A Touch of Mercy–In Other Words Tuesday

“Nothing humbles and breaks the heart of a sinner
like mercy and love.
Souls that converse much with sin and wrath,
may be much terrified;
but souls that converse much with grace and mercy,
will be much humbled.”

~ ~Thomas Brooks (1608 – 1680) ~

A Touch of Mercy
Bonnie Winters © 6/5/2006

A short story based on John 8:1-11 (NIV)

Gritty dust caked on her teary cheeks as she lay panting on the ground where she fell. It mingled with blood seeping from the cut on her mouth where a heavy-handed man slapped her to quiet her protests.

“Get up, harlot. Let’s see how Jesus judges you today.” A rough hand hauled her to her feet and shoved her forward. She willed herself to keep silent against the pain as she stumbled into a circle of leering men. Regaining her balance, she lifted her chin in an attempt at a haughty pose. Her clenched teeth bit back the retort she would have made to the Pharisees who dragged her here.

Fools, she thought, raking the circle with her eyes. She masked her fading bravado as she realized there was nowhere to run. The bawdy crowd blocked her escape, calling for the Master’s decision.

“Stone her. She was taken in the very act of adultery. She is guilty!” A sallow man, dressed in the gaudy robes of richness, stroked his beard with one hand while he shook his other fist in the air. She recognized his beady eyes and harsh features; he was the man who had been spying on her every move, waiting and baiting her.

She spat her contempt in his direction as the crowd took up his accusation. “Stone her! Stone her. It is the law.” She could almost see their fingers twitch in anticipation against the rocks in their hands.

On the fringes of the tense crowd, enterprising young men lay odds on the outcome of the spectacle. Anger and fear warred in her breast as her breathing quickened through her clenched teeth.

The icy bitterness in her eyes focused on the one they called “Master.” Go ahead. Condemn me, just like everyone else. What’s it to you if I die? There will just be one less harlot in the world. Why should you care that a Roman soldier stole my virginity before I was even a woman? You are a man just like all the rest, taking what I offer, then spitting in my face. But at least when I ply my trade, I hold the power.

Jesus met her glare. Like the warm wind of spring blowing over the land, His gaze melted the ice in her eyes. The catcalls and demanding shouts from the crowd faded until He was the only one in her world. Suddenly the air grew thick as she gulped back the tears, trying to steel herself against the searing compassion in His eyes. Her heart burned as though a flame had scorched it - burning away all her defenses, her hatred and bitterness, leaving her soul naked before Him. She pulled her torn cloak tighter around her shoulders, grasping it about her neck. If only she could run and hide her shame from His eyes.

Unable to break the hold of His powerful gaze, images of her life flashed through her mind. She was a cowering child with a tear-stained face, an angry adolescent declaring she would overcome her oppressors, a haughty woman taking control of her life in the only way she knew how. His eyes reflected a frightened and hurting lioness ready to turn back toward her enemy in self-preservation and rip him to shreds. The total love and forgiveness she felt in his visual embrace shamed her to the core of her being.

How can He love me with all the bitterness and hatred I see in my heart? I can never be good enough – never be clean enough to be worthy of Him. She held her body rigid, fighting against His love. The only evidence of her inner struggle was the trembling of her lower lip.

When He turned his gaze away and stooped nearby to write in the dust, the burning faded. The air chilled as though the sun had disappeared behind a gray cloud. Her soul was alone again with its icy bitterness.

She became conscious of the crowd once more. “What is he doing?” Necks craned to read His words. “Why isn’t he doing something?” The crowd began to shift nervously. “He must call for stoning. It is the law!”

When the woman’s accusers continued to badger Him, He rose and met each man’s eyes with a level gaze. “If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.”

“No!” Fear swallowed her last shred of hope as she raised her arms to cover her head for what little protection she could muster. He had deceived her! Lulled her into a false hope that He was different, caring. This Jesus was throwing her to the ravenous Pharisee dogs. She tensed, closing her eyes and waiting for the first stone to pelt her body. But the pain never came.

Nervous feet scuffed the ground, as the crowd dispersed man by man. Silence. She opened her eyes; slowly lowering her arms, daring to glance around her, yet ready to cover herself if needed. The Master still wrote on the ground, but the men were gone.

Her eyes stared at the man drawing pictures in the dust. She willed him to look at her, to face her and explain why – how He could move her heart to repentance in one moment then turn on her the next. But she dare not voice her thoughts. He was after all a man with the power to break her.

Finally Jesus stood and gazed around the empty street. “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”

The dragon of self-protection rose in her heart, spewing haughty words. “No one, sir.” As their eyes met for the second time, she flushed with self-condemnation for her shameful actions. She sniffed back the tears. Her lips trembled again, awaiting His judgment.

Why don’t you condemn me? Why don’t you stone me? You know what I am. You know the anger and hatred I feel. Do something! Please don’t just stand there staring at me. I deserve to die.

“Then neither do I condemn you.” He smiled, His understanding and love reaching out to her lonely heart. “Go now and leave your life of sin.”

She turned and fled from His presence, running until her breath came in hard gasps. Nausea roiled in the pit of her stomach. Bile burned her throat as she retched onto the hard-packed earth. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Kneeling there beside the road, she poured out her sins and hurts to her God. I am so sorry, God, so sorry. She wept bitterly.

“Neither do I condemn you.” His words reverberated in her mind. “Go now and leave your life of sin.”

A feeling of lightness, newness, seeped into her soul. She could never, would never go back to that life again. He had seen the raw nakedness of her soul and showed mercy in spite of it. Behold, He made all things new

***

Today’s In Other Words is hosted by Twinkle Mom at her site SunflowerFaith.  If you’d like to participate, share you thoughts on your blog site.  Then, visit Twinkle Mom’s blog  and share a  link to your blog.

Be sure to visit the others who have also written on it and leave a comment for each one as well, so they know you were there.You will be blessed!

Walking With The God Who Sees

A Short Story Based on Genesis 16:1-15

“You worthless slave! You have caused me so much trouble; I almost wish you had died out there in the wilderness. If you weren’t carrying Abram’s child… Humph! I would beat you senseless for your insolence.”

Hagar clamped her lips together in a thin line and stood tall in the face of Sarai’s rage.She wanted to blurt out every detail of her experience in the wilderness – how Abram’s God had seen her lying there on the ground with her face covered in muddy tears because of the older woman’s harsh words and abuse. How He comforted her and told her the baby she carried was a son. Yes, she…Hagar… a worthless slave, would bear Abram a fine son when her mistress couldn’t even conceive!

A hint of a smirk played on the young slave’s lips. The old familiar arrogance bubbled up from the pit of her stomach. When my son is born, we’ll see who’s worthless, she thought

“Submit to your mistress.” The force of the whispered words in her heart left her emotions off-balance just as Sarai raised her hand, striking the young slave’s cheek.

Hagar staggered backwards. Her cheeks paled and black spots danced before her eyes. She grasped her bulging abdomen and breathed deeply to keep herself from fainting.

The eyes of her mistress narrowed. “If anything happens to that child because of your foolishness, you will pay! Now, go to your own tent and get out of my sight!”

“Submit to Sarai.” The Voice spoke again as Hagar stumbled back to her own tent.

Shadows crept over her soul, like the darkness swallows the desert at twilight. She feared this inner darkness more than anything her mistress could do t her. Would Abram’s God kill her unborn son because of her foolish pride?

“Forgive me Lord. I know you told me I must come back and submit to Sarai, but you see how she goads me. I don’t know how I can bear her abuse until this child is born. “

Tears pooled in her eyes as she sank wearily into the pile of goatskins in one corner. Though she was able to maneuver her body into a comfortable position, her heartache increased. Sleep refused to come. “I guess I thought it would be different. I hoped you would change her heart and things would be better. But she hasn’t changed at all! Why did you make me come back here?” She sobbed, unable to stem the flow of her tears.

“Things will be better Hagar. You’ll see.”

El Roi, the God who sees, was still watching her, hearing the cries of her heart! An overwhelming shame blanketed her soul and she wept bitterly. “I am unworthy of Your care, my Lord. After all You did for me in the wilderness, my only thought was to flaunt it in the face of my mistress. Help me to lay aside my foolish pride and arrogance. Help me to please you with my attitude.”

Once again, the Voice spoke to her heart. “You cannot come face to face with the God who sees you and remain the same. Your mistress has not changed, but you have.”

Hagar struggled to sit up, dashing the tears from her cheeks as a cocoon of love enveloped her. A sense of wonder swelled inside for His words to her heart rang true. El Roi was not just the God of Abram; He was her God too! He saw the ugly condition of her heart and cleansed it, made it new again. He forgave her!

The young slave knew what she had to do. She bowed her head and surrendered her will wholly to her God. “No matter what my mistress does; no matter how she treats me; even if she never changes toward me or the son I carry, I will serve Sarai as an offering of love to You.”

by Bonnie Winters – January 21, 2011

Twas A Month Before Christmas

Hello everyone! It has been quite some time since my last blog. I've been on a writing "sabbatical" of sorts, getting some things straightened out and doing quite a bit of praying about what to do next and where to go with things. Thank you to those of you who asked what was going on! I really appreciate your care and concern. I'm not sure how soon I'll be blogging regularly again, but wanted to share a chuckle with you today. God Bless!

Bonnie



Twas A Month Before Christmas


Twas a month before Christmas
And all through the house
Everyone was salivating
Including the mouse.

The heavenly aroma
Of warm chocolate chips
Caused even the finicky
To lick hungry lips.

The cookies were laid
On wire racks to cool
While children hung ‘round
Beginning to drool.

And Ma in her apron
And green oven mitt
Scraped the glass bowl
To get every bit.

When in the living room
There rose such a clatter,
She raced in to see,
Leaving her batter.

The old Christmas tree
Lay bent on the floor
While Pa sat there laughing
And laughing some more.

A string of white lights
Hung from one limb
While several more
Hung all over him!

He blinked and twinkled
And chuckled with glee
As he rose to his feet
And righted the tree,

Ma started to speak,
Choosing words with care
Then she stopped and turned
And sniffed at the air.

“Oh no,” she cried
And started to choke
For out of the oven came
Billowing smoke.

“My cookies,” she yelled,
And turned with a flash
Flung open the shutters
And threw up the sash.

Hard lumps of coal
Lay where cookies had been.
Ma crying, Pa laughing,
Oh my what a din!

“At least I have some,”
She thought to herself.
But not a cookie remained
On the rack or the shelf.

The children all scattered
Each to his room
When Mama turned red
And reached for her broom.

And I heard her exclaim
As she plopped in her chair,
“Honolulu for Christmas.
I wanna go there!”

©Bonnie Winters 2008

Hope you and yours have a very wonderful "Christ"mas!

Fiction Friday - Beggars Can't Be Choosy

Beggars Can't Be Choosey

"Another donation." Shara muttered under her breath while poking through the large metal bin purposely left outside the back door of the agency. "More stuff the rich recycle for the poor.

She launched into her sarcastic beggars-can't-be-choosey diatribe as she lifted items out of the bin. "This metal garbage can only has a few dents and the handle is missing from the lid. If some poor person doesn't have a garbage can, they'll be glad to get this one, even with the dents!"

Shara laughed - the forced kind of laughter she used to mask her anger as she ditched stained onesies, a pair of ripped canvas sneakers and a frying pan with most of the non-stick coating worn off. With a loud huff, she smashed the lid down on the bin.

Next to the bin was a big box of donated cans and old boxes of cereal. "This isn't even supposed to be here. Do people want to attract rats?"

Shara fished out a half-used bag of sugar and snorted in disgust. "Well, if someone is so poor they can't buy sweetener for their cereal, this will be a real treat."

"Humph! I'd be ashamed to offer a dog leftovers and expired food like that." She trundled the sugar and the rest of the outdated food to the dumpster at the back of the lot.

She locked the door behind her as she returned to her desk, grumbling to any of her co-workers who would listen about how wasteful people were now-a-days and how inconsiderate they were to offer their castoffs to others simply because the recipients were "poor."

Back at her desk, she settled down and dug in her pockets for two quarters. "Boy could I use a pick-me-up right about now." The snack machine still had her favorite candy bars for 50 cents.

Realizing her pockets were empty, she checked her desk drawers. "No, I guess I spent those two quarters last week and forgot to replace them."

She picked up her designer bag and began rummaging for her change purse. That too came up empty with only 2 pennies and some lint. "Uh-oh. I guess I'm broke 'til payday tomorrow."

In a last ditch effort to satisfy her cravings, she turned her purse upside down, dumping the contents onto her desk. Still no change.

As she swept her makeup bag back into the purse, she found a half-eaten chocolate bar deposited there by her four-year-old daughter during church two Sundays ago. It was a little mangled and linty on one end where the paper had been ripped, but otherwise intact. Triumphantly she held it up and grinned. "Can't let this go to waste. It's chocolate!"

***

To read more great short stories, visit our hostess Betsy for Fiction Friday today at her site Just Another Clay Pot. Scroll down and click on the other authors names to read their offerings today and be sure to leave a comment to let them know you were there!

If you've written one you'd like to share, place your URL in the Mr. Linky box on Betsy's site.

Happy reading and writing!

Fiction Friday - Grandma's Pressure Cooker

Grandma's Pressure Cooker

The stainless steel pressure cooker gleamed as Grandma took it out of the box, but not as brightly as her smile. Grinning like a schoolgirl, she thanked Grampa for the birthday gift."How did you know? I've always wanted one of these! It will make cooking and canning so much easier!"

She pecked him on the cheek as the family clapped and hooted their approval.

"Grammy, we all helped to buy it," little Jimmy blurted out. "I gave Grampa a quarter." Everyone laughed and nodded in agreement.

"Well, thank you all! This is the best birthday present I ever got!"

Like a child with a new toy, she had to try it out. For the next week, she cooked everything in that pot. On Monday she made pot roast and called Tanya and the boys over for dinner. Tuesday it was beef stew with the leftovers for Shirley and her husband Dean.

Spaghetti sauce bubbled in the pot on Wednesday which she ladled into jars to give to each of the grandchildren and on Thursday she made pea soup according to her prize-winning recipe.

She soaked the dried peas overnight, then drained off the water early the next morning before adding carrots and ham with just the right seasonings. She fastened the lid, careful to be sure it was secure and turned up the heat. With supper on the stove, she headed outside to collect the dry laundry flapping on the line.

The breeze cooled her flushed face after the heat of the kitchen. As she hung each towel and sheet on the line, she lifted her face heavenward and breathed a prayer for each of her children.

"Thank you Lord for such a wonderful family." She lifted her eyes toward heaven and beamed. "They are so good to me."

A loud crash in the kitchen interrupted her reverie. She dropped the sheet she was hanging up and threw down the clothespins as she raced back inside to see what happened.

Pea soup dotted her curtains. Carrots stained the ceiling and the cat lapped bits of ham off the floor. Grandma looked around in dismay. "What happened here? My soup...my new pressure cooker!"

She picked up the lid lying on the floor and wiped away some of the gooey green mess. The once shiny lid, sported a nice dent. She blinked away the hot tears threatening to spill out as she surveyed the mess.The glass door of her corner cupboard would need to be replaced and her favorite souvenir salt and pepper shakers from Niagara Falls lay shattered on the floor among the soupy remains.

"This will take all afternoon to clean up! And what will I make for supper now? Everyone was waiting for my pea soup." Exhaling forcefully,Grandma gulped back her frustrations and set to work on the mess. She shooed the kitten out of the kitchen before mopping up. Three hours later, her curtains hung on the clothesline and floor sparkled from the vigorous scrubbing.

Grandma got out the fixings for macaroni and cheese and soon had the mixture bubbling in the oven. She plopped down in her recliner and fanned herself with her apron, breathing hard and holding her aching head. She examined the lid from the cooker to see what had caused it to explode. A clogged vent had prevented the steam from escaping, causing pressure to build up dangerously high. After a brief rest, Grandma went to the basement and found the box for her pressure canner. She packed it away and toted to to the attic.

We all wondered why Grandma never used her pressure cooker again, our mouths watering at the memories of her culinary treats. When we asked her, she just smiled and said, "It's just too much work!"

***

Can you tell I have been canning and preserving a lot these days - even my Fiction Friday story is geared that way!

Fiction Friday is being hosted today by Joanne over at her site An Open Book. To participate, post your story on your blog, then visit Joanne and leave your URL in the Mr. Linky box.

Be sure to check out the other great stories this week! And don't forget to leave a comment for the authors.

Happy Reading!

***

Fiction Friday - Resurrections

Resurrections
Bonnie Winters
Based on Luke 8:40-56

My head ached so much; I could barely hold it up. The last thing I wanted was to be sick, especially on my birthday. Mother promised to make her special barley cakes sweetened with honey if I would grind the grain. But the stone grew heavy in my hands and my muscles felt like mush.

“Mother, my head hurts.” I tried to ease the pain by massaging my temples.
She lifted my chin and peered at me. “I see the pain in your eyes. Your head is hot too. Here, let me help you to bed.”

The room spun in circles and I panicked as my knees buckled. “Hold me tighter, Mother.”

She tightened her grip around my waist. “Lean on me. You’ll make it.” The firmness in her voice calmed me a little.

After I lay down, I struggled to slow my breathing, inhaling deeply, then exhaling slowly. The dizziness eased, but my head still ached. I wanted to cry, but that would only make the pain worse.

“God is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in trouble.” Mother crooned the words of a Psalm while she laid cool cloths on my head. It helped a little, until I began to shiver and couldn’t stop.

“I j-just w-want to get w-warm.” My teeth chattered so hard that I could barely force the words out. “W-why can’t I g-get w-warm?”

“The Lord is my shepherd...” Mother continued to sing as she tucked wool blankets around me. Gradually, my shivering lessened and I began to relax.
The sound of voices in the room roused me. Midday sunlight streaming through the window hurt my eyes, so I squinted to see who was there. Father stood in the far corner of the room talking with my mother.

“Please, Jairus, we have to do something.” She seemed upset. Why was she worried? Perhaps she needed my help.

“Help me up and I’ll...” I tried to call out, but only managed a weak moan. My tongue felt thick and heavy in my mouth. “Thirsty.”

Mother hurried to my side and dribbled water down my throat. “Your father went to see Jesus to beg Him to come and heal you.”

Jesus. Who is this Jesus? His name sounds familiar, but it hurts too much to remember.

A tear formed in the corner of my eye. “Head hurts,” I moaned.
Why does my head have to hurt so badly?
***
Loud crying roused me some time later. I forced my heavy eyelids open a crack and saw my aunts and cousins huddled around my mother.

Please stop crying. The noise hurts my head.

Though I tried to move my parched lips, no words came. I gasped for air, but it felt like a large millstone rested on my chest, squeezing the air out but not letting any back in.

So tired. Just want to sleep. Please let me sleep.
***
Delicious warmth seeped into my body. I stretched, breathing deeply. My eyelids fluttered open, the heaviness gone. My eyes adjusted without effort to the brightness around me.

“My head doesn’t hurt anymore!”

I sat up slowly, pinching my arms and legs to be sure this was real and not another dream. I laughed as I stood, stomping my feet to be sure my knees wouldn’t give out under me. Just because I could, I danced around in circles with my hands raised in the air. I sucked in great gulps of air and shouted “Praise Yahweh!” at the top of my voice.

From far away, I heard the sounds of wailing and mourning, but it didn’t matter anymore. Was this Abraham’s Bosom my father spoke about? I searched my mind for words to describe this place, but I found only one – it was Paradise! I couldn’t contain the laughter gurgling up from inside my heart as I basked in the pure wonder of it all. I wanted to stay here forever.

From somewhere behind me a voice called my name.“Where are you, Lord?” I turned around, searching for Him.

“Daughter, arise.” He spoke with irresistible firmness.

I didn’t want to leave this place – this Paradise – but I knew I had to turn around and go back. I cast a wistful glance at the fading brightness.

My eyes fluttered open.

The same warmth and light I knew in Paradise greeted me, shining from His eyes. Instantly, I recognized Him. “Jesus.”

When He smiled, my heart fluttered with excitement. My whole body tingled with His strength, as He took my hand and helped me up. I felt loved, cherished. As I gazed into His eyes, I promised I would love Him forever.

***
“You were thinking about Him again, weren’t you?” Mary startled me from my reverie as she touched my shoulder.

“I can’t stop thinking about Him. It’s so hard to believe He’s gone.” Tears brimmed in my eyes. I bit my lower lip and willed my tears to stop, but they slipped down my cheeks.

“I know. I miss Him too.” She wrapped her arms around me and we sobbed together for what seemed an eternity.

“When I was sick, He touched me and made me live again. Now He’s gone.” I sniffled back more tears. “It doesn’t make sense. He was a good man. Why did they want to kill Him?” I couldn’t hold back the flood of memories. “Jesus healed my friend Thomas from palsy that caused him to fall into the fire. He made Jonathan feel special when He used his lunch to feed five thousand people. Can you believe it? Feeding five thousand people – with just two little fish and five loaves of bread. Another time, the disciples tried to shoo all of us away. They said Jesus was too tired to be bothered with our childishness, but Jesus called us to Him and told us stories about His Father. He laid His hands on the little ones and blessed them.”

I hesitated when we reached the edge of the garden near the tomb. “Mary, I can’t do this. I can’t help wash His body and wrap it with spices.” I felt the scarlet flush of shame creep up my cheeks. I was a young woman now and responsible enough to help prepare the dead for burial, but... I lowered my eyes and wept again. “He did so much for others, and I want to do something for Him, but I can’t bear to see His lifeless body lying there. I feel like I’m letting Him down.”

Mary tried to comfort me. “It will be all right. Sit here and mourn. When you are ready, you may come and help us.”

I sat alone with my back toward the tomb. Voiceless groans swelled from deep within me, as I covered my face with my hands. When the wave of agony passed, I tried to remember the beauty of Paradise and to imagine Him smiling in that place. Even those thoughts brought little relief from the crushing grief. I missed Him. My heart was torn in two and I had no desire to go on living.

Anger trod on the heels of my grief. I swiped away the tears with the back of my hand. Clenching my teeth, I looked toward heaven and shouted, “Why did You have to leave me, Jesus? I wish You had never made me come back to this life. Then at least I could be with You in Paradise!” I hugged myself and rocked back and forth until the next wave of grief passed.

“I’m sorry, Jesus.” I repented of my anger and wished I could feel His comforting presence. “I know that’s not true. If You had not touched me, my heart would have been dead forever. You gave me life and hope when I saw Paradise in Your eyes.”
“It’s a miracle!” Mary ran down the path as if her hem was on fire, waving her arms. “He’s alive!” she shouted over her shoulder at me as she sped by.

I turned back toward the garden. He’s alive? A shiver crept through me.
“Mary?” I looked back down the path, hoping to catch her, but she was gone.
He’s alive. Is that what she said?

I stood rooted there with my mouth open, hardly daring to breathe as His words came back to me: “I am the resurrection and the life... I am the life... the life...” The words pulsed in my veins, quickening my heartbeat.

Jesus said He would rise again. I heard Him say it. Is it possible?
I had to know. Hiking up my robe, I skirted the rocks at the side of the path and ran into the garden.

I stopped running when I saw a man standing behind the tomb with His back to me. I gulped a breath of air, hoping against hope. “Jesus?”

As He turned to me and smiled, the warmth and light of Paradise flooded my soul. My heart fluttered with excitement. “Jesus! It is you – You’re alive!” I couldn’t hold back the tears of joy – I didn’t want to.

I felt like a young child again. Sniffling back the tears, I admitted my deepest fear to Him: “I was afraid You had left me.”

“My Child, don’t you know I will never leave you? I’ll always be a part of you.” My whole body tingled as Eternal Life touched my heart. I felt loved and cherished, like a child safe in her Father’s arms.

I brushed away my tears and smiled. “I understand now – not even death can separate us. My heart belongs to You forever.”

© 2006 by Bonnie Winters

To read more great short stories or to participate in Fiction Friday, visit Patty over at her site Patterings!

Happy reading and writing.

Fiction Friday - Stained Glass Lives

The serenity of the hospital chapel numbed Sharon’s grief-stricken soul. Sunlight dancing through the stained glass windowpane created lilting patterns on the carpeted floor, contrasting with the gray shadows of her heart. “I should be getting home,” she said, puffing out her cheeks as she exhaled forcefully.

Driving through the winding streets toward home, she recounted the events of the long day. Memories of the tubes, the beeping monitors, the parade of doctors in and out of the room and the ominous silence as life stopped all blurred in her mind as tears filled her eyes.

She pulled over to the side of the road and let them fall unchecked. “Lord, I can’t imagine life without Dad. I feel like my heart is broken into a thousand tiny pieces. Life will never be whole and beautiful again.”

Jeanne, a widowed friend of the family helped Sharon make the funeral arrangements. Placing her arms around the younger woman, she said, “When my Charlie died, I felt so lost and alone. I still miss him, but the intense pain has passed. It takes awhile to get back to living.”

Rather than diminishing as the days passed, the black cloud surrounding her life intensified. Sharon barely left the house. She sat on her father’s bed, surrounded by empty boxes, trying to pack up his closet full of striped ties and button-down shirts. Each one she folded brought a new sense of grief.

“You were always there for me, Dad. You went to all my high school plays, and all my volleyball games. We did everything together.” She shouted through tightened lips and brushed angrily at the tears. “Why did you have to leave me now? I still needed you.”

Feeling alone and overwhelmed, she closed the door on the mess and looked for something edible in the fridge. The meals from well-meaning church ladies were gone. She pulled out a half-empty carton of milk, wrinkling her nose at the stench as she checked the expiration date. “I really need to get to the grocery store. Maybe tomorrow.”

Rummaging in the cupboard, she found canned chicken noodle soup, dumped it into a large mug and heated it. A heel of bread along with the soup would have to do for supper. Why bother to cook? There’s no one here but me.

Ignoring the dishes piled in the sink; Sharon slumped into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. Grabbing the remote, she flicked through the channels as she sipped on her cup of soup. Settling on a game show rerun, she tucked her feet up under her and buttoned up her emotions as she would her parka against the wintry chill.

When the doorbell rang at 3:00 in the afternoon, she shuffled over, opened the door a crack and peered out. Jeanne bustled past her with a cheery smile. The smile vanished as she looked at the younger woman. “Look at you! You look like you slept in those sweats for a week and there’s a tomato soup stain on the front of your tee shirt. When was the last time you washed your hair? It’s sticking up all over the place.”

Sharon grunted. “Go away and leave me alone. I’m trying to clean out Dad’s room.”

“Sure you are. That’s why you have that game show on TV?” Without waiting, the older woman propelled Sharon toward the bathroom. “You climb in the shower and I’ll go find something for you to wear,”

She dug in her heels at Jeanne’s persistence. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We’re going out to dinner, and then we’re going to the craft show at the mall. Your Dad wouldn’t have wanted you to waste away to nothing like this.”

She wanted to shout at Jeanne, but managed to keep her tone level. “How do you know what Dad would have wanted?” She regretted the bitter question immediately as a dark shadow passed over the older woman’s features.

“I’m sorry,” Sharon mumbled. “I know you were close to Dad since Charlie died.” She fled into the bathroom and turned on the hot water full force. She needed to warm the numbness in her soul, but it would take more than a hot shower.

On the drive to the mall, she stared out the window in an effort to discourage conversation but Jeanne persisted. “Did you know I started keeping house for your dad shortly after your Momma died in the accident? That was long before I met Charlie.”

Sharon shook her head, still focusing out the window. “No.”

“You were such a bitty little thing.” The older woman smiled, clicking her tongue with a sympathetic sound. “Only a month old, with no Momma. He hardly knew what to do with you. At one point he considered putting you up for adoption because he was sick with grief over your Momma’s death and scared silly about raising you alone.”

The younger woman turned to stare at her friend. “He never told me about that.”

Jeanne nodded and continued, her voice soft and comforting. “I answered his ad for a housekeeper and moved into the garage apartment to help care for you while he worked. I only stayed for two years – until he introduced me to Charlie. Then we married and moved away.”

A lump formed in Sharon’s throat and tears stung the back of her eyes. Dad thought about adoption? She shivered as the thought chilled her heart.

The older woman reached across the console and patted her hand. “When my Charlie died, I moved back here. You were fifteen and your dad didn’t need me then, but we were still good friends. I’ve always cared for the two of you.”

Sharon turned her head toward the window to hide her tears from her friend and rode in silence the rest of the way to the buffet. Too numb to care about food, she pushed bits and pieces around her plate with her fork.

Jeanne lightened the chatter during the meal, sharing humorous “terrible-two” stories from the younger woman’s life as a toddler. She dabbed the laughter-induced tears from her eyes. “Your Dad doted on you. I’m sure you will find a scrapbook somewhere filled with all his treasured memories.”

As the women left the restaurant, Sharon could hold her grief no longer. “He never told me he thought about adoption.” She covered her face with her hands and wept in the car.

“Oh, honey, he loved your Momma so much. You were the only thing keeping him alive back then. You were his world. Though he considered it briefly, he couldn’t have given you up. You were his connection to her.”

Jeanne hugged the younger woman and handed her a tissue. “I remember the day he turned the corner on his grief. I was holding you while he talked to your Momma at the gravesite. He thanked her for giving him such a special little girl and he promised to raise you to love Jesus.”

She smiled, rubbing the younger woman’s arm. “From that day on, he devoted himself to raising you. He was the best Daddy – he gave his life to you. Don’t let him down by withering away.”

Sharon sniffled and dried her tears. She nodded and breathed deeply as she repaired her makeup in the car mirror.

“Come on; let’s go enjoy the crafts in the mall. It’ll do you good.”

For the next hour, the two women walked the mezzanine examining homemade afghans, refrigerator magnets and every imaginable craft. Though Sharon still felt numb inside, she managed to smile at Jeanne’s stories.

As they prepared to leave the mall, a pattern of colors danced on the floor by the exit. Glancing over, Sharon noticed they came from a craft stand selling stained glass sun catchers. She walked over and began to examine the pieces fascinated with the intricate patterns. A white-haired man looked up from the piece he was crafting and smiled at her.

“You like stained glass, yes?” His accent and his smile warmed her heart.

She nodded. “Your work is beautiful.”

He beamed at her compliment and brought the piece over to show her. It was an eagle with wings spread, ready to fly. “This is my favorite pattern,” he said. “I make it in memory of my Anna – she drew this eagle on paper. Now I create it in glass so I can see the sunlight shine through it. It reminds me of her.”

The man broke into a wide grin. “Come I’ll show you.” He motioned Sharon behind the display table. “See, I must cut each feather out of this big sheet of brown glass.” His workplace was littered with dozens of brown shards of glass. Sharon realized they were the feathers, each one carefully shaped and ready to be put together.

She watched, a smile of wonder beginning to curl at the edge of her lips. The man showed her how he scored then purposely tapped the glass to break it into the proper shape. He sanded the edges and fit a piece of lead caning all the way around each piece.

When several pieces were ready, he placed them in position according to the master pattern and melted small drops of solder at intervals along the seams to hold it together. Beaming, he turned to Sharon once again.

“When it’s finished, it will look like this.” He held up a completed pane depicting the eagle in flight against a blue glass sky, soaring over white-capped purple mountains. As he held it up, the sun danced through the glass, splashing color on the floor.

“Oh. Thank you for showing me! It is so beautiful.”

He smiled and said, “I sorrowed for my Anna for a long time. My heart felt like many pieces of broken glass. But in time, God put all the pieces together according to His plan. I stopped seeing the sorrow and saw the beautiful memories He gave me instead.”

“You’ll never know how you’ve helped me today,” she said, reaching in her purse for a tissue.

“You grieve for someone too – I see it in your eyes.” The man nodded and patted her hand.

“My Father. He passed away a few weeks ago. I don’t have any other family.” Sharon wasn’t sure why she was sharing her hurt with this stranger.

He smiled and held up his index finger. “Wait here.” He walked around his table and found a small eagle sun catcher, similar to the large pane he was making. “For you – so you can remember the beauty too.”

Tears spilled down Sharon’s cheeks. She held the stained glass eagle up for Jeanne to admire as the women walked back to the parked car. A genuine smile lit her face for the first time since her father’s death as a beam of sunlight filtered through the glass. She breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Lord, Thank You for the beauty of Your spirit as You shine through my stained-glass life.

© March 2007 Bonnie Winters
***
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Fiction Friday - Grandma's God-Simle

Grandma’s God-Smile
by Bonnie Winters

“Gramma, Gramma, tell me a story.” Four year old Ashleigh bounced up and down with excitement.

Grandma Minnie chuckled as she gathered her rambunctious granddaughter in her arms. “If I tell you a story, you have to promise to go right to bed. What story would you like to hear?”

“The smiley story!” The little blonde head bobbed, with no sign of fatigue.

For a moment the little white-haired woman frowned. “Smiley story?” she asked, mentally ticking off the children’s books on her granddaughter’s shelf.

“Honey, I don’t think I know any smiley stories.” She patted the child’s hair affectionately. “How about one of your bear stories?”

“No, Gramma.” Her little lip stuck out in a pout. “At church, I heard Pastor say you have a story hiding behind your smile. I want the smiley story.”

“Oh.” The old woman smiled. “I guess we better start from the beginning then, hadn’t we?”

Ashleigh cuddled close and tucked her first two fingers into her mouth, a sure sign she was beginning to relax.

“Well, honey, Grandma didn’t always like to smile. No, sir. When I was a girl, a little older than you, my front teeth were so crooked, I tried to hide my smile.”

Two concerned brown eyes gazed up at the old woman. “Why, Gramma? When you smile, it makes me feel all warm and happy inside.”

“Well, there were some mean children in my class at school who used to call me ugly names whenever I smiled, so I just clamped my lips shut tight and covered up my crooked teeth. My mother and father were poor and couldn’t afford to send me to the dentist to fix my teeth, so my teeth just stayed the way they were.”

“I wouldn’t have called you names, Gramma.” The child frowned and shook her head hard enough to make her curls bounce.

Her actions made Grandma Minnie laugh out loud. “I should hope not! I pray Jesus will live in your heart, little one, so you are kind to others.”

“Does Jesus live in your heart, Gramma?”

“Yes, He does. But I was pretty mad at Him when I was a girl because I kept praying and praying for my teeth to get straight and He never answered my prayer. I sat at the back of the church and just grumbled and complained at God every Sunday. I figured He didn’t love me because I was ugly with my crooked teeth.

“One day, the pastor came over to me and asked me why I looked like an old sour pickle all the time.” Grandma stopped to chuckle at the memory.

“He said, ‘Young’un, I know there’s a God- smile in there somewhere. I dare you to find it!’” she said, using her deepest voice to mimic the pastor’s tone.

“A God-smile?” The child stifled a yawn as she looked up into her grandmother’s face. “What did he mean - a God-smile?”

“Well, I wondered the same thing, Child.” The old woman grinned and shook her head. “But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what he meant. But he dared me to find it and I was not the kind of girl who’d ever back down from a dare. I started looking everywhere for that God-smile.

“That week, my mother sent me over to my Aunt Agatha’s house to help her with her canning. She liked to tell funny stories and sure enough, she started telling me some of her best ones. Since I was embarrassed about my teeth, I usually tried to keep my mouth clamped shut, but somehow, this time, I just couldn’t help myself. I busted out laughing so hard, I almost wet my pants.”

“Gramma! You smiled.” Ashleigh giggled and before she could help herself, she yawned out loud.

“Yep, I sure did. It felt so good; I smiled all the way home. I grinned at Old Gus who was sweeping the sidewalk at the butcher shop. I even grinned at Pop Harris who was pumping gas for John McGee who owned the grocery store.

“Pop Harris winked at me and said, ‘Girl, you‘ve got such a pretty smile, you ought to use it more often.’”

The child cuddled closer, her breathing becoming shallower and her eyelids heavier.

“Honey, I felt so good when Pop Harris said that, I grinned for two days straight. That Sunday in church, I went to the altar and told the Lord I was sorry for being such a pickle-faced Christian and if He would help me, I would never hide my smile again.”

Gramma shifted, trying to get more comfortable under the weight of the sleeping child. In the quiet twilight of the room, she smiled as several recent memories flooded back. There was JoAnna, dying of cancer in the hospital who reached out and said, “Thank you for your smile. The Light of God inside you always shines out from your smile. It has always encouraged me when I was down.”

She remembered how Elva, her neighbor, had grabbed her hand two weeks ago and said, “Minnie, you’re always smiling. It’s a real smile. The kind that shines out of your eyes, not one of those fake put on ones. How can you smile, even during the bad times?”

Tears pooled in the old woman’s eyes as she relived the joy of sharing Jesus, the Light of the world. She had prayed for Elva to become a Christian everyday ever since she moved next door thirty years ago.

“I got my smile from my Heavenly Father’s side of the family,” she whispered as she bent down and kissed her sleeping granddaughter before picking her up and carrying her to bed. Looking up toward heaven, she smiled again and prayed. “Thank you Lord for helping me find my God-smile.”

©August 2007 Bonnie Winters

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Fiction Friday - Love Never Fails

This week, I've chosen a story that appeared in the online e-zine "Reflections" published by Janet Lynn Erikkson in 2006. I learned a lot from Janet and had several stories published there before she stopped publishing it last year.
***

Love Never Fails
Bonnie Winters

Jenny inhaled and exhaled forcefully as she worked up her nerve. She had never done anything like this before, but that insistent nudging in her heart convinced her she must follow this through. She gripped the photo album in her right arm and raised her other hand to knock on the door.

No response.

Good, no one is there. She poised to turn back down the carpeted hall to make a silent escape.
“Come in.” The voice sounded so feeble that she almost missed it. She gulped and gently pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The old woman sat in her wheelchair, her head tipped slightly forward as though her neck muscles had little strength. One corner of her mouth drooped.

“Hi, Mrs. Turner. My name is Jenny.” There was no turning back now. Her words rushed out in a flurry. “You don’t know me, but I feel like I’ve known you for a long time. May I sit and visit with you for a little while?”

The woman seemed to struggle as she nodded her head. With gnarled fingers, she motioned for Jenny to sit in an upholstered chair close by.

Jenny tried to smile as she eased herself into the chair. She clutched the worn photo album and forced her breathing to slow. Unsure where to begin, she stared at her scuffed sneakers for several minutes.

“Why are you here, dear?” The woman’s crooked mouth gave her the appearance of frowning and her words slurred, making her speech hard to understand.

Jenny looked up from the floor into her faded blue eyes. “Nadine asked me to come…” She hesitated as she noticed a tear forming in the old woman’s eyes. “I mean, before she died, she asked me to return this album to you.”

When the woman didn’t respond, she scooted her chair closer to the wheelchair. “Nadine loved you very much. She planned to come and tell you herself, but before she could get away, the accident…” She reached for a tissue on the windowsill and blotted the tears from her cheeks. She retrieved another and handed it to the old woman. “Let me start at the beginning.”

Mrs. Turner nodded.

“I met Nadine at the diner where she worked. I was a scared kid. I had run away from home and only had a few bucks left. There was nowhere to turn except maybe to become a… well, you know. I had to support myself somehow.” She nearly choked on the words. Heat rose in her cheeks.

“I sat way back in the corner booth so nobody would see me.” She fiddled with a button on her sweater as she studied the floor again.

“Nadine waited on me that day. She got my lunch, then took her break and sat with me – asked if I wanted to talk.” She gave a half-hearted laugh before continuing. “She said she knew I was hungry by the way I stuffed my face. Then she shoved her sandwich over for me to eat too. As I ate, she told me she had run away from home when she was fifteen.”

A groan from the woman startled Jenny out of her reverie. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need a nurse or something?”

The old woman shook her head. “Just water please.”

Jenny got up and fumbled with the wrapper on the plastic tumbler, and poured water from the pitcher on the bedside stand. Poking a straw into it, she held out the cup. “Want some ice? I could … ”

Mrs. Turner took the glass in her right hand, shaking as she took a sip. She handed the glass back to Jenny. “Please sit. Tell me more.”

“You loved Nadine, didn’t you? She told me you loved her a lot.”

“She told you that?” A hint of wonder lifted the old woman’s voice.

“Yeah.” The tightness between the girl’s shoulders eased. “She said the two of you fought the day she left home. She said you begged her to come home, but she left anyway. Said it was the dumbest thing she ever did.”

A tear trickled down the leathery cheek. “Did she tell you I followed her to the city, to try to make her come home?”

Jenny nodded. “Nadine cried when she told me that. She said she was so scared about being on her own, but she was too stubborn to let you know.” She opened the photo album, holding it for the old woman to see. “Nadine showed me the pictures of the two of you together when she was a kid. By that time I was really missing my mom. Nadine told me I was a lot like her; you know, stubborn. Too proud to give in.”

With her good hand, Mrs. Turner stroked the photo of seven-year old Nadine in her Easter dress. “We used to go to Sunday school. My Nadine was such a good girl. She loved Jesus so much. I just don’t know what happened.”

“Yeah. She told me about that too.” She reached over and patted the old woman’s hand. “She said she got in with the wrong kids and started drinking. She didn’t want to go to church anymore. Then she met Billy. They started messing around and she got pregnant.”

“No!” The hand that held the cup trembled. Her voice was an agonizing whisper. “I didn’t know. My poor Nadine. She never told me.”

“She was afraid to tell you. That’s why she ran away. She was afraid you’d be so disappointed that you’d stop loving her. She ran away and had her baby but gave it up for adoption.”
The woman’s head drooped. Tears slipped to the album pages. “I could never stop loving her. Love never fails…”

“Here.” Jenny lifted the woman’s chin and dried her wrinkled cheeks. “Nadine read me that chapter about love in First Corinthians. She told me about Jesus. Did you know she started going back to church just a few months ago? Said she needed Jesus back in her life, because she just couldn’t live without love anymore. She missed her daughter and you so bad. She figured you probably never stopped praying for her.”

The woman’s eyes lost some of their dullness. “She did?”

The young girl grinned. “Yup. She showed me how to know Jesus’ love too. That’s how I know it was real for her.”

The right side of the woman’s mouth tilted up into a smile.

“After she got to know Jesus, she wanted to come home,” Jenny said. “Before she came, though, she wanted to find her daughter and tell her all about her grandmother.” She turned the page and showed Mrs. Turner an old photo of Nadine with her newborn baby girl, then one of the baby by herself. “She called her Gracie, after you.”

As Mrs. Turner gazed at her newfound granddaughter, joy and grief played across her face. Reaching out, Jenny laid her hand on the old woman’s arm. “Gracie is twenty-three years old now. Nadine found her and went to see her a week before the accident. They made plans to come and visit you together. She was going to call you the day she met me in the restaurant. She invited me home to her apartment because she didn’t want me to end up scared and alone like she did.”

“Why didn’t she call?” Her voice trembled.

“She never got the chance. We talked all that evening and into the next day. By that time we were both hungry so she went out to get something for us to eat. She crossed the street in front of the house and was hit by a drunk driver.” Jenny grasped the old woman’s hand and held it to her tear-stained cheek. “I’m so sorry. I feel like it’s my fault. She was going to the store to take care of me when it happened.”

The woman covered her hand with a strong grip. Jenny stood and stumbled into her embrace. They wept together. When she sat down again, she reached for two fresh tissues and handed one to Mrs. Turner.

“I rode in the ambulance with her. Before she died, she made me promise to bring you this album. Gracie’s picture and phone number are here in the back. Tour granddaughter loves Jesus too and wants to come and see you – if you want her to.” The girl’s heart pounded as she waited for the woman’s response.

“Thank you.” Tears of joy glistened in the older woman’s eyes.

Jenny rose to leave, wanting to give the woman time to digest the news.

“Jenny.”

She turned.

“Jenny, what about you?”

A smile trembled on the girl’s lips. “I stopped here to see you on my way home. Mom’s waiting in the car for me. She said she loves me and never stopped praying for me…”
Mrs. Turner smiled her crooked half-smile as she caressed the photo of her granddaughter. “Love never fails…”

© 2006 by Bonnie Winters

Fiction Friday - The Peace Of Bread

This is one I wrote for Faithwriters almost exactly one year ago today so some of you might recognize it.

The Peace of Bread
FaithWriters Challenge entry – Topic – “Angry” – for August 9, 2007

Millie sat in her power chair and glared out the window. “Hrumph! Nobody wants to bother with a grumpy old arthritic woman.”

Watching the children playing kickball in the street just made her feel angrier. “Look at them run, God. I can’t even walk out on my front porch. Puh!”

She fumbled with a cassette tape from her church, hoping the strains from Sunday’s choir anthem could soothe her ruffled feathers.

“We are all ministers. If you are living and breathing today, God has something for you to do.” Pastor Walker’s voice boomed through the silent house.

“Who turned up the volume?” Millie punched the off-button, grimacing as pain shot through her gnarled thumb.

“He must be on some sort of soapbox. That’s the second week in a row he preached about ministry.” Her frown deepened as she muttered to herself. “He just doesn’t know how it feels to be shut in. Who am I supposed to minister to? No one comes to see me.”

She made a crooked fist she shook it toward heaven. “Besides, what can I do anyway? Tell me that?”

“You can hold a wooden spoon.” The firm response startled her.

“What? Who said that?” Millie steered her chair through the whole downstairs, looking for the owner of the Voice. Seeing no one, she pondered the strange statement. She scooted to her utensil drawer and retrieved a wooden spoon.

Sure enough, though her fingers were twisted, the handle fit comfortably in her hand. “Okay. I can hold a wooden spoon. So what? What am I supposed to do with it?” Still frowning, she spat out the angry words.

Millie clenched her teeth, not wanting to let go of the selfish anger boiling inside. She pivoted her chair to leave the kitchen, but as she did, she glanced at her kitchen table.

“My daughter can go to the store, but she can’t take time to put the groceries away.” The five pound bag of flour felt like ten pounds as she tried to lift it. Setting it back down, she picked up a package of yeast. “She’s always getting me things I don’t need,” she said, still seething.

“Since it’s here, why not make bread?” This time the Voice sounded softer, suggesting rather than demanding her attention.

Her sputtering protests died on her lips as vivid memories of baking homemade bread for her children danced before her eyes. Oh, how they licked their lips at the sight of thick slices slathered with melted butter and jelly.

“I can almost smell it!” Tears glittered in the old woman’s eyes as the angry storm clouds dissipated. “But I can’t do that any more, can I?”

A long lost eagerness pounded in her breast as she powered her chair to the low cupboard which housed her bowls. “Let me see, I need yeast and warm water, salt, butter, a little sugar…” Her voice trailed off as she made mental notes of the necessary ingredients.

Millie struggled to cradle the bowl as she mixed the ingredients. Each time she was tempted to give up with an angry “harrumph,” she found a new way to compensate for her gnarled, achy limbs.

Three hours later, a sweet smelling savor filled the kitchen and wafted out the window on the summer breeze. The loaves were a little misshapen, but golden brown with a heavenly scent. The old woman was jolted out of her reverie by a sudden knock at the kitchen door.

“Who could that be? No one comes to see me.” She opened it with a frown on her face.

Her neighbor, Elizabeth, stood there wringing her hands. “Oh Millie, I’m supposed to take a meal to Mrs. Duffy from church – you know, the woman with all the children? She’s just had a chemo treatment and, well, the children need a good meal. I smelled the aroma of fresh bread coming from your kitchen and, well, I thought to myself, ‘That’s just the ticket to get those kids to eat.’ They’re awfully worried about their mama and all. Do you think you can spare a loaf?”

Millie’s eyes widened in wonder as she handed a loaf to Elizabeth. After her neighbor left, she sliced the remaining loaf and raised her eyes toward heaven. “Thank you Lord, for bringing peace to an angry old arthritic woman.”

***
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Fiction Friday - None of My Business

None of My Business

The upstairs room in the house across the street from my bread shop often has its blinds drawn. It’s the room above the one with the geraniums that belongs to Hans and Erma. Even this morning when I went out to sweep off my walk and put out my “daily special” signs, the blinds were closed up tight. From my place behind my cash box, I can see the stairs that lead up to that room. Every so often, someone goes up there, but no one seems to come down.

Mrs. Schwartz used to live in that upstairs room, God rest her soul. She’s fortunate that she doesn’t see the goings on nowadays. I didn’t think anyone had rented her place until I saw these men going up there carrying carpet bags and dressed in black suits.

Not that it’s any of my business, you know, but these are strange days. After the raid last week, people even suspect their neighbors. Why, two men were arrested as spies in the blue house just two blocks over, next to where my sister Ava lives.

She saw the whole thing—the soldiers in their drab uniforms and their big machine guns. They marched right up on that porch and busted in the door. Ava was out hanging up laundry. She pretended she wasn’t paying attention, but she saw it all. She nearly fainted when one of the soldiers looked straight at her and shifted his gun in his hands.

The soldiers were really rough on the prisoners, kicking and shoving them into the covered truck. What a scare for poor Ava! It’s best if you don’t know too much. She said the soldiers questioned her, but she’s just a poor woman who takes in laundry, and doesn’t know anything, so they let her alone.

Helga came in for her two loaves of round, rye bread yesterday. She said a watchmaker and his family were arrested in the town where her uncle lives for helping two Jewish families escape. The watchmaker had built a secret room in his house to hide the Jews until they could escape late at night. Helga heard the watchmaker would be taken to the gas chamber for helping those families. Now she’s afraid to sell eggs to the Goldsteins who live four houses down.

When I was busy making my bread this morning, I saw a man through my shop window. He had a long untrimmed beard and climbed the stairs to that apartment across the street. He didn’t see me, though he looked around first to see if anyone was following him. I’ve been watching and he hasn’t come back down yet.

Rumors say there is a tunnel in the basement of Hans and Erma’s house. I heard strange noises a few nights back, like tapping on my water pipes and muffled voices. Maybe there’s a secret room there where people can hide. Hans doesn’t laugh anymore and Erma only hurries in to buy her brown bread. She bought three loaves yesterday, not two like she used to.

These are strange days, but then, it’s really none of my business….

© 1995 Bonnie Winters

***
Fiction Friday is hosted by Patty over at her site Patterings. To read more great short stories, hop on over and click on any of the authors' links.

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Fiction Friday - Once a Wink

Domestic violence is a big problem in our country today, but one that is seldom talked about. Often the victim is afraid and unable to leave because of fear - fear of being alone, fear of rejection, feelings of inadequacy and more. Even if they are able to leave an abusive situation, they may enter into a similar situation time and again until the Lord heals the damage done by the abuse.

This story was written several years ago and is dedicated to the women I know who have been victims of domestic violence and abuse.
***


Once a Wink
by Bonnie Winters


I looked across the bar and there he was, staring at me. When our eyes met, he winked. It seemed so innocent. After all, I didn’t know the man. Perhaps I should have felt flattered that he found me attractive enough to flirt with me. But, I didn't. It made me feel uncomfortable, reminding me of my ex-husband, Jack. He used to wink too, when he wanted something.

The bruises had faded, but the memories of his abuse were still too vivid. Each time, Jack apologized and said it would never happen again. But it did - over and over because I let it happen. I couldn't leave. Even as I sit here now, I wonder if I should have stayed with him. Maybe I could have made a difference...

What am I doing here? I squirmed on the stool at the counter. Humph. Dumb question. I'm here because I can't say no. I stirred the ice in my soft drink and glanced at my co-workers,, Marie and Linda.

"Come with us! It'll be fun. Besides it's Friday night and you can't spend another Friday sitting at home alone." They used every argument in the book until I finally gave in though I knew it was a bad idea.

Though I tried to keep my eyes attentive to my friends, they strayed to the man across from me, almost of their own volition at times. Each time, I found him still staring at me. And each time, he winked.

Boy this is getting annoying, like the buzz of a mosquito around my ears. If only I had a swatter, I’d mash that irritating bug. The picture of the man with his tongue lolling and his eyes bugging out of their sockets made me feel a little better. I smiled to myself, focusing on my soft drink.

Near the man, the waiter dropped a whole tray of glasses. The sudden crash
of glass meeting the tile floor captured my attention and involuntarily, I glanced toward the sound. The man across the bar was still staring in my direction. Once again, he grinned with his lopsided lips and winked.

I shuddered inwardly. That wink was not one of camaraderie. His expression reminded me of a cat that had cornered its dinner. It was the same smirking, pre-dinner ritual that I frequently endured with Jack. I looked away, twiddling my straw between my fingers. I looked at the counter. I looked at the jukebox. I looked at the dim lights overhead.

“Let’s leave,” I said, turning to my friends. But they were having much too good a time flirting with the two men in the corner booth to notice the edge in my voice. I tried to ignore the smirking man across the bar. Who needs this anyway? Maybe, I should just leave without my friends. Let them find their own way home!

I did leave the bar, retreating to the powder room. If I stay in here long enough, maybe he’ll be gone when I come out. I fixed my make up, adjusted the hem of my skirt, fiddled with the buttons on my blouse - anything to kill time.

I looked in the mirror and saw a mouse; a timid creature with fear in her eyes - always running, always hiding and always coming back to the same trap. I watched as the lips of the woman in the mirror tightened into a resolute line. We both straightened and placed our hands on our hips. I nodded and she nodded back "Thanks honey, " I said to my reflection. "You're right. This is ridiculous. Why should some idiot who insists on winking at me across the bar ruin my evening?"

Gathering my purse and my resolve, I returned to my friends. They had moved to the corner booth with those two guys and were lost in a conversation, punctuated occasionally by giggles and guffaws. Feeling like a third wheel, I returned to my soft drink at the bar.

The man was still there across from me. Purposefully, I sat down with my back to him, but it didn’t help. I felt his eyes burn holes through the soft knit fabric of my blouse. The hair on the nape of my neck prickled in spite of my resolve. My muscles stiffened and I felt a slow flush rise up my neck. I pulled a compact from my purse to see how furiously I was blushing. But when I opened the mirror, his face was reflected there, still eating me with his eyes, still winking.

That does it! I will not sit here and cower under that Cheshire grin. Subduing the mouse inside, I rose to my feet, set my lips in a resolute line and walked toward the man. Hadn't I learned anything because of that fiasco of a marriage with Jack? I should give this guy a piece of my mind. Why can’t he just leave me alone? Can’t he see I’m not interested?

Once again he winked as I approached. My anger flared. If you don’t stop that, I’m going to call the police and have you charged with harassment. Or better yet, I ought to punch you in the eye. Maybe that would stop you.

Now I was close enough to really see him. I stopped in my tracks, taken aback. I forgot the harsh rebuke I intended to burn his ears. In the dim lights across the bar, I had not seen how puffy and red his eye was. Obviously, there was something wrong. The eye watered profusely and he winked several times to relieve the wet discomfort, even as I stood there. The swelling around his eye and cheek distorted his smile, so it appeared lopsided.

He looked pathetic, not at all like the conniving cat image I had conjured in my mind. The sight of him up close doused most of the fiery indignation I felt. I inhaled deeply to bring the rest of my runaway emotions under control.

“Have a seat,” he said. “What would you like to drink?”

I grimaced and nodded toward my friends. “I’m the designated driver. How about a cola?”

We sat in silence, staring at the counter until the waiter brought my soft drink. I couldn’t stand it anymore. My curiosity itched and I turned to look at his eye again.

“What happened to your eye?” I asked cautiously, trying to break the uncomfortable silence, yet not wanting to offend him. He really didn’t seem like such a bad fellow after all. Not at all like Jack.

With half a laugh, he looked at me. I thought I could see the Cheshire cat again, though I wasn’t sure. “Oh, some guy belted me for winking at his wife.”

The knuckles of my right hand hurt as I brought them to my lips and blew on them gently. I flexed them slowly to be sure nothing was broken as I deliberately gathered my purse.

“Let’s go,” I said calmly to my friends in the dead silence of the barroom as everyone stared at me standing over the man on the floor.

I leveled my chin and strode toward the exit. "This mouse is leaving!"
(C) 1995 Bonnie Winters

***

Fiction Fridays are hosted by Patty over at Patterings. If you like to read, jump on over and check out some of the great short stories by the other authors.

If you like to write and want to participate, simply post your story on your blog, then visit Patterings to leave your URL in the Mr. Linky box.

Happy writing and reading!

Fiction Friday - One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

ONE STEP FORWARD, TWO STEPS BACK
by Bonnie Winters

Scripture: Genesis 19:26

“Hurry now, there’s no time to gather up your mementos of this place. Destruction is coming. You must flee!” There was no disguising the urgency of the heavenly visitor’s voice. “Now!”

Still she lingered, undecided on the threshold of her home. So many memories. So much of my life spent here. Not always happy times, but….

Her thoughts drifted back to their arrival on the lush plain outside Sodom after separating from Lot’s uncle, Abraham. Often she stood outside her tent, looking across the plain toward the city, daydreaming of what it would be like to live in Sodom; a real city with all the hub-bub of life all around her.

“Lot, darling,” she said after preparing his favorite meal, her voice a honeyed dessert, “Why can’t we move into the city? Life would be so much easier there.” She moved behind her husband, who was seated on the ground and began massaging his shoulders, a pout playing on the corners of her full lips. “I am so tired of playing the nomad! Always traveling. It was worse when we followed your Uncle Abraham. We couldn’t even set our own pace or direction then.”

She bent close to nibble on her husband’s ear. “Now, at least you are in charge of our direction. And you have wisely chosen such a lush plain. It really was the best direction, compared to that Canaanite country where Abraham tried to graze his flocks. I have married a wise man indeed!”

She could feel her husband’s will softening like clay in her hands. “Think of it! Lot, you have herdsmen enough to take charge of your flocks. You could settle in the lap of luxury in a place like Sodom. God has prospered you. You are wealthy. Don’t you deserve a little ease?”

Her lips curled in a self-satisfied grin as she remembered how Lot nodded in agreement. Within days, the couple had moved into the city. It was all she had hoped for and more.

“Hurry. The destruction comes. We must flee. Don’t look back.” The urgency in the angelic voice jarred her back to the present. Still she hesitated, wanting to hold onto the life she knew.

As though he understood, the angel forced her to look into his eyes, stirring her memories of another desperate flight. Enemies of Sodom rode through the streets of the city, killing some and rounding up others to carry them off as slaves. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she remembered hugging her daughters to her side, terrified they would be separated from Lot as the Bedouin warriors drove them away from their home.

Her smile faded and she inhaled deeply, letting her breath out slowly to calm her nerves. She gazed around the dim interior of the room one last time as the angel maneuvered her out the door.

Yes, I lost this all once before, when the enemies of Sodom swooped down and carried us away. Fear of losing it all again coaxed a defiant flame back to life in her heart. She stared hard at the angel’s back, biting back the retort on her lips. But Abraham brought us back here to our home. I don’t want to lose it all again.

Lot, this is all your fault! She fumed behind the angel who still gripped her arm, unwilling to provoke the wrath of this being who loomed head and shoulders over her. You brought these visitors to our house for the night when they arrived here in Sodom. Then you refused to let the townsmen harm our guests. That’s when things turned ugly.

She shuddered at the fearful memory of the fists of drunken men pounding on her door. Even now, it caused her pulse to race and her breathing to quicken as she vascillated between anger and self-pity. My poor deluded Lot. Why didn’t you just let those evil men of Sodom have their way? If these men were of God, they could have destroyed the townspeople. If they were only men, they would have been killed and none of this would have happened. No, Lot, you offered the men of Sodom our daughters. Our daughters! Why couldn’t you have just left well enough alone? That’s why we have to flee. It’s all your fault, Lot. You stirred them up.

Twin red spots stood out on her cheeks as she clenched her jaws tight. Without realizing it, her free hand curled into a fist and she pummeled the angel’s arm. As her thoughts tangled into a confused knot, her feet tripped up the steep slope away from Sodom. Steadied by the arm still gripping her wrist, she glared up at the angel’s impassive face. It’s my home. My home. The first place I could put down roots and be happy and you’re taking it all away from me. I don’t want to go back to the wilderness. Not ever.

Two tears coursed down her cheeks. She shrugged her arm loose from the angel’s grasp and scrubbed the tears away with the back of her hand. They were high enough now; surely she could see the whole valley from here.

My home, my home…. The siren song of Sodom crooned to her. She turned her head wistfully to gaze over the valley toward home as her heart hardened….

© 2008 Bonnie Winters

***

Why is it Lord, we always want to hang on to what we know - even though it isn't safe or good for us? Even when You offer us a way of escape - a way of hope? Help us Father to let go of those things that destroy our faith and harden our hearts against You . Help us to trust You and to hide beneath the sheltering safety of Your wings. Amen.

***

Fiction Friday is hosted by Patty at her site Patterings. For more great fiction, drop by her site and click on the links to read stories by all the other participants.

If you have a story you've written to share, paste it onto your blog site then visit Patterings to leave your URL in the Mr. Linky box.

Happy reading and writing!

Fiction Friday - The Fragrance of Love

I love the stories of Bible women – and more than that, I love to make them come alive on paper as flesh and blood women with real emotions; real needs. I hope and pray this one ministers to you as it did to me when I wrote it.

The Fragrance of Love

Based on Luke 7:36-50 (NIV)

I held the alabaster jar filled with ointment, caressing its smoothness. It was my most valuable possession and I felt compelled to offer it to Him. I had nothing else worthy to give the Son of God.

Son of God? That’s what He calls Himself. He must be – just look at all the miracles He has done. No one else can heal the sick and even raise the dead like He does.

Taking a deep breath for courage, I walked to where He sat and knelt beside Him. The strength of His presence pierced my heart, like sunlight shining into a shadowy room. It illuminated the stark sinfulness of my heart; the bitter wounds and fears I had never shared with anyone.

I suddenly saw myself in all my wretchedness. My heart was dark, shadowed and evil, next to His shining brightness. Scenes of my anger, hatred and bitterness flashed before my eyes.

My tears began to flow so fast I couldn’t stop them, spilling onto His feet. Mortified, I mumbled, “Master, forgive me. Please, forgive me.” I wanted Him to forgive me for allowing my tears to fall on His feet, but somehow, I sensed He offered me more.

In my awkward discomfort, I groped for a cloth to dry the tears that soaked His feet. Finding none, I used my hair. Hope lay wounded within my breast. There could be no forgiveness for me, could there?

I was a sinner – that’s the way men like Simon looked at me –men who put their offerings in the temple coffers and left to brag about their “righteousness acts of charity” while the widow down the street from me paid her dues then struggled to feed her son. Men like Simon were worse than swine in my eyes.

Shame for my bitter attitude smote me. I felt His eyes on me as a sense of sadness and disappointment surrounded my heart, bringing a fresh onslaught of tears. My mind returned to my mission – to offer my gift to Jesus. Now more than ever, I wanted, no – needed - to offer my gift to Him, before Simon threw me out of His house. Or worse – before Jesus condemned me and shamed me publicly for my sins.

With trembling hands, I broke my alabaster box and began to massage the oil onto His tear-dampened feet. “Here, Lord,” I said softly. “This is for you. I have nothing else of value to offer. But You deserve so much more.”

Those around Him fidgeted and whispered, “Doesn’t He know what she is?” Though I heard their words and felt their condemnation, I silently prayed Jesus would accept my gift.

Afraid to look up and see the scorn in His eyes, I continued to massage the oil onto His feet.

“Simon,” I heard Him say. “Two men borrowed money from the same wealthy man. One borrowed five hundred denarii, and the other one borrowed fifty. When the wealthy man came to collect the debt, neither of them were able to pay him back, so he cancelled their debts. Which of them will love the man more?”

What could Jesus mean by this strange question? Keeping my head bowed, I held my breath and paused so I could hear Simon’s answer.

With great discomfort in his voice, Simon answered, “Probably the one who owed the most?”

“That’s right, Simon.” The answer Jesus gave Simon baffled me. “The one who’s forgiven the greatest will love the most.”

I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe again. My perfume was gone, but I remained bowed by His feet, unable to move. He was beginning to teach. Any moment now I was sure He would send me away for my shameful demonstration.

His voice held a hint of rebuke as He spoke to Simon again, “You deliberately ignored the customs of hospitality when I entered your home. There is little love in your heart. But this woman has not ceased to wash my feet with her tears and dry them with her hair. She has anointed them with her precious perfume. Though her sins are many, they have been forgiven because of her great love for Me.”

His words kindled the hope for forgiveness in my broken heart, yet the battle of acceptance still raged because of the shame of my sins. Could His words really be true? I wanted to believe, but I was just a woman, a prostitute…

I struggled to still the trembling inside as He lifted my chin forcing me to look up into His eyes. I gasped, amazed because there was no condemnation there. “Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”

It wasn’t my gift of an alabaster jar of perfume that touched His heart. I understand that now. It was my wounded soul freely poured out at His feet. He knew who I was and what I was. But in those precious moments, He met my deepest needs for acceptance and filled me with the fragrance of His love.

©2007 Bonnie Winters

The Fragrance of Love was originally part of a message I preached at a special service at Trinity Bible Church in Hagerstown, MD. It recently appeared in the online e-zine 4Him2U where I have a monthly column called Patches of Grace as well as other articles or stories each month. I’d love to have you join me. While you’re there, you can check out all the other great articles by my friends, the Sonrise Writers.

Fiction Friday - Candlewicking

Due to the holiday I was late posting today. I trust you had a blessed day with friends and family.

Beginning this week, I will be participating in the Fiction Friday meme hosted by Patty at Patterings. Be sure to visit Patty's site and check out more great fiction on her site as well as the sites of the other participants!

Bonnie

Candlewicking
by Bonnie Winters

“Moving is so hard for me.” Helena boxed up the remaining items she wanted to take with her into the senior apartment complex.

“I know. With my Dan in the military, I’ve moved a lot too. I always manage to leave something behind.” Carrie laughed as she taped up the box of mementos for her elderly friend. “Hey! You forgot to pack this neat tablecloth.”

“No, I didn’t forget. I’ve decided to send it to the Salvation Army with the rest of those things over there.”

The younger woman spread out the pristine white cloth across the bed. She examined the intricate rose pattern created with white thread in a series of small knots. A smaller rose in the same style adorned each corner. “Wow, this is handmade! It looks like someone put a lot of work into this piece. Whose initials are these? C. H. S.?”

“Please, just put it in the box.” The older woman’s British accent thickened and her tone had a bitter edge to it.

Carrie frowned as she refolded the cloth and placed it in the designated box. She knew better than to pursue her curious line of questioning. When Helena got upset, she closed up tighter than a clamshell.

“I’m sorry, Dearie. I didn’t mean to snap. I guess this move just has me worn out.”

She felt her friend’s hand on her arm and turned, putting on a bright smile. “It’s okay, Helena. I’m just glad you didn’t have to do all this by yourself. Here, I’ll go ahead and put this box in the trunk of my car. I can stop at the Salvation Army on my way home.”

When she returned, her friend had a cup of tea and a plate of cookies set out. “I really do appreciate your help. At least I’ll be ready when those nice young men come tomorrow. How can I ever thank you for arranging for their help?”

“They’re from my church, Helena – a part of our Eldercare ministry group. They do all sorts of things from mowing grass to replacing light bulbs for our seniors. I’m sure they are happy to help.”

The older woman grimaced. “Well, maybe I can give an offering to the church.”

“That’s not necessary. I know things are tough for you. But maybe you could come to church with me sometime?”

Once again, Carrie realized she struck a nerve as her friend’s face clouded. She smiled and changed the subject as she sat down to enjoy the refreshments. When the last crumb disappeared, she said, “Well, I have to go. My babysitter has an evening class at college. I’ll see you tomorrow when the guys get here.” She kissed her friend on the cheek and raced out the door.

Later that evening, Carrie realized she had forgotten to drop the Salvation Army box off on her way home. She walked out to the trunk and lifted the lid. Pawing through the box, she removed the tablecloth and took it inside, mentally reminding herself to tuck a cash donation inside the box.

“What’s that?” Dan asked as she spread it out on their dining room table.
“Oh, I was over at Helena’s house today. Remember, I told you she’s moving into Rosewood – that new Senior citizen complex?”

Her husband nodded.

“Well, she was going to donate this to the Salvation Army. Can you believe it? Look how great it is on our table. And I think it’s handmade.” She pointed at the knotted initials.

He studied the letters. “Well the ‘H’ could stand for Helena. What’s her last name?”

“Smith.” Carrie became thoughtful. “But I think she changed it when she came to live in the States. I don’t know what it was before. Do you really think she’s C.H.S?”

“Quite possibly.” Dan grinned. “I’m sure you’ll find out all about it. I know how you love a mystery.”

She tossed her blonde braid over her shoulder and sniffed in mock exasperation. “Humph!” But not wanting to soil the lovely piece, she folded it up and stuck it in her buffet drawer.

Something about the tablecloth piqued her interest. She booted up her computer to do some research after the boys were in bed that evening. “Look, Dan! I found out what type of stitching this is on the tablecloth. It’s called ‘candlewicking’ because they used the same type of cotton thread used to make candlewicks. It says here it was popular in England and some families had their own unique patterns that they handed down for generations.” She shook her head in disbelief. “How sad! If this was a family heirloom belonging to Helena, why was she willing to give it away?”

Carrie planned to ask her friend about it the next morning when she helped her move, but her four-year-old developed a fever during the night and she decided to stay home She called Helena to apologize.

“Don’t worry so much. The young men are here already and you have helped me label everything. I won’t have any trouble putting things away in my new apartment.” With a cheery goodbye, the older woman hung up.

Between taking care of a sick child and getting things ready for the church booth at the upcoming community festival, she forgot about the tablecloth. By Saturday, Justin was feeling better. Carrie’s fresh-baked apple pies sat on the counter in the kitchen, cooling.

Good I’m right on schedule. Oops! I forgot a cover for the table. Our goodies always sell better when the table looks nice. She grabbed a ceramic pitcher and ran outside to cut some fresh flowers. Hmmm. I know! I can put a piece of plastic over Helena’s tablecloth. It will make the perfect background for all our confections.

Pleased with her idea, Carrie hurried to park the car and unpack everything. Soon the table was laden with brownies, cookies, cakes and pies of every description. The tablecloth wasn’t really showing… but it was a nice idea.

About one in the afternoon, a white-haired gentleman strolled past the table. She thought he was checking out the goodies, but he didn’t stop to buy anything. About an hour later, he strolled by again, running his fingers lightly over the plastic cover on top of the tablecloth. He paused at the corner of the table and bent down to admire the rose pattern. As he walked away, she noticed he stepped behind a table at a nearby antique booth. She caught him glancing at the tablecloth several more times as though searching for something.

When she finally got a break at 2:30, Carrie strolled over to his antique booth. With her curiosity brimming over, she confronted the elderly gentleman. “I notice you keep staring at our church’s table. Is there something I can bring over for you?”

“No. No, thank you.”

She noticed his heavy Austrian accent.

“Well, then, may I ask what you keep looking at?”

His face reddened. “The tablecloth. Does it belong to someone from your church?”
“Yes. It’s mine. Why do you ask?”

“I am interested in hand-stitched linens. I occasionally purchase fine pieces like yours to resell with my antiques. Would you consider selling it to me?”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Not even for… say… $100?”

“I’m sorry. Not for any price.” Carrie’s voice rose as an angry flush climbed up her neck. “I wouldn’t dream of selling my tablecloth. It belonged to a friend of mine.”

The man’s voice softened. “If your friend was willing to give it away, perhaps she didn’t realize its value.”

“Is that all you care about? Some things are worth more than money!” She turned to go, biting her lip so she wouldn’t cry at the man’s callousness. But she stopped when she felt his hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry I have upset you. Please sit here. Let me tell you a story. Then you will know why I wanted to purchase your cloth.”

A tear puddled in the corner of his eye. “I knew someone once who created beautiful candlewicking needlework like that. I thought of her when I saw your tablecloth.” He reached up quickly to swipe away the tear. “For years I have purchased fine needlework, hoping someday I would find one she created, and perhaps find her as well.”

“Who is she and why are you looking for her?” Carrie didn’t bother to hide her tears. Her heart broke at the sadness she saw in the old man’s eyes.

“My wife.” He choked on the emotions behind his softly spoken words. “It was during the war. Things were becoming more unsettled, so I sent my wife to live with her sister. In the night, my Jewish neighbors came to my home as they fled from the Germans. But they were followed. The Germans shot them right in front of me and arrested me for helping them. I was sent to prison. After the war, I couldn’t find my Christine. I searched and prayed all these years but God has not answered my prayers. I do not believe I will ever find her now. It has been too long.”

Putting her arms around the old man, she held him while he sobbed. At last he pulled away, drawing a threadbare white linen handkerchief from his pocket. As he blew his nose loudly, Carrie noticed the initials “K. S.” embroidered in white thread, the kind used in making candlewicks.

“May I ask what your name is, sir?”

He breathed heavily, turned his lips upward in a wobbly smile under his white goatee. “Forgive me for not introducing myself properly. I am Klaus Schmidt. And you?”

“My name is Carrie Dougan. Please, Mr. Schmidt. I would like to show you something.” She reached for the man’s hand and led him to the back of the church table, ignoring the stares of her co-workers.

“There are some initials here – ‘C. H. S.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

The man’s face paled, his voice a mere whisper. “Christine Helena Schmidt. My Christine…”

“I know her as Helena Smith – she said she changed her name when she moved here to the States. Is your Christine…British?”

Tears welled up in the man’s eyes once again, a look of wonder crossing his face. “My Christine…”

***
A nervous Klaus loosened the knot of his tie as he stood at the polished wooden door of the Rosewood Senior Complex apartment. He raised his hand to knock. In his other hand, he clutched a bouquet of red roses.

Carrie watched silently, praying and praising God as He trimmed the damaged wick of sorrow from two hearts and lit it with His joy.

© 2006 by Bonnie Winters
***