A Better Alternative

Google Images

“Hi, Val.”

Valerie tossed her dishtowel toward the sink, cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she wrestled with the bowl she had been drying.

“Hi, Chris. How are you?”

“I’m not sure. I’m fine—I think, but I just did something totally wild,” came a voice at once nervous and exultant.

“What’s up?” Valerie put the bowl down on the counter and, pulling a kitchen chair out, sat down. This sounded like it could take a while.

“I just locked Sarah and Bonnie in the shed.”

For a second, the world held its breath.

“You did what?”

Sitting was a good idea, thought Valerie. Otherwise, she might have fallen over. Sarah and Bonnie barely exchanged pleasantries when they met. They tried not to meet, but in a small church, it was hard to avoid the occasional contact.

“I locked …”

“Yes, I heard that, but what on earth did you do that for?”

“They need to talk to each other and sort out their issues, and since they wouldn’t do it on their own, I decided to help facilitate their reconciliation.”

“Facilitate their reconciliation? By locking them in the shed?”

“It will force them to face their problems and communicate with each other.”

That theory had some holes, but Valerie’s curiosity about the shed won out over logical, or illogical, conclusions.

“How did you get them both into the same shed at the same time?” Valerie asked.

“Well, you know how they both admire those old gardening tools that I have out there. They are both into shabby chic. So I invited them to come out and have a look.”

“They came together?”

If they had, that would have been a small crack in the ice wall that existed between the two women. Maybe there was some chance Chris’s crazy plan would work.

“No, I roped my darling daughter, Mitzy, into meeting Bonnie at the gate and bringing her in the back way. I took Sarah in the front, and then we both scooted out and barred both doors behind us. They’ll have to sort out the problem before I let them out.”

Valerie took a deep breath. “Chris, I think there is a law against kidnapping and holding people against their will. Besides, you left Bonnie and Sarah within grabbing distance of sharp instruments? You’d better pray that those weapons of grass destruction don’t turn into anything more dangerous.”

“Oh, come on, Val. They are Christians, after all. They surely won’t do each other injury. You don’t really think they would, do you?”

Chris was beginning to wonder if her plan had not only been ill-advised, but dangerous. The exasperation in Valerie’s voice caused her “facilitating” friend some doubts.

“Why not?” chided Val, “They have already done injury to themselves and to the rest of the church by not resolving whatever this problem is that they have between them. There aren’t too many more steps to take before the cold war heats up. Besides, how do you know they are even sorting things out? Do they know what it is they are supposed to be doing in the shed? They could be hatching a plot on how to escape, or planning how to freeze you out of their world when they do get out. Instead of Bonnie and Sarah not talking, it will be Bonnie, Sarah, and Chris not talking. How will that have helped the situation?”

Dead air reigned once more as Chris chewed on Valerie’s words.

“But I was only trying to help, honest. It never occurred to me that they might not even know why I had locked them in the shed. It seemed obvious to me.”

However, you’re not the one with the unforgiving spirit clouding your vision, thought Valerie.

“Chris, have ever actually talked to Bonnie and Sarah about how this problem is affecting them and damaging the church?”

“Well, no.”

“Well, neither have I, so I don’t have much room to criticize. I’m going to hang up now. I’ll be at your place in ten minutes. We will go into the shed together, you will explain why you suffered this momentary lapse of judgment and we will, Lord willing, sit down at your kitchen table, have a nice cup of coffee together and talk this out. Hopefully, Bonnie and Sarah will be so mad at you that they will look at each other more favourably.”

“What should I do while I’m waiting?” asked Chris.

“Pray, sister, pray.”

Would The Real Devil Please Stand Up

Google Images

“Listen to this! ‘These little cannibals have bad-tempers and will fly into a maniacal rage if threatened by a predator, fighting for a mate, or defending their dinner.’ They gotta have a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock to publish this stuff. Gross exaggeration, that’s what it is.”

A sharp flick of the rat-eared magazine added emphasis to Tom’s words.

“Easy on, Tom, your ears are turning red and you’re scaring the ankle biters.” Trixie pushed one of her remaining young into her pouch with a not too gentle shove. “It’s not as if it isn’t true, is it? You’re grouchy most of time."

“And you’re not grouchy? Who are they to point their useless, wimpy appendages at us. Humans fly into rages ‘if threatened by a predator’ too. We got driven off the North Island—and it wasn’t chauffeured in any Yank tank either, was it? Mark my words; it won’t be long before we go the way of the tigers…”

Trixie could tell that Tom was just warming up. His ears were the colour of ripe cherries and their tree hollow began to fill with an unpleasant smell—and it wasn’t from the rotting carcass her mate had uncovered and eaten last night. The devil was in the “Devil.”

“ …As far as fighting for a mate is concerned, those drongos do that too.”

It had been a big mistake to go through the garbage at the campsite. The magazine had been wrapped around a rather tasty bit of dog’s eye. Unfortunately, the grease had not soiled the article on Tasmanian wildlife.

Trixie admitted that hers was a violent community, though she kept herself to herself, as did most of her kind. Then again, humans killed their own young too. Maybe Tom had a point—those people had no business criticizing. Personally, she resented being called a "devil." Trixie wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but the fear and disgust that lent emotion to the word spoke volumes. Lost in her thoughts, Trixie hadn’t realized that Tom was silent. She looked over to his corner of the hollow. Her mate had fallen into a state of tupor. She kept still, knowing that the slightest movement would instantly rouse him to full alertness. He appeared dead but appearances were deceiving.

If people left us alone we wouldn’t…

A sharp sneeze sounded from outside the hollow. Immediately, Tom’s mouth stretched wide showing 42 lethal weapons ready for action. Fear? Uncertainly? They couldn’t see, but they could hear growling, the sure signal of a fight about to take place. Tom, taking the lead, poked his nose out into the night. In the shadows cast by a full moon glowing through the trees, he saw two forms locked in deadly combat. The snarling, snapping, and growling grew fierce and Tom drew back into the safety of the hollow.

“Who is it?” asked Trixie.

“Buzz. He’s finishing off old Charlie.”

“Isn’t he the one with all those lumps around his mouth? Poor old duffer hasn’t eaten in weeks.”

“That’s the one. Some kind of disease.* I hope Buzz doesn’t get more than indigestion from old Charlie.”

Trixie paused, lost in the thought of the carnage outside her door.

“I guess that magazine is right, then.”

“What?” said Tom.

“Buzz just killed Charlie and is probably feasting on his bones. I’d guess that makes us cannibals just like they say.”

“Trixie,” Tom shouted, ears suddenly darkening to the colour of old blood. “I’m getting fed up to the back teeth with you. We’re supposed to be violent, mean, and without conscience—we’re the animals. They, on the other hand, are supposed to be improving into something better. We’ve got an excuse—which is more than can be said for them.”

Tom’s mate shook her head in solemn assent.

“Now that’s the duck’s guts. I guess the devil is in the details.”



Kangaroos loose in the top paddock = the lights are on but nobody’s home, a few bricks short of a load, not all there
Ankle-bi = meat pie
Drongo = stupid, dimwit, a fool
North Island = mainland Australia
Yank Tank = an American car
Tigers = the extinct Tasmanian tiger, a relative of the Tasmanian devil
Duffer = silly person
Fed up to the back teeth = losing patience
Duck’s guts = the heart of the matter

*Devil Facial Tumor Disease (DFTD), which threatens the survival of the Tasmanian devil population

---

Illusions, Delusions and Conclusions

Google Images

“Don’t just lie there; talk to me.”

“Go away, can’t you see I’m crushed. It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late. Here, I found this big chunk and …” the man paused as he carefully placed the piece he had picked up near the base of the wall, “…I think it goes right here.”
The speaker gingerly bent down in an effort to get closer to the ground without crunching any more of the myriad of shell pieces scattered around him.

“Forget it,” moaned the object of his compassion.

“Not until you tell me which one of the stories about you is true. I’m not going to let you ooze away until you do.” The soldier, for that’s what he was, put another piece in place.

“What stories?”

“Well, there’s the one about the cannon. They say the Roundheads were giving the Royals a really rough time of it…”

“I know about Kansas City, but who do the Roundheads play for?” came the feeble interjection.

“Save your strength and let me finish.” Not waiting for a reply, the man continued to talk and to look for pieces that fit the broken puzzle lying on the ground.

“Anyway, the Roundheads had laid siege to Colchester and the Royals had mounted this huge cannon on the wall beside the church bell tower. Course the wall couldn’t stand up to the constant battering. The Roundheads took out the tower and the wall—down came the cannon. The Royals couldn’t put it back together no matter what they did.”

“Nope, that’s not the story I grew up with.” The shattered shell on the ground took a ragged breath. Keeping himself together, what little there was left of him, was getting harder.

“Then you were the one-eyed gunner who was up there firing the cannon?”

“Nope, not him either.”

The soldier scooped up some yellow matter and gently placed it inside a cup-like bit of skull.

“At least this stuff is prettier than what I usually have to collect,” he said to himself, thinking of all the grey matter he had been exposed to during his military career.

“What was that?” said the dying orb.

Embarrassed that he’d been heard, the man quickly moved to the next question.

“Okay if it isn’t that one, how about the one about this Cardinal Wolsey who couldn’t manage to get King Henry a divorce, so he lost his job at court and got sent down to his country home in disgrace.”

The disaster lying on the ground, grunted. “Do I look like a prince of the church to you?”

“Well,” admitted the soldier, “not now. But you did fall from a high place and end your career badly.” He carefully applied a bit of spit to his repair job.

“Yuk, be careful where you put that,” exclaimed the victim.

“Then you have to be Prince Humperdinck, right?” his helper continued.

“Now that’s a yoke,” came a weak laugh. “I told you I wasn’t a Cardinal, and now you want to make me a prince?”

“Well, the story fits, doesn’t it? They say there was this prince from some obscure country in Europe who liked to walk along the walls of his father’s castle. Trouble was, he must have been given to daydreaming or something. Anyway, one day he fell off. Broke every bone in his body. Does that sound familiar?” For a moment, the man thought the poor creature beside him had finally passed. There was no sound, certainly no movement, from the mangled mess before him.

“Hey, Humpty, answer me. You can’t quit yet,” the soldier urged.

“Why not?” came back the answer. “You know how the story ends, so why bother with the futile repair job. Just let me go.”

“Because I don’t know how the story started. My mother always said I had a curious streak. You know; taking clocks apart to find out how they ticked …”

Humpty laughed. “Now I know why you’re insisting on fixing me. Tell me, how many pieces were left over after you got your clocks back together?”

“Ah, Humpty, come on, tell me. We’re running out of time here.”

“Alright, alright. Then maybe you’ll let me die in peace. It’s the bar story.”

“Bar story?”

“Yeah, a Humpty Dumpty was a drink made of brandy boiled in ale.”

“No cannon or cannoneer?”

“Nope.”

No cardinal?”

“Nope.”

“No prince?”

“Nope, just falling down drunk.”

“I’m shattered,” sighed the soldier.

“No, I’M shattered. Now will you go away and let this story finish?” replied the egg.

Broken Dreams

Go again to that dark place
where freedom dies and life lies waste.
Consider there that time, now past,
when all alone you gazed aghast
at broken dreams, forlorn and bent
beneath your feet lay, shattered, spent.

Return once more to memory’s cove
where, snug and safe, a treasure trove
of gold and silver, safely hid
from evil’s touch and gambler’s bid.
Protected by a Father’s hand
who caused these dreams to ever stand.

Some will die, and others live.
It is the Father’s grace to give
the best to those who dream, and wait
for Him to choose which one to take
and weave into life’s broken heart
a thread of hope, that missing part.

Let fall behind those painful sparks
of dying dreams that now grow cold.
And look beyond their fading light
toward His promise, pure and bright,
of dreams set free, divinely blessed,
a Father’s gift, as always, best.

Lynda Schultz, © January 2006

Covered

Once a church in Murree, Google Images

Anne stepped out of the office, breathing in the cool air coming down from the mountains of Kashmir on the other side of the Jhelum River.

She loved Murree; had done so since first arriving to teach at the missionary children’s school eight years earlier. The place exuded history and pageantry, both of which fascinated the young woman. Wherever she went in Pakistan, the dusty remnants of the long, lost British Empire could still be seen. She had wandered through the excavation site at Mohenjo-daro* in the Indus Valley, entered the humble dwellings of Marwari tribesmen, been blessed by their older women and touched her hands to the foreheads of the younger women as she blessed them. Anne had traveled through the streets of Shikapur, head covered as Muslim law demanded of even non-Muslims, “protected” by the company of whichever male, however young, was willing to explore with her.

Murree outshone them all. Here, in the streets of the bazaar, walking the forest trails, or passing though Jhika Gali just beyond the gates of the school, she could walk freely, alone, with her head uncovered. This was a world within a world tucked away among these magnificent Himalayan foothills.

However, peaceful Murree lay surrounded by a world of conflict, making the 150 children of missionaries, diplomats and foreign executives in boarding here, a mighty big temptation. The school took every precaution. Anne chuckled out loud, remembering the first time she had seen the fierce-looking mustached men walking the streets of Murree, rifles slung over one shoulder, double bandoliers full of cartridges crisscrossing their chests. They were not, she had been told, people she needed to fear.

Anne, caught up in her reverie, almost missed the sharp retort of rapid gunfire coming from the gate just beyond the drafty old British Garrison Church that now housed the high school.

The kids!

The yard was empty.

Recess is over. They’re back in class.

Anne sucked in air, suddenly conscious that the yard was empty—except for her. She could hear the thudding coming from the church, semi-automatic fire, yelling, screams suddenly silenced. Feet came pounding toward her. She pulled back and pressed herself into the rough stone corner jutting out into the yard from the administration building. It was poor shelter, but too late for anything else.

A figure in western clothing raced past her. Anne almost called out but bit her tongue when she realized that the man was carrying an assault rifle. He dashed toward the door to the office, kicked it open, strafed the room, and ran on without looking.

Oh Lord, please not Faridah.

That room belonged to the school’s secretary.

Horrified, the young teacher stepped out of her hiding place. She needed to get to Faridah. The sound of more pounding feet drove her back into the skinny shadows. This time the steps slowed and stopped.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Lord…

She couldn’t see, and didn’t dare expose herself in case it was another of the attackers. She sensed movement, and the figure came into view. The man’s head moved back and forth, rapidly scanning everything around him, his back toward Anne. With his peripheral vision, he had to be able to see her, sense her. The hunter and the hunted both saw the movement to their left at the same time. The gunman spun in that direction, leveling his weapon as he turned.

Anne cringed, stifling a cry as Mukhtar’s familiar figure flopped backward, unable to resist the impact from the spray of bullets. He was, had been, one of the kitchen boys.

The killer surveyed the yard again. He took a step back as though seeking shelter in the same shadowed corner where Anne huddled. She had the sudden, almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch him. How could he not feel her breath on his neck, sense her presence?

Lord, remind mom I’ll see her…

The man moved on, heading toward the back of the property and the safety of the woods beyond. He never looked back, never saw the girl, never felt her presence, or heard her gasps for breath.

Nor did he feel the brush of the angel’s wings as they covered her.





*The Mound of the Dead, one of the earliest city-settlements in the world.
Author’s Note: this story is based on actual events. Six Pakistanis died in the attack on Murree Christian School in August 2002. The quick action of the staff prevented the four terrorists from entering the classroom areas.

---

Abusing Grace

Alexi Harlamov

(Author's Note: Part of this morning's message at church reminded of this story. I thought I'd share.)

She lived on the streets, but she was not a vagrant or a streetwalker. Grace eagerly embraced the opportunity to be where people constantly passed, but she was not selling her services, or begging for leftovers. Unlike many forced to live exposed to the meaner things of life, Grace had chosen her path eagerly. Instead of darkness and despair, she radiated light and hope. As she walked the sidewalks and greeted each person who passed, those who bothered to pay even the slightest attention were impressed.

Day and night, summer and winter, Grace never abandoned her place in the thoroughfares of life. Most ignored her—an amazing error in judgment considering what she was offering. Her approach was never offensive though it often gave offense. People react oddly at times, so she discovered.

A few were tempted, but even among these there were some who thought her too good to be true, and walked away. They were half right: She was good, so good that she WAS true.

However, there were others who saw her charm, appreciated her willingness, saw the advantage of a closer relationship, and thought to take advantage.

"She's an easy mark. It shouldn't be hard to take her."

This from a shriveled little soul, with a slight green tinge around his mouth. He resented it when others had something he didn't. He wanted to be the first in line for this prize. However, the leader of his group enjoyed certain privileges, aided by his being a much bulkier man with weight to throw around. Calculation was etched on his face as he responded to his underling's prompting.

"Of course, adding her to our stables will represent a coup of huge proportions. She is special."

"Do you think her Master will object?"

"From what I hear, he wants us to take her."

The leader snorted. "Well, what did you expect? She's out walking the streets, offering herself to everyone who passes. My question is, how much is she worth?"

Another offered: "I heard he's offering her for free." He had left all his possibilities to pay for anything attached to a now-empty six-pack occupying space in a dumpster in a nearby alley. Free was a good thing as far as he was concerned.

That got the attention of a fourth member of the gang.

"What? She must be diseased, or undercover. Free? Impossible."

This comment came from a sly slip of a man who hoped that his suggestions, based on absolutely no facts, would divert the attention of the rest. He could use a piece of the action himself.

He continued: "Can't be as good as she looks, then. There's no such thing as a free ride, a free lunch, or "

The greenish man ruefully added: "Nope, seems legit. I know some people who know her intimately. Never seen such a haphapless bunch."

He had been about to use the words "happy" and "healthy," but caught himself in time. Such positive remarks about the band's rivals would earn him a cuff across the back of the head.

The comments bounced back and forth until at last, tired of talking, the parties came to a decision.

"Well, let's try her out. We don't have anything to lose."

They were wrong.

The gang approached Grace. The girl was sitting on the broad, stone steps of a church. She was well dressed, her hair shone in the sun, and she smiled invitingly at each person who passed by. As the men sauntered up to her, Grace looked up and smiled.

"Good morning."

She said nothing more, waiting.

The leader reached out and took her hand in his and pulled her up, toward him. She didn't resist, but continued to smile, her brilliant eyes meeting his in open invitation.

"Come with me, baby—your beauty to my beast. We'll make beautiful music together."

"I'd love to go with you—with all of you."

Hopes rose. This should be easy pickings.

"But " Grace hesitated, pausing to bestow a warm look on each face that met hers. She then continued: " though I specialize in beasts, I don't do beastlies. You'll have to leave those behind."

Objections spewed from three sets of lips.

"What?"

"Honey, I am what I am. I don't change for nobody."

"Freebies can't be fussy."

To this point, the leader of the band had been silent. When everyone else had finished protesting, he grasped Grace's arms in a vise-like grip.

"Look, little girl. Your boss sent you out on the streets looking for people like us. Joining the gang will make you look good, attract business your way, so to speak."

A piece like her on my arm would turn heads.

"Besides, a beast isn't a beast without his beastlies."

Grace's smile broadened.

"Precisely."

"So?"

"So, to have me, you have to let my Master deal with the beastlies."

The green-tinged man grew greener.

Another shook his head, thinking his drink-induced fog must be affecting his hearing.

"You're lying," objected a third. It takes one to know one, he added to himself.

Their leader released Grace, holding up his hand to signal silence among his companions.

"You do charge for your services then. Word on the street is that you are free, that your Master is offering you to any, and to all who want you."

"My services are free. But you are mistaken about the relationship. It's not me hanging around with you; it's you hanging on to me. You won't make me look good; your knowing me will make you not only look good, but be good. Your life will change from the moment you accept my Master's offer. You won't want the beastlies anymore."

Horror rose like smoke from hell at her words.

"What? Not want what I want? Impossible."

"Not be what I am? Nothin' doin'."

"Lose my identity for you? Dream on."

Grace picked up on the last comment, fixing her beautiful eyes on the bowed figure peering from behind his master's tattered dungarees.

"Do you honestly believe that what you are now is what you were meant to be? My Master's offer is to restore to you your true identity; that of a child of the King and a citizen of Heaven, free from beastlies and reborn to beauty."

Sensing the weakening resolve of his compatriots, the leader of the pack signaled his henchmen away from Grace. She sighed, sadness tempering her features. Reluctantly she returned to her duties on the street corner, amazed as she always was that people preferred a fatal disease to perfect health.

"Excuse me."

Grace sensed his approach and was already turning as he spoke.

"Yes?"

"I heard what you said. I'd like to sign on, sign up, volunteer, joinwhatever the appropriate word is for taking advantage of your offer."

Grace made no judgment calls; that was neither her job nor her nature. If she had been one to distinguish between people, she would have preferred this one to her previous companions. He was well-dressed, casual but neat, sincerity gripping the hand of politeness.

"You understand the terms and conditions?"

"Oh yes. I want to be a child of the King and a citizen of heaven. I beg forgiveness and renounce "

He listed an impressive number of beastlies, the mention of each one broadened Grace's smile just a little more. As he finished his list, she touched his arm. A current passed from her to him, something like a rush of swift water over rocks. She linked her arm in his. Together they walked to the door of the church where Grace had been sitting not long before.

"Go in there, and they will teach you more of what you need to know about my Master and the step you have taken today."

He smiled and opening the door, disappeared from view.

Four pairs of eyes watched from an alleyway close to the church.

"There's another one gone," said the liar. "The big boss will not be pleased."

His comment was followed by a snort of disbelief from the leader of the gang.

"Don't believe everything you hear. Just watch and wait. Grace thinks she so smart. She ought to develop a little more savvy about the people she deals with."

"She saw through us, didn't ?"

Three turned on the fourth with savage disgust.

"Shut up!"

The leader of the band loosened the grip he had held around the throat of his talkative follower. He cocked a crooked smile. Then, looking back around the corner, said:

"Wait. You'll see. Keep Grace in sight."

And so they did. Day and night they watched. Days passed and so did they. They stopped to talk to her as she spoke to the passersby. She always looked at them with hopeful eyes, and renewed her offer. If they thought to waiver and consider what she said, their leader was quick to smash the idea to smithereens with his fists or his tongue during their nightly consultations at the back of the alley.

Time passed. They noticed that the man with whom Grace had spoken on that fateful day, entered and exited the church quite frequently. He stopped to talk to Grace and she would touch him again, just as she had done the first time. She often entered the building as well.

Then one day, the little green one sidled up to his boss. He had something to report.

"Hey, man. Gracie is looking a little peaked."

Sure enough, four pairs of eyes peering around the corner of the church all noticed the same thing. It was the same Grace, but different. Her dress was smudged. A tiny rip showed in her sleeve and her stockings had a run in them.

"I told you so," crowed the leader of the group, his eyes crinkled up with glee. "Now, listen."

Four pairs of ears became fined tuned to the conversation on the street. People passed Grace by. More than a few took a look at her bedraggled appearance and laughed. Some who seemed as though they wanted to stop and talk with her, moved away, doubt marking their faces. The only ones who lingered were some of the people from the church. They came more frequently than ever. Oddly enough, they were less polite now, and the silver of sincerity seemed more than slightly tarnished.

Grace began to look more ragged, though the brilliance of her eyes and her manner never changed. The rips were longer, the dirt more pronounced, and there was blood on a bruised thigh.

"Let's go. Let's find out if Gracie hasn't swallowed some of her pride. Maybe she'll like our terms and conditions better now."

The band of miscreants sauntered down the street, past the church, and stopped on the corner where Grace was working.

"Well, well, look what we have here. If it isn't our friend, Grace. Looks like you've been having a bad day, or should I say bad days?"

Chuckles followed the wisecrack of their leader.

She smiled too—without the evil intent.

"So, your new friends aren't treating you too well. Maybe you should call a cop, or better yet, report them to your Master. Looks like business is dropping off too. Looks like you've lost a little of that credibility stuff. People are convinced that you're too easy? Or cheap? Or ineffective? Give it up, Gracie, your grace-nics aren't livin' up to the advertising."

Not content with having the boss hog all the action, her cohorts chimed in.

"Yah, they're comin' too often "

" and takin' you too lightly."

"I hear they like studying Tai Chi more than theolo-chi in there," chortled another.

"Face it, Grace, they think you're a joke—and so do all the people who know them and see you. Those people in there don't care, Grace. So much for your 'terms and conditions.'"

"So much for them givin' up the beastlies."

"So much for even wantin' to give up the beastlies. Your Master's plan don't work. They took what they wanted and only gave up what didn't matter to 'em."

"They lied," exulted the liar, looking with friendly, longing eyes toward the church.

"They used yah and abused yah, Cheap Grace."

The insults and taunts at last brought tears to Grace's beautiful eyes. Nevertheless, though bruised by her own and battered by those she longed to make her own, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, straightened her skirt, and her spine.

"I know. But I'll still be on this street this afternoon, tomorrow, and the day after that."

"You're the perfect victim, Gracie," sneered the head bully. "If I try harder, things will get better," he mocked.

"If you're so concerned about me, why don't you accept my Master's offer and make the difference? Yes, there are some who claim to follow in his light, but are still blanketed by your darkness. But right now you're here, and they're not. You could show them what walking in the true Light is really like. Take what I offer—what He offers. Take it with a whole heart."

Stunned silence responded to the gentle words. Before the band's incredulous eyes, the rips faded, the stains softened. The blood on Grace's leg glowed scarlet, pulsing with life. The light from those beautiful eyes pierced through layers of evil to strike at souls long shriveled and dry.

"You you still make this offer in spite of the abuse that you have taken?"

Grace smiled gently. The voice that then spoke was not hers. Deeper, and overwhelming in its compassionate, it reached down from the heavenlies and said:

"Yes, come."

Kitties Come Home

Google Images

January arrived and the bitter winter settled in for the long haul. Night came early and with it a gnawing need.

The male slipped out from under the naked shrubbery and wound his way around the southern end of the garage where the snow wasn’t quite as deep. He paused. The street was asleep but inbred caution demanded that he be sure no threat existed.

Inspection completed, he padded softly across the freshly shoveled driveway. Wide-open spaces made him nervous. A security light flickered on, startling him. He paused for a split second, then skittered away, belly brushing the snow, until he reached the pine trees beside the walkway. The lower branches were weighted down with snow, providing a shelter near the base of the trees. A sudden gust of wind stirred the wind chimes on the porch of the house, breaking the silence.

The tom’s breathing settled as the light switched off. However, he kept his eyes on the route he had just traveled. He uttered a short cry that, despite its softness, seemed loud in the quietness that had once more descended. Though he was keeping watch, he almost missed the smaller, lightly-coloured female who sped across the driveway coming to a perfect landing at his side.

“You didn’t even trigger the light,” he said.

“You gotta stay closer to the garage.” She trembled slightly and her companion snuggled closer.

“Cold?”

“Not really,” she lied.

This was their first winter on the outside and it had taken her some time to move from abject terror to just plain fear as she faced this new aspect of life on the streets.

“Do you think that…?” She continued.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” interjected her companion. “We’ve been disappointed before.”

The previous summer, after being left behind, the two cats had stuck close to their home for a while, believing that their humans would soon return to the now empty house. The tom resurrected kitten-hood memories of life in a barn and the old hunting skills soon returned. The she-cat, domesticated and declawed, became his shadow, instinctively understanding that without him she would not survive long.

The arrival of a new family with two enormous and aggressive dogs killed their hopes as surely as water kills fire. The fall was bitter with sad reminiscences of better times. By the time snow fell the only thing on their minds was the next meal and a safe place to sleep.

The house they now watched from under the pine trees was miles from the home they once knew. From the outside this place didn’t seem that much different from its neighbors. But there was something…

The porch light came on suddenly and both cats stiffened, ready to run. The front door opened, then the outer door.

“Not yet,” the tom cautioned.

“What if she’s going to let out a dog?” came a throaty whisper. Without the means to defend herself, the she-cat’s terror began to build.

“No dog,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Dogs make a mess in the snow. There’s no mess in this yard.”

The figure in the doorway stepped onto the porch—a woman in slippers and heavy wool socks, wearing a baggy sweater wrapped around a bulky dressing gown. She looked around the dark yard, then skyward for a few moments as the moon broke through the clouds. The porch gleamed in its pale light. The woman returned to her business. She had been carrying a bowl, which she now carefully put down on the edge of the porch where it met the top step. She then turned, went back into the house, closed the outer door, but left the inner door open just a crack.

“What’s that all about?” said the tom.

“It’s for us—the bowl. She’s waiting for us,” she replied. The tom could feel the tension melting away in his companion.

“You’ve been wrong before. I told you not to hope.”

“There’s always an exception. Watch the moon and hear the wind. You’ll know,” she said.

For once he followed her lead—and her hopeful heart.

The figures of silver cats dancing on silver leashes twinkled and tinkled as moon and wind played tag among the chimes. The moonlight cast a blue shadow, turning the freshly fallen snow into a sea of sparkling diamonds, pristine except for the paw prints of two abandoned felines heading for the bowl on the porch and the sliver of light coming from a partly open door.