still covers our corner. It is a good place to rest until the rains come. Then we hug each other and shiver, waiting for daylight, hoping for the next day’s sunshine. During rainy season we stop hoping for sunshine, and I beg Miss Rachel’s Jesus to stop the rain.

Last May, when the rains ended, Miss Rachel invited us to school! I was afraid of going to school, but she promised us food and took us there in a truck the first day. We had to watch where we were going so we would know how to come back.

School is five kilometers away. Each day now, I carry Clovis along the red, dusty road, dodging motorbikes and boda bodas. My feet are calloused and tough. Still, I wish sometimes for a pair of shoes.

At school we sing and pray to the living God. Then we drink a big cup of porridge. I smile, watching as Clovis slurps and licks the drips off his chin. He naps in my lap during morning classes. I listen carefully, doing my best to learn and understand. After baths, at noonday, we eat a bowl of rice, sometimes wearing our gifts of fresh, new clothes. Then, under the warm afternoon sun I run, and laugh, and play. And for a little while I feel like a girl of ten.



Author’s note: While Palesa is a fictional character, her story could be that of thousands of street orphans currently living in Uganda. For most of us, such an existence is difficult, even painful to imagine. For children like Palesa it is the only childhood they have ever known.

I will be returning to Uganda this next summer to hold a teacher conference for Ugandan teachers who work with these children, helping to feed, clothe and educate them daily. If you would like to contribute to this ministry, you can do so here: Heart of God in Uganda.


For more great fiction, please visit Rick @ Pod Tales and Ponderings.

The Thirsty Soul

by Sharlyn Guthrie

One solitary drop of water landed on an outstretched tongue. Until that very moment, the soul was unaware of its thirst. Now its open mouth reached heavenward in great expectation.

How long since I last drank?

With eyes and awareness now heightened, the soul saw nothing but desert stretched out ahead. No life apparent here, only bones…eerie predictors of the soul’s own fate.

How did I come to this dry and desolate place?

When the soul began its journey it had waded waist-deep in the stream of living water, drinking deeply and frequently. Memory supplied the missing snapshots.

__________________________________________________


CLICK-CLICK!

“Do you know much about this water?” the confident fellow on the shore had inquired. “Do you know where it comes from, what it is made of, what lives in it, where it will end?”

No. I haven’t thought about those things. I’m just enjoying the water.

“A common mistake,” the fellow had laughed, “and a sure sign of immaturity, as well. You need to walk out here until you know more about it.”

CLICK-CLICK!

I’m getting very thirsty. I think I’ll go back in the water.

“That would be a big mistake. What you need is food. Here, eat this steak. Then we will have some bread.”

The bread and steak are wonderful, but I’m so thirsty. I really need some water.

“Only the weak return to the water. See how foolish the others look, splashing and frolicking like children?”

I wish I was in the water with them.

“You don’t know what you’re missing. Mature souls crave food. Follow me.”


CLICK-CLICK!

Long rows of tables stretched across a dining hall. Heads bowed over heaping plates. The diners ate in silence except for the chewing and smacking sounds that occasionally escaped their lips. The soul felt thin and frail compared to the overall plumpness of this group. They motioned toward a chair at one of the tables spread with an amazing array of various foods.

Oh! Thank you! The food looks delicious, but could I please have a drink of water?

At this the other diners stopped, mid-bite, and stared. The meaning behind their blank expressions could not be discerned, but the soul flashed its best smile, grabbed a fork, and began to eat, instructing itself not to ask the same question again.

CLICK-CLICK!

Life centered on the preparation, presentation, and consumption of extravagant meals. Little else mattered. As promised, knowledge about water was gained, and the soul became convinced that the knowledge was a logical, if not wholly satisfying, substitute for the real thing. The soul found itself gaining poundage and looking very much like the other diners. It felt smug and superior when the occasional frail soul wandered in.

But over time the number of diners had dwindled. Those who ventured outside the dining hall rarely returned. One day the soul left the dining hall, promising to return with young souls that needed filling.

__________________________________________________


Now, one drop of water had rekindled the soul’s desire, yet all that could be seen for miles around were dry, dead bones.

How could I have forgotten how much I need the water?

With thirst renewed, the soul fell to its knees in the scorching sand. A prayer emanated from its parched lips.

Jesus, I have wandered far from You, the Living Water. Foolishly I denied the thirst you created within me. I am fat, but empty; full, but very, very thirsty. I have lost my way. Help me return to the stream and drink deeply of You.

The sky opened, raining on the grateful soul. The soul drank. It laughed, and sang and danced. Turning around, the soul could now see the path it had taken…the path that had led it far from the life-giving stream. Now it returned, running back along the same path, filled with new purpose and anticipation.

As the exultant soul ran past the dining hall a few diners pressed their noses to the windows and watched, uncomprehending. Then, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues, they returned to their tables and prepared for yet another meal without anything to drink.






If you found yourself identifying with the soul in this allegory, I pray that you have already found your way back to the Living Water. If not, perhaps this allegory has renewed your thirst.

Sara is hosting Fiction Friday this week on her blog, Fiction Fusion. Please stop by and follow the links to more great fiction.