Vol. 2 Issue 5

VOL. 2 ISSUE 5 DEC. 2010/JAN. 2011

Inspired Essay:

My Soul Has Been Anchored Marie E. Talley

Christmas Sauce Marilynn Griffith

A Different Kind of

Christmas Story

Parables Magazine is published by Pecan Tree Publishing, Hollywood, Florida. It is a bi-monthly online publication devoted to short Christian fiction, inspirational essays and devotionals.

Volume 2 Issue 5 / Dec. 2010/Jan. 2011

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 6 A Different Kind of Christmas Story

Melissa Going

9

In the Lion’s Den

Brandt Dodson

14 Beyond the Mountainside

Danielle Grandinetti

23 Heaven’s Key

Melissa Ziegler

27 Inspired Essay:

My Soul Has Been Anchored

Marie E. Talley

30 Secrets Unraveled

J.J. Michael

36 Christmas Sauce

Marilynn Griffith

40 Devotional:

It’s Not Over Even When It’s Over

Associate Pastor Leslie Tipton

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A Different Kind of

Christmas Story

By Melissa Going

I

t was late and I was cold as I hustled down the darkened street walking in and out of the shadows as I passed under the street lights. First light, then dark, then light again, like some kind of stationary strobe. We all experience patches of light and dark as we walk through this life and I found it amusing to think of it as a slow moving strobe light. After all we are told that our life is but a vapor, a mist, an almost infinitesimal blip in the eternal timeline. But, then, I diverge from my story.

It was as I was on this journey of seeking the warmth and comfort that I knew awaited me at home, that I started noticing something odd. As I walked along I could hear a faint tinkling of bells. The noise didn’t recede into the shadows but, seemed to follow alongside of me as I went.

I turned around several times trying to ascertain from which direction it came but, to no avail.

I began to worry that perhaps, just in the shadows beyond my sight lay some menace that I had yet to espy. This caused me some concern and I hastened my step. Yet, the sound kept pace with me, never drawing closer, never moving past.

6| PARABLES

Something caused me to shiver. Was it the wind or this unforeseen visitor? Whichever it was, I couldn’t reach my doorstep fast enough to suit me!

I then realized another strange occurrence had been taking place as well. Just as I passed a house a light would come on inside and just as quickly it would go out. No sounds of movement. No disturbance of residents or animals. No shouts of alarm accompanied this odd phenomenon.

It added to the strobe effect. It seemed almost normal.

Soon the sound of the bells became just another sound in the night and I ceased to notice it. Therefore I have no idea when or where it stopped accompanying me. The lights too had ceased to follow alongside of me as I neared my home.

With relief I finally entered my doorway. It was warm and familiar inside; yet, no sounds greeted me as I entered for I had been alone for many years.

It is part of that light and darkness I was talking about earlier. There are times that we are glad and times that we are sad. There are times that we are loved and times that we’re alone, and sometimes being alone is a choice we made along the way. Sometimes we drove away those that loved us and sometimes they leave us behind. In my case I had driven away those that loved me. I had become bitter and hard; too caught up in the “things” of this life to pay attention to the people in my life. Much like a present day “Scrooge” I’m afraid.

Yes, I’d no one but myself to blame for being alone on this Christmas Eve. I comforted myself with the thought that this was the way I wanted it, but, deep down I knew it was a lie.

I readied myself for bed.

What was that!?

A sound came from the living room below!

Was there an intruder in my safe domain?

Did I not lock the door when I came in?

I was sure that I had.

Clutching my robe around me I cautiously ventured downstairs. As I went I heard it again, that faint tinkling of the bells.

Had this robber followed me home?

P A R A B L E S |7

A small glow seemed to be emanating from my living room. I was sure I hadn’t left any lights burning, yet, there it was, an unmistakable orb of light peering out of the doorway.

My heart was pounding so loud I was sure that it could be heard by whom-ever was nearby.

Yet, I continued to creep downward. I must see what was causing this ethereal light!

I heard the bells once more as they seemed to disappear into the night.

I peered around the corner of the doorway and saw the light was coming from a small display on the coffee table.

Funny, I didn’t remember there being anything on that table earlier and I hadn’t even entered this room when I came through the door.

I crept closer, almost afraid to look.

There before me was displayed a small glass manger scene. There was no source for the light, but, it definitely had a glow about it.

Where did it come from? How did it get here?

Those faint bells . . . Could it be? Nah! I stopped believing in Santa Claus years ago!

And the Christ-child? I’m afraid I’d left him behind with all those other people.

I sat down on the floor and stared at the little scene. I started to cry; to cry for all the lost opportunities, for all the lost loves, and for losing the ability to dream and believe.

Then I saw it. A snow covered footprint next to the fireplace and beside it a wisp of paper that merely said “You are loved. Jesus.”

Could it really be that the fictional Santa had brought me the true gift of love, Jesus? It was hard to fathom, but, as dawn approached all up and down the street I heard the squeals of little children as they discovered what “Santa” had left them under the tree.

Perhaps it is time to believe again. . . .

Melissa Going is a mother of four grown children and is currently raising her two grandsons. She has found through the years that the closer you draw to God the closer He draws to you. She considers herself a worshipper not just in song but, in lifestyle.

8| PARABLES

in the

Lion's Den

By Brandt Dodson

I

f you’ve never experienced the loss of a loved one, never had to wrestle with financial uncertainty or confronted a frightening medical diagnosis, then be certain of this. You will.

Each of us, regardless of our station in life or our perceived sense of invulnerability, will experience difficulties and heartache.

Money won’t shield us from them and political power can’t assuage them. And when they arise, they will often seem insurmountable.

They certainly were in Daniel’s case.

My God sent his ­angel and he shut the mouths of the lions.

Daniel 6:22

Daniel was one of three men appointed by King Darius to oversee the satraps who managed the affairs of the kingdom. The Bible tells us that Daniel performed his job exceedingly well and gained such a favorable standing with the King that Darius planned to set him over the whole kingdom. And that’s when Daniel’s troubles began.

P A R A B L E S |9

The other administrators grew jealous of Daniel and began to plot against him. They even manipulated King Darius into ordering a decree that anyone caught praying “to any god or man, other than you” would be ordered into the lion’s den. The King went along with their scheme, but regretted it almost immediately. Daniel, it seemed, had ignored the decree and prayed to God. Now he could have followed the King’s order. He could have refused to honor God and taken the route of placing his loyalty to King Darius over his loyalty to God. After all, he had a nice thing going. He had a good job, standing in the community, and the favor of the most powerful man in the land. But that wasn’t in Daniel’s character. His devotion to God rose above all else. So despite the King’s command, Daniel continued to kneel before God. The King was in a fix. He could not alter his own decree, so he ordered Daniel into the lion’s den and had the opening sealed. If Daniel survived, it would not be by the hand of man.

The Bible tells us that the King favored Daniel and could not eat or sleep that night for fear that he would not survive. When morning came, Darius raced to the den and ordered the seal removed. Daniel was alive and well!

“My God sent his angel and he shut the mouths of the lions.”

The King was overjoyed and immediately ordered that the other administrators—along with their wives and children—be tossed into the den. The Bible tells us that before they even reached the floor, the lions consumed them. God left no doubt. It was He who had protected Daniel, and King Darius declared the same.

The greatest difficulties in life often come as a challenge to our faith, or as a witness to those around us, or because of the fallen world in which we live. And they seem to come when our defenses are depleted. In Daniel’s case, even the King’s favor could not protect him. But Daniel was not alone. He had a defense that rose above all others.

“My God sent his angel, and he shut the mouths of the lions.”

Daniel’s faith—his devotion to God—supplied him with everything he needed. The Bible does not tell us if Daniel was certain of God’s protection or whether he feared going into the lion’s den. But Daniel had chosen to live a life that honored God, regardless of the consequences, and he knew that God would be with him—even in the midst of the lions. It was Daniel’s faith in God that held him steadfast in the face of overwhelming odds.

“He has rescued Daniel from the power of the lions” Daniel 6:27

10| PARABLES

The Bible tells us that the devil prowls about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour. But we know one who is greater. He is the Lion of Judah, and

of him C.S. Lewis wrote, “He is no tame lion.” God does not require us to win the battle. He asks only that we remain firm and place our faith in him; that we trust His word.

“Fear ye not. Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord.”

Exodus 14:13

If He can part the sea to save the Israelites and protect three young men from the raging fires of the furnace, then he can close the mouths of the lions in your life and bring you victorious from the den.

Will you trust Him to do that?

Brandt Dodson is the creator of the Colton Parker Mystery series from Harvest House Publishers and the author of two stand-alone novels: White Soul and Daniel’s Den. He lives in southern Indiana with his wife and their two sons and is at work on his next novel.

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Beyond the

By Danielle Grandinetti

alvin Jacobson lived in a little cottage on the side of a mountain. He was born there, spent all his seventeen years there, and his parents died there. Now, no matter how many times Calvin reminded her that she was not even two years older than he and his twin brother, Hattie enjoyed bossing her brothers around.

C

quality was that she was pretty. Papa always said she looked like Mama. Cal couldn’t remember Mama, but he hoped she hadn’t been as bossy as Hattie was. But, if Hattie had brown hair that coiled into beautiful rings and brown eyes that were as deep as some of the mountain pools, Mama must have had those too.

Calvin was known to his family as Cal. He had brown hair that Hattie would make him comb, brown eyes, plenty of freckles, and a mischievous grin that always got him into trouble. Cal’s twin was called Little Jim, even though he was taller than Papa was.

And Little Jim wasn’t just tall; he also had long legs that would trip him up, which Cal exploited to the fullest extent. Little Jim was a quiet boy, he didn’t say much, but Papa would always say he had intelligent eyes. Cal figured that came from all the books Little Jim’s eyes devoured. Hattie? Hattie’s best

Sometimes, Cal would find himself staring into Hattie’s eyes, drawn to a world far away from the cottage and the mountain.

14| PARABLES

“Cal, what are you looking at?” Hattie quickly brought him back to the present.

“Get those dishes washed.” Cal scowled. He really didn’t like her telling him what to do.

“I say,” Hattie went on, “You are the mightiest handful I could dream of.”

“Sure,” Cal muttered, “But you don’t have any other boys to compare me to, only Little Jim—”

“And Little Jim is a perfect angel,” Hattie shot back. Cal choked and Hattie quickly added, “Well, almost.”

The reason Cal could only be compared to Little Jim was because Hattie, Little Jim, and Cal had never left their mountain cottage. Cal would ask and ask, but Hattie would explain that in all her years she could not recall ever seeing another person outside of their own little family.

“But why don’t you wonder why we have never seen other people?” Cal would nearly explode.

“Cause I’m not tempted like you to want to explore beyond our land up here on the mountainside.”

Cal huffed, mocking Hattie’s usual explanation, “Existence on this little cliff is difficult enough” “Exactly, Cal.” Hattie wagged a finger, “And I don’t think there is any need to see what troubles lay in the green pastures below.”

Cal looked at Little Jim who sat near the fireplace reading another book. But no help would come from him. Little Jim also didn’t ask why they never saw people. He would never say whether he even wondered about it. He just kept his nose in his books. But Cal, the world beyond was all he ever thought about, and all he cared to talked about.

“Did Mama and Papa always live on the mountain?” Cal asked one afternoon as he and Little Jim and Hattie were weeding

the garden. Even though he had asked the question just that morning, he had to ask it again. He couldn’t imagine always living on the mountain and never going into the valley, or over the mountains, or beyond the horizon.

Like she usually did, Hattie sighed her response, “Yes, Cal.” And like usual, Cal didn’t like his question dismissed so easily. “Don’t you want to see the places down there,” he pointed a dirt-covered finger toward the base of the mountain.

“No, Cal,” Hattie tossed a weed onto the growing pile.

“But don’t you wonder if there are other people like us on other mountains?”

“No Cal.” “Why not, Hattie?”

“Because it’s all I can think about to keep this family going. Now, enough talk.

Get back to work.”

Cal frowned, but obeyed. He always obeyed. But he was never satisfied.

“Hattie,” Little Jim spoke after a few minutes, “Hattie, would people from down the mountain look tall and old, like Papa?”

Hattie dropped her trowel, “Not you, too, Little Jim!” “Do they?” Little Jim pressed.

P A R A B L E S |15

“I’d think they could,” Cal answered with a shrug and a yank. The weed came loose and he landed on his backside.

“Nothing,” the man smiled, his face breaking into dozens of wrinkles. “Only, is this the home of James Jacobson?”

“I don’t know, Little Jim, and I don’t—”

“I don’t know who that is,” Hattie raised her chin.

Cal tossed his head to get his hair out of his face, but when he did, he understood Little Jim’s question. “Uh, Hattie,” his voice quivered, “do they look like, like, that?” he pointed behind her where a man stood holding a thick walking stick. He had a broad-brimmed hat like the one Papa had given Little Jim. And the man’s hair was grey and black like Papa’s. However, the man was bigger than Papa, his shoulders were wider, his legs and arms thick like branches of a large tree. The man looked very strong, but his face, though it looked leathery, was kind, like Papa’s. And his eyes had a hint of sadness like when Papa would talk about Mama.

Cal looked at his sister in astonishment, why was she being so uncooperative. Cal turned back to the stranger, “That’s our second name.”

Hattie’s voice interrupted Cal’s fascination with this strange man. In a sharp voice, she demanded who the man was.

The man raised a thick hand to touch his hat, “Samuel Patrick, Ma’am.” The man’s voice had a deep, echoing sound that seemed to come from deep inside his chest, as if the sound were coming from a cavern in the mountainside.

Hattie stood up and put on her Imean-it voice, “What do you want, Samuel Patrick?”

16| PARABLES

“Hush, Cal!” Hattie glared at him. Cal ignored her.

The man smiled again and his eyes laughed, “You must be his children.”

“Papa’s name was Papa,” Hattie stood firm. Cal felt the irritation growing. Here was an opportunity to reach outside their cottage, to discover the world beyond. And Hattie was being difficult.

“And what are your names?” The man looked at each of them.

Cal decided to take matters into his own hands and stated, quite bluntly, that his name was Cal. “Cal!” Hattie hissed at him again.

“She’s Hattie,” Cal continued, determined not to let his sister deter him from being nice to this strange man. “And that’s Little Jim.” “Jim, you say?” the man turned to look at Little Jim, who was standing per-

fectly still in the same place where he had been weeding a few moments earlier. Little Jim didn’t answer, but then Little Jim was usually quiet, unlike Hattie.

the roof over the porch. Cal balanced on the porch railing. Usually Hattie would scold him for it, but he happily got away with it this time.

“I say, Samuel Patrick,” Hattie said very loudly, “What do you want?”

The strange man looked from Hattie to Little Jim and then to Cal, “Your father loved you and your mother.”

“Actually, I came to give you something.”

“Me?” Hattie took a step back.

“Yes, and Little Jim, and Cal.” Cal couldn’t believe his ears. This strange man had something for them? Even though he’d never met them before, didn’t even know who they were? Or did he?

“What?” Hattie demanded. Cal couldn’t understand why she always had to ruin such an interesting situation.

The man reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of paper. As he unfolded it, he said, “What I’m going to say maybe a surprise. Could we sit to talk it over?”

Cal plopped onto the ground, expectantly. Hattie hesitated, and then said, “There are a few chairs on the porch.” Cal bounced up, her sudden cordiality surprised him.

“Yes, Ma’am,” the man gave a slight nod and followed Hattie to the porch.

Cal followed close behind and Little Jim came behind him. Hattie took the rocking chair, but she stiffly sat on the very edge. The stranger sat on the swing and Little Jim leaned against a beam that held

“How’d you know?” Hattie interrupted.

The man didn’t seem bothered, which made him a better man in Cal’s book, “Around the time you were born, Hattie, your mother became quite ill.

Many in the Valley became ill. The docs said it was an epidemic.”

“What’s an epidemic?” Little Jim asked. He did like those big words.

“When many people become sick of the same illness,” the man sighed. “Your father had great resources, money, and land. He made me in charge of it all and left the Valley.”

Cal was attentive, how did this man know all of this? It was incredible!

But Hattie must not have thought so.

“Wait,” she stopped the stranger again, “I was born up here. We have never been to the Valley.”

“You were born in the Valley, Hattie.”

Cal let his jaw drop open. That’s not the story Papa had always told. This was very riveting, to use one of Little Jim’s words.

P A R A B L E S |17

“And you were a little baby when your father took you and your mother and left the Valley. No one knew where he took you, but you were gone, without a trace.”

“Was it the Valley down the mountain?” Cal had to know.

The man nodded.

“Did you ever try to find Papa?” Little Jim asked. Cal looked at his brother, Little Jim liked to learn, but he was never curious about life beyond their mountainside cottage. Yet here he was, seemingly interested in this strange man.

“Yes, I did try to find your father,” the stranger said, “And it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I learned he was right up here the whole time.”

“How?” Little Jim asked.

“Your father sent me a note.”

“Papa’s been dead for two months!”

Hattie stood, looking like she’d had enough. “I don’t believe any of this!”

went down to the Valley. He never went down there.”

“You were sent on a trip, just before he died, remember?”

Cal remembered, “Yeah, just the three of us. It was fun. We had to pick—” “How did you know?” Hattie demanded. Cal scowled, she liked to interrupt.

“Your father came down to see the doctor and then settle his affairs. He also took a homing pigeon back with him.”

So that’s where the bird came from!

“Dove, we called it,” Cal nodded. “We thought he’d caught it.”

“He said it was a special pet,” Little Jim added.

“He told us,” Hattie’s voice still had an edge of skepticism, “with almost his last breath that we should release it once he died.”

“Hattie, let me finish,” the man’s voice was sad, but firm. Hattie rolled her eyes and waved for him to go on, but she did not sit back in her chair. “Your father knew he was going to die, so he managed to come down and leave me a package, which I received a few days later. It left very specific instructions—”

“That pigeon brought me the word that he had died. I had been away on business when your father came down.

No one recognized him except the doctor and the man who helped put together the package your father left for me.

From what they told me, he was a lot thinner, he was pale, and did not look well.”

“May I ask,” Hattie folded her arms, “How we would not know that our father

“Why didn’t you come then?” Hattie lowered her arms.

18| PARABLES

“Your father did not tell me, or anyone else, where you lived until he told me in the note the pigeon brought.”

“You said you had something for us?”

Hattie’s voice was quiet.

“Here,” he lifted the paper he still held in his hand. “Can you read?”

Hattie nodded. The man leaned forward and handed it to her. Little Jim looked over her shoulder and Cal jumped off the railing to peek at the note.

Hattie read aloud: “My dear children, when you read this note, I will no longer be with you. As I write this, I am entering my last days with you. I have been diagnosed with an illness for which there is no cure. It will be only a matter of time’….”

Hattie’s voice died and Little Jim resumed reading.

“Samuel Patrick is a friend from long ago. He knows your story, and mine. What he tells you about our family’s history is true. It is now time to tell you, my dear children, the reasons why we lived all alone on the mountain. The first reason was because I sought to protect you from the illnesses that threatened our family. I took Mama and Hattie and left the Valley to keep them safe. I did not want to go far because I always planned to return. “‘But there was another reason why I kept you three up on the mountain and that was because I didn’t feel you were ready to face the world and its troubles.

It is a harsh world. It has illness, hatred,

and ungodliness, things you weren’t ready for. “‘But now you are. It is time for you to leave this home. The world awaits you.

You have but to grasp it. I have asked Sam to help you, he wants to help you. Trust him. “‘You cannot stay on this mountain forever, my children. I sought to keep you safe from illness, but it took your Mama, and now it will take me. You have seen the hardships of this world, but you have also seen the goodness of God. Remember the things I have taught you. Let this mountainside serve as a reminder to you that God is your rock. So, go out, my children, go out and make a difference in the world. “‘I love you Papa.”

Hattie lowered the paper and brushed a tear from her cheek. Little Jim coughed. Cal looked at each and then down at his feet.

The strange man took a deep breath and Cal looked up at him as he spoke.

“The question your father wanted me to ask you three was if you could do anything, what would that be?”

Anything. Papa would let us do anything? The idea surged through Cal like the waterfall that crashed down the backside of the mountain. His breath quickened with excitement. But wait, he had to be sure. He cast a sideways glance at this Samuel Patrick, “Anything?”

P A R A B L E S |19

A slow smile formed on the man’s face and his eyes sparkled, “Anything, Cal. No matter the cost, the effort, the time involved.”

Cal knew, knew without one little doubt. He’d get off this mountain. He’d do what Papa said to do. He’d go into the world. He’d see what was out there, what was beyond the Valley, beyond the mountains, beyond the horizon! Cal looked at the man, at Hattie, at Little Jim, feeling like he could just burst. “I wouldn’t want to do anything else!” the words tumbled out, “I only want to explore!”

The man laughed, “Your father thought you would choose that. He has laid out the tools to train you to be able to understand what you explore, to be able to explore safely, and he hoped you would be able to go where no man has dared to step foot.”

“Papa would want me to do that?”

Cal eyes widened so that he had to make them blink.

The man nodded.

“Yippee!” Cal leapt into the air, joy and happiness flooding his whole soul.

He tried to contain himself when Little Jim cleared his throat. “I think,” He said, “that I’d be someone who could cure illness. Then people wouldn’t have to fear epidemics like Papa and Mama did.”

The stranger smiled, but his eyes had tears, his voice a little gruff, “From what your father has told me, you will make an 20| PARABLES

excellent scientist, Jim. You will be sent to school to learn about medicine and science. From there, use your curiosity, your interest in knowledge, to explore those realms and discover new ways to keep people well.”

Little Jim nodded, “I have always enjoyed study. I have studied all that I could here on the mountainside. I was too scared to go beyond this. But Papa wants me to go. I’ll do this for him. I’ll go. I’ll become as great a scientist as I can. And perhaps I will find a cure for what Papa died from.

Patrick Samuel nodded and sniffed.

“Sorry,” he chuckled and ran his sleeve over his eyes. “Hattie, what do you say?”

She looked back at him with sad eyes. The world seemed to grow quiet. Cal cocked his head wondering what his sister was thinking. She looked at him with a smile, and then reached out to squeeze Little Jim’s arm. She took a deep breath and looked at the visitor, “You said I could choose anything?”

“That is what your father told me, Hattie.”

“Then I’d like to stay here. Sir, it’s my home. It’s all I’ve ever known. I don’t want to leave it. I couldn’t leave it.” And she shook her head and began to weep.

Samuel Patrick put an arm over her shoulders and lifted her chin with one of his huge hands. “You father thought you would want to stay, Hattie. He hoped you might chose to go into the world and make a difference there. But he wanted

you to know that you can change the world even here on the mountain. Your brothers are going out with big dreams, but they need you to stay here and be the one that reminds them of the things your father has taught. They need to know that the mountain is always there, that God is always present. They need you; indeed the world needs you to pray, Hattie.”

Hattie nodded and took the handkerchief Little Jim offered her. “I could do that.

I could come down and visit the Valley, too.

Maybe I could be of some help there.”

“You certainly could, Hattie,” the man smiled.

Hattie Jacobson did stay on the mountain. Cal was glad, too. As he and Little Jim went on to do amazing exploits, she kept up their childhood home. Somewhere deep in his heart, the feeling of still having home, still having a piece of the mountainside to hang on to, made him unafraid to push farther into the unexplored regions of the world.

Little Jim became a doctor, and a scientist. He would sometimes be so excited, he’d write a long dissertation, as he called it, in a letter to Cal. Cal would at-

tempt to read it, but would fail miserably.

But he could never admit to Little Jim that he could only understand a microscopic portion of the written material. Rather, he’d write back, explaining in understandable terms what the stars looked like from south of the equator. Or the feeling of never seeing the sun rise during a whole day and the night lasting for what felt an eternity. Or the time when his ship was caught in a hurricane and they all survived. Little Jim would write back and remind Cal that Hattie must be praying back there on the mountainside. Cal wholeheartedly agreed.

Hattie only read of their adventures; the brothers never returned to the little cottage on the mountainside. Most of her letters would speak of how busy she was keeping up the cottage and her trips down to the Valley. People loved her, but every once in awhile she would comment in a letter to Cal that sometimes Samuel Patrick’s question would haunt her late at night as the wind howled and shook the house, or when stillness reigned after a storm. If she could have done anything, not just stay on the mountainside, what would she have done? Cal would write back and remind her that it was still not too late to begin her own adventure.

Danielle Grandinetti is currently a private piano instructor in the Chicago, IL area and is pursuing a career in foreign missions in Italy with World Team. She has an A.A. in Biblical Studies from New Tribes Bible Institute and a B.A. in Communications from Louisiana Baptist University. She also has completed both the Apprentice and Journeyman levels of the writing course prescribed by the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writers Guild.

P A R A B L E S |21

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Heaven’s

Key

K

evin shook his newspaper gently, smoothing out the pages as he held them aloft. He didn’t know why he still read the paper, predictable as it had become. Politicians were screwing up, people were dying, sports teams were winning and losing, and new horror movies were being advertised. It was getting to be an almost depressing chore, but one he completed daily nonetheless.

He focused in on one of the many articles dealing with murder. A man had been killing people indiscriminately, with no apparent regard for race, gender, or age. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for those who had lost loved ones. At the same time, he wondered how many people would be affected if he died. And if he did die, what would happen to him? Would he cease to exist, as the evolutionists claimed, or would he burn in hell, as the creationists insisted he would?

Or would it be something else entirely? All these people had their own beliefs about what happened next, but what did they know anyway? They belonged to the same group of people who bombed abortion clinics and fought holy wars.

It was beginning to make him wonder about the morality of men. Of course he knew that nobody was anywhere near perfect, but the extent of what some people were willing to do was simply appalling. Where was the love? Where were the compassion, the sympathy, and the moral order? Even those who championed those ideals did not portray them. Somewhere along the line, the world had lost its conscience.

P A R A B L E S |23

The sudden ring of the phone interrupted Kevin’s thoughts. He instinctively rose to check the caller ID and saw that it was an 800 number. His hand hovered hesitantly over the phone before he picked it up. Lifting it to his ear, he prepared to hear the pitch of a telemarketer.

“Hi,” came the gratingly cheerful voice. “Would you like to have your very own, brand new, solid gold key to heaven?”

Kevin nearly dropped the phone and his jaw as well. “Excuse me?”

The telemarketer’s knowing smile was expressed in his voice. “That’s right; I have an exclusive offer from heaven itself. Well, actually, it’s open to anybody, but that’s beside the point.

I know you’ve been worried lately about what will happen to you after death, so I would like to offer you a way into heaven. The key to the pearly gates, you might say.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Well it is the truth,” argued the caller. “But I haven’t had much luck lately. It’s rather discouraging.”

“Maybe,” Kevin suggested, “you should try to keep your scams more believable. You might get more people to buy into it.”

The telemarketer sighed. “It’s not a scam.” He sounded tired, Kevin noticed, like he had gone through the explanation so many times with so little success that it almost didn’t matter anymore. There seemed to be a certain stubbornness in his voice though, something that wouldn’t let him give up.

Kevin decided to humor the poor man. “All right, then. How much does this key cost?”

The voice on the phone became more animated. “It’s absolutely free!”

Kevin’s mouth moved wordlessly. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I assure you, I am not.”

“Then there must be some sort of catch. Assuming you’re not lying through your teeth, of course. There must be something I’m expected to do.”

“No, all you have to do is accept the gift.”

“Oh, I see,” said Kevin, a light bulb illuminating. “Tell me, how exactly do I accept this gift?”

“It’s quite simple really. All you have to do is believe that Jesus Christ has forgiven you of your sins and accept him as your Lord and Savior. He...”

24| PARABLES

“Oh,” Kevin scoffed. “You’re one of those people. Well, it was nice talking to you.”

“No, please,” begged the man on the phone. “If you would just let me explain—” “No, I don’t think so. I’ve listened to enough of you people to understand that that’s not all there is to it. Once that ‘gift’ has been accepted, I would be expected to stop sinning, am I right?”

“Not quite,” he said. “The good works come only from gratitude to Christ, and are not required to enter the kingdom of heaven.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d rather you didn’t insult my intelligence, if it’s all the same to you. Nothing in this world is free, so why should something as good as heaven be so easily obtained?”

“But it’s true! All you need to do is believe—.”

Kevin hung up the phone, putting an end to the pleas.

Jesus held the silent phone, tears running down his face. Another one. He’d lost another one. It was getting harder, these days, to convince people of honest intentions. They’d become so used to trickery that they could no longer recognize the truth. He had made it so easy, but now it was seen as too easy. They didn’t understand that it wasn’t his intention to force them to work, but to show them how to love.

With a sigh, he looked back at the phone. He cleared his throat and dialed the next number.

Melissa Ziegler is a 16 year old high school student from Southern California. She enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and participating in NaNoWriMo every year. She also edits discussion materials for a Christian media company.

P A R A B L E S |25

“Giving voice to what you’re feeling is part of the healing.”

– Susan L. Taylor Editor-In-Chief Emeritus, Essence Magazine

It’s time for us to stand up and confront the issue of mental health problems in our community. Go to storiesthatheal.samhsa.gov for more information about mental health problems, and to hear the rest of Susan’s story.

storiesthatheal.samhsa.gov

Inspired Essay

By Marie E. Talley

My soul has been

Anchored….

T

his time of year always causes me to reflect as the year begins to wind down. It is a time to stop and consider. It is a calming down time, a quieter time, in preparation for the coming holidays. I pause now to reflect on a couple of defining experiences I have had throughout my life.

The way it was: Coming from a working class, African American background, I realize today that there were sacrifices my parents made to insure that we never knew that we lived just this side of poverty. My summers as a child were always special so I looked forward to the end of the school term because I never knew in advance what my parents had planned.

The summer vacation that is the most memorable was the summer of 1964 which I spent in both of my parents’ hometowns, getting a feel of the rich heritage that was at the root of my soul.

I was 10 years old, which was an impressionable year for me. To make it doubly impressionable is that the only grandfather I knew would die later that year. My soul has been anchored. . . .

The first 2 weeks of that vacation was spent in my dad’s hometown of Key West, Florida, where my beloved paternal grandfather was a commercial fisherman. The evenings were the best. There was a huge cauldron (there was no other name that fit that great big black pot) situated on the beach. When my grandfather and the other fishermen would come in at the end of the day, they would empty their nets on the beach. And because my grandfather only sold the fish that he caught, everything else that was in the net went into the pot. This resulted in dinP A R A B L E S |27

ner being seafood in its freshest form. Everything from shrimp to those little lobsters we called crayfish to conch that was so sweet, a lot of times we simply ate it as it came out of the shell.

Needless to say, I was less than enthusiastic when those first 2 weeks were up and it was time to make the second leg of my journey to Gainesville, Florida, my mom’s hometown. 11 hours on a Greyhound bus was tiring and even I got bored with the sometimes endless vista of symmetrical orange trees that dotted the landscape.

My family and I were picked up from the bus station by my mom’s cousin and we completed the final leg of this trip, traveling approximately 30 more miles into what we affectionately call “the country”. Completely rural, my maternal great-uncle’s house stood on 40 acres of land filled with vegetables, fruit trees, and livestock.

I spent days exploring wooded areas, climbing trees, trying to learn how to milk a cow, gathering eggs from the hen house, and picking the vegetables that would complete the evening meal. I spent hours in the swing on the front porch listening to stories told by my great uncle, who was now in his early 80’s. He would live to be 101 years old. My soul has been anchored . . .

These experiences gave me a sense of identity because I saw firsthand the kind of people I’d come from. And with that identity came a sense of pride and fulfillment. My soul just opened up.

What happened: In 1993, I went to work at a community mental health center. I had the opportunity to work with many of the psychiatrists, nurses, case managers and mental health technicians. But one man in particular stands out as a model of inspiration for me.

The attending physician in the Crisis Intervention Services Unit saw persons in need of mental health treatment but who did not necessarily have insurance or the ability to pay for services. Unlike his colleagues, this doctor saw patients who were at times homeless and under the influence of mood or mind altering substances. Many times, he saw the patients nobody else wanted to see.

He was a remarkable human being who exhibited a compassion for his fellow man and a desire to help those who are underserved and underprivileged. What was even more remarkable is that this doctor was a quadriplegic as a result of a bullet to the neck. The story, however, does not stop there.

When four white police officers were acquitted of the beating death of a black insurance salesman in May 1980, violence erupted in the streets of Miami. News reports the following day illustrated the widespread violence. There were reports of cars burning with victims inside.

Five years after I began working with this particular doctor, I inadvertently learned that he had been one of those victims. On break from Meharry Medical College in Nashville, Tennessee, this doctor, (then a second year medical student), was in Miami to visit his mother. Unaware of 28| PARABLES

the volatile situation, he was driving the usual route to his mother’s home in Hialeah, a predominantly Hispanic community west of Liberty City. He drove right into the heart of the riot, where he was shot in the neck, dragged from his car, beaten and left to die. My soul has been anchored. . . .

But he survived. Paralyzed from the chest down, with only gross motor control in his hands, he returned to school after months of rehabilitation. Determined to finish what he started, he graduated from medical school and specialized in Psychiatry.

Returning to Miami, he took up his practice with the local community mental health center. His perseverance and determination has served as a beacon of hope and inspiration. But the thought that has occurred to me over and over again is this: this man could have chosen to go into private practice, drawing a lucrative income befitting his profession. Instead, he returned to the community where he was attacked and left to die. And he provided, free of charge, mental health services to, if not the same people, the same kind of people who left him confined to a wheelchair, because of their own anger and hopelessness. Yet, if I hadn’t discovered an obscure newspaper article about him, I would never have known. There was such a lack of anger and bitterness in this jewel of a soul. He is my soul inspiration.

Daily I get a chance to interact with people who, if not for the strength of their faith and the resilience of their hope . . . to keep going when there seems to be no way out . . . yet they know that God will provide . . . people much like my ancestors who made the best of what they had yet never failed to share what they had with others. People like that doctor, who might have every reason to give up, yet they make adjustments and they persevere. People who in spite of insurmountable odds, find a way to get up every morning and try to leave this world a little better than they found it.

In the words of the incomparable gospel artist Douglas Miller: Though the storms keep on raging in my life and sometimes it’s hard to tell the night from day. Still that hope that lies within is reassured as I keep my eyes upon the distant shore. I know He’ll lead me safely to that place He has prepared. But if the storms don’t cease and if the wind keeps on blowing in my life, MY SOUL HAS BEEN ANCHORED IN THE LORD.

A native South Floridian, Marie E. Talley has been writing in one form or another since age 10. She has had careers in both Accounting and Social Services and currently works in Municipal Government. A mother and grandmother, Ms. Talley enjoys working with people and now directs her energy into her love of putting pen to paper. She has traveled extensively throughout the continental United States and has published two short novels: The Man and His Music and Love by Design.

P A R A B L E S |29

Secrets Unraveled

By JJ Michael

The following is an excerpt from the novel of the same name

Summer 1933 I heard the shrill voice of my Grandma Hattie calling me. She was standing in the back doorway holding open the screen door with one hand and the other hand held over her eyes to block the sun. I was hiding under Jimmy Taylor’s porch across the alley from our house. We were playing house. Sometimes he would lie on top of me and squirm around.

He told me he saw his mother and father do that, but they didn’t have any clothes on.

“Jimmy Taylor,” I said, “you’re making that up.” But I let him stay on top of me anyway. When I heard Grandma Hattie calling me, I pushed Jimmy off of me.

Once she’d gone back into the house, I came from under the porch and straightened my dress. It was covered with dirt stains and brushing it off didn’t help. It was no longer white but a dirty brown. Dreading what was to come, I quietly said goodbye to my friend and hurried home.

30| PARABLES

I couldn’t sneak pass Grandma Hattie to go to the bathroom to clean up because she would be in the kitchen cooking, and Lord knows I couldn’t use the front door and walk through the spotless living room. The living room and dining room were off limits to me.

I opened the backdoor screen. The smell of fried chicken, collards, mashed potatoes, baked bread, and yams made me dizzy with hunger pains. I’d decided my Grandma Hattie was made of iron because the kitchen was filled with the heat of the oven and the scorching outside heat.

Grandma Hattie was standing over the sink squeezing lemons into a pitcher. I spied a three-layered coconut cake on the kitchen table and wished I’d been there to lick the bowl. Stepping into the kitchen, I braced myself for what was about to happen.

She looked at me and her eyes got very small before she lashed out at me. “You’re a disgrace to the Johnson family, child. You have been playing with those poor colored children across the road. How many times do I’ve to tell you that they are not your kind?

You’re a Johnson.” She stopped squeezing the

lemons, wiped her hands on her apron, and walked over to me.

“You’re filthy and your father and the deacons will be here soon. You know your father likes you to look presentable. Get yourself upstairs and clean yourself up. Then I’ll do something with that hair of yours.”

Knowing better than to answer her, I ran out of the kitchen to the bathroom upstairs. I took off the dress and put it in the pile of dirty clothes in the basket. Then I washed all the private parts of my body, not forgetting my face. Grandma Hattie had laid out the clothes she wanted me to wear on the bed. I peeped out at the sun again and knew it wasn’t long before Papa would be home.

I better hurry, I told myself. Grandma Hattie had just finished churning the ice cream and putting it in the icebox and surrounding it with ice when I returned to the kitchen. The iceman had come by that morning, selling blocks of clear ice. I watched him use his double-edge pick to chop it down to the size his customers wanted. Grandma Hattie always got the large size for a dollar.

A pan of rolls sat on top of the table. I waited until Grandma Hattie turned her back then I reached over to get one. Wham! I felt the switch come down on my hand.

“Ouch,” I shouted, as I pulled my hand back and put it behind my back.

Grandma Hattie was not only made of iron but she also had eyes in the back of her head.

“You’re a heathen, comes from your mother’s side of the family. Lord knows I am

trying to put some sense, culture, and dignity in your head. I’m only telling you this for your own good. I’d to step in and help my poor boy when that woman ran off and left him with you, a newborn baby. What woman would leave her husband and baby? I told your grandfather don’t let Perlie marry that woman. She came from the woods on the other side of the river. She put a spell on my boy.

Come here so I can tidy up your hair. It’s so thick; I can hardly get the comb through it.”

I sat down on the small stool placed between her legs. Papa had made it for Grandma Hattie to use to step on to reach things in the kitchen cupboards. At eight I was almost as tall as she was. She was short and plump with hair she could almost sit on. Grandma Hattie took the pins out of my hair and my braids fell down my back. She made me keep them pinned up during the day and then let them out each afternoon before Papa came home because he liked my braids hanging loose down my back.

She dipped the brush in a cup of black coffee and then brushed my hair. I wanted to cry; the brushing hurt because of Grandma Hattie’s strong hands.

“You must have gotten this thick wavy hair from your mother’s side of the family,” she fussed, “because everyone on my side of the family has straight hair like white folks.

Your mother had some dark brothers and sisters, darker than you with your kind of hair. Who knows who their father was? One of those dirty Indians or some poor colored fellow. But she was the lightest of all of them.

She thought because she’d those blue eyes she could pass, but she wasn’t nothing but colored like the rest of us.”

P A R A B L E S |31

I wanted to cry, but I knew better. I thought about what Jimmy had told me about his cousin, Bertha. She’d tried to bleach her baby brother because he was darker than night. Her mother caught her just before she put the baby into the pan of water and bleach. She said, “Momma, I’m trying to get that black off him.”

I was glad that I didn’t have to be bleached, even if I was darker than Papa and Grandma Hattie.

Grandma Hattie yanked my head toward her, and I remembered where I was. “There’s only one thing to do with this mess.” She pulled the strings of hair tighter as she braided it. “Thin it out. I should have done it a long time ago.”

“How do you thin out hair?” I asked.

“You cut it.” She grabbed hold of one of my thick braids and pretended her fingers were scissors. “One day I’m going to do it. Now go sit somewhere and be quiet until dinner.”

Cut it off, the voice said to me. Looking around, I didn’t see anyone. But I could still hear the voice. Cut it, and you’ll be pretty like your grandmother. I picked up the wooden stool and carried it to the bathroom upstairs. Then I went into Grandmother’s room and went through her sewing and knitting basket. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for.

Back inside the bathroom, I stepped up on the stool to look in the mirror. Placing the scissors over my left braid, I closed my eyes and clamped down on the braid. Nothing happened. The scissors wouldn’t work; my braid was too thick. I undid the braids. I felt something fall on my face and into the sink 32| PARABLES

then the floor. It was like rain falling all over me. And I kept cutting until there was nothing to cut. The braids were gone.

Too scared to look into the mirror to see if my hair was now pretty and straight like Grandma Hattie and Papa, I stepped off the stool and began to clean up the bathroom.

Grandma Hattie would be angry if she found the bathroom dirty. Now she didn’t have to get upset every time she combed my hair.

My thick hair was gone. A few minutes later, I heard Papa calling me.

“Margaret, where are you? Dinner is ready.”

Standing in front of my bedroom closet door, I thought about the bag of hair I’d just hidden in there. I couldn’t bring myself to put it in the trash. Papa kept calling me then I heard his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Running to meet him, I stopped at the top of the steps. Papa froze when he saw me. Horrified, I watched as his face changed into several colors before settling into a deep dark crimson.

Neighbors from blocks away must have heard the terrible scream from him that shook my small frame. I knew then that my hair wasn’t thin and pretty. It must’ve looked a mess—very ugly—if Papa was so upset.

“Perlie,” Grandma Hattie yelled from downstairs, “What in the Lord has happened up there?” When Grandma Hattie saw me, she let out a cry.

Papa said, “Who did this to you, child? I’ll kill them.”

I buried my head in his chest and cried.

“Who did this to you?” He pushed me back and held me by my trembling shoulders.

with Papa. After Papa and the deacons ate, I would sit down with Grandma

“The voice told me to do it so I could look like you and Grandma,” I told him.

Hattie and have dinner. Sometimes she would let me have a second piece of cake.

Grandma Hattie was the best cook in DC. I also had to help Grandma Hattie clean up the kitchen then I would sneak downstairs, sit on the basement steps, and listen to Papa pray before he started the meeting. I loved to hear Papa talk about Jesus.

“What voice are you talking about?” His frown only deepened as his eyes stared furiously at me.

“The voice that talks to me all the time.”

“Oh Lord, Perlie, she got the devil in her just like her mother. I knew something wasn’t right with the child. What are we going to do?

You have to beat it out of her.” Grandma Hattie handed him her switch.

“No, Ma, we’re going to pray it out of her.”

After dinner, Papa made Grandma Hattie braid my hair.

“Don’t you ever cut your hair again, child. It’s your crown and glory. God gave you good hair and don’t you forget it. Come to the church when she’s finished with your hair,” he told me sternly.

I wanted to tell Papa that Grandma Hattie said my hair was thick and ugly, and needed thinning out, but I kept my mouth shut. Daggers shot from her eyes to me and sealed my mouth forever. Before going downstairs to the church, I ran up stairs and stood on the stool so I could look into the mirror. I had little pick-a-ninny plaits all over my head.

The church was in the basement of our house. Several nights a week, the deacons would meet at our house for prayer and meetings. Many of them worked at the post office

But that evening I was scared. Shivering, I sat facing four of the church deacons. Their shock and frowning faces stared back at me.

Papa stood next to me holding the Bible. I closed my eyes. But the loud, unfathomable voice of Papa made me open them.

“Brothers, I called upon you tonight because I’ve a grave situation right here in the Lord’s house. The devil is knocking on the door.

He is trying to enter through this innocent child.

Take over the soul of this child and make her do his bidding. And we must stop him.” Papa paused and looked at the men staring from him to me. “I need you to pray with me tonight to save my child from the very perils of the devil.”

Deacon Coleman, Papa’s best friend, stood up and walked over to me. I shrunk down into the chair as far as I could go as he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Lord, we call upon You tonight to help our brother Perlie and this child as they walk through the valley of death. We come to You, Lord, to strike down this evilness that has tried to lead this child astray.” Deacon Coleman didn’t know all that had happened to me, but from the awful pain in my shoulder from his fingers digging into it, he must have thought I’d done P A R A B L E S |33

something bad. I was glad when he closed his prayer. “We thank You, Lord, for your strength, protection and your glory. We thank You, Lord, for keeping faith and hope in our hearts.”

Deacon Thomas had a hard time getting out of his chair. He sat back down and stared at me as his chest heaved up and down.

“Lord, our Redeemer, we rejoice in your name. We know there is nothing that You can’t fix.” A dirty, crumbled up handkerchief lay in his old brown hand that he kept spitting into after every other word. “We lift up your name in the deliverance of our beloved minister and his family.” Coughing, Deacon Thomas wiped his mouth and shook his head that he couldn’t continue.

Papa started praying quietly. You could barely hear his voice then he called on God so loud, I almost jumped out of the chair.

“Lord, this is your son Perlie. Lord, I need your help. My child and family are being attacked by Satan, himself. Strike him down, Father! Let no weapons form against me and my family. Strike him down, Father! He’s knocking on our door; trying to get her to do his bidding.

Strike him down, Father, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.”

Papa opened his Bible and read Psalms 91: Verses 7-10: A thousand may fall at your side,

ten thousand at your right hand; but it will not come near you. You’ll only look with your eyes and see the recompense of the wicked. Since you have made the Lord your refuge, the Most High your habitation, no evil shall befall you, no scourge come near your tent.

“Rise up, I say, child, and take God as your refuge and Savior.”

I sat there.

“Rise up, I say, child, and let the Holy Spirit deliver you from the evilness that is in your mind and take Jesus as your savior.”

Papa pulled me up.

Crying, I didn’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

Hot and thirsty, I wanted to run out of the room. The deacons stood around me, closing in on me, even Deacon Thomas; there was no escape. My legs wobbled under me as beads of sweat ran down my flat chest. Then I was on the floor and everything went dark.

Later, Papa told me I’d fainted as the evilness left out of my body. He made me promise that I would never tell anyone about it. I shook my head yes, but I knew the evilness wasn’t gone—because—I could still hear the voice laughing in my head.

JJ Michael discovered a book on reincarnation, The Search for Bridey Murphy, by Morey Bernstein at the age of 15 and began her quest for spiritual truth. Now as a professional blogger and author, she writes both non-fiction and fiction books, including: Path to Truth: a Spiritual Guide to Higher Consciousness and the fiction series: Life is Never as It Seems, It’s Not Over Yet and Secrets Unraveled.

34| PARABLES

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Christmas Sauce

By Marilynn Griffith

I

nk-black night stretched out like a sheet above the Chevy Skylark. I wiggled in the passenger’s seat. It was Christmas Eve, and we were late.

My mother eyed her watch. “We’ll be there soon honey. Just relax.”

Anxious to obey, I turned and counted the gifts packed in the backseat. Who could use thirty-two packages of talcum powder? I wanted to ask, but my mother’s intense gaze at the road made me think better of it.

Our misaligned tires whirled against the asphalt as I stared out the window at an empty, frozen pasture. The chocolate-splashed cows had mooed for me on Easter when I’d pressed my afro against the glass and the tag on my dress that read “Made for You by Aunt Donna Jean.”

Today the cold kept them in the barn.

The reeking smell reminded me that the water treatment plant was next. I snapped my mouth shut so as not to get a mouthful of stinky air, like I did when I’d passed by in July, my mouth agape in anticipation for Uncle Dave’s fireworks I searched for the golden soldiers in silk caps I’d saluted on my way to Aunt’s Charlene’s bounty at Thanksgiving. Only frosty combine and a wagon of rotting corn remained.

36| PARABLES

Eventually, Route Four faded into barren trees and dirty snow, slicing towards Springfield, Ohio, and the Christmas Eve I’d waited all year for.

I wondered what confections awaited me at Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Burl’s. Mouthwatering treats could be depended upon, and exciting presents as well. From pastel purses to monogrammed muffs, their practical gifts always had sparkle.

Finally, we slid into the last space on Damascus Avenue. A well-worn path led to our destination, the brightest house on the street.

I stumbled along with my packages and a warm dish of corn pudding. My tights threatened to cut off my circulation under my wool jumper.

A stack of gifts rested on my mother’s nose and a bag of dinner rolls bulged from her purse. We exchanged weary smiles as “Winter Wonderland” chimed from a carousel of china horses glowing in the window. I steadied my rubbery knees as we climbed the porch and stepped inside.

The cuckoo crowed 8 o’clock. My cousins, all sixteen of them, circled the candy tray. A visitor plied her ample thighs from the plastic furniture covers. Scents of freshly cut boughs and Final Net floated above the laughter. Christmas was safe for one more year.

A neighbor with peach lips beneath two patches of teal eye shadow sorted my gifts into the proper piles. “You marked them. Male. Female. Good girl. Put your coat in the back.”

She didn’t need to tell me. I knew the routine.

Ten strides brought me to the spare bedroom. I pitched my velour jacket on the mountain of parkas and fled down the hall, dodging cheek-pinching ladies and tormenting boys.

Then I smelled it.

Spaghetti.

And the man I sought held the spoon.

Johnny Mathis crooned “White Christmas” from the 8-track player in the basement. A crowd stampeded through the kitchen. Gift time.

One person remained—Uncle Burl, near a roaster of pasta with his arms outstretched. I rushed into his embrace and buried my nose in his hair. He had great hair for snuggling. It melted like cotton candy. We didn’t say a word. For a childless man and a fatherless child no words were needed.

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A piercing scream poured through a crack in the door. We smiled. Someone got what they wanted. Uncle Burl heaped spaghetti on my plate and handed me a purple soda.

I stuck my fork into the mound of cheddar and swooped it upward, the full length of my arm.

Another shout from downstairs, this time from a teenager. We didn’t have much time.

Condensation beaded on my pop like tears. I sighed with delight as the bubbles tickled my nose. Uncle Burl savored his own drink, orange. With his diabetic diet and my fanatical mother, icy, sweet drinks were a luxury for both of us.

I heard my name downstairs. My uncle and I locked hands and plodded down the steps. He stood next to Aunt Gertrude while I squeezed in next the lava lamp, my favorite spot.

I tore into my gifts with relish. House shoes, a bunny sweater and a two-dollar bill rounded out my initial booty. I cracked the lid on one of the signature gold boxes. A red velvet nightgown with satin roses. My mother looked heavenward, her thoughts probably on the shrinking nightshirt in my closet.

The last box revealed a pair of white leg warmers with gold glitter. The older girls squealed. I smiled, my arms full of treasures, my belly stuffed with spaghetti, and my heart awash with love.

It was Christmas, with all the sauce.

Marilynn Griffith is the author of eight novels including the Shades of Style series and the Sassy Sistahood series. Her novels have been featured in Charisma Magazine, Black Expressions Book Club, and Black Issues Book Review. Other credits include Chicken Soup for the Christian Woman’s Soul, Cup of Comfort Devotionals and Momsense Magazine. She also serves as president of the recently formed SistahFaith Communications, LLC. Raped at the age of thirteen and a first-time mother at age fourteen, Marilynn was all too familiar with secrecy and shame. But after becoming a Christian and marrying a good man, she now encourages women to lay aside the shame of secrecy and shares a message of hope and healing. Marilynn Griffith © 2005. All rights reserved.

Reprinted with permission

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Devotional

It’s Not Over even When It’s Over

By Associate Pastor Leslie Tipton

Scripture readings: Daniel 6:10-23, Psalm 130:5-6, and Romans 5:1-6 They knew they were finished. It had been a long, difficult fight, and they did their best to get this far. After all, their whole lives they’d been taught not to give up, not to give in, not to look at the negative but the positive. That’s one of the things they loved the most about each other . . . the ability to always find the positive even in the toughest of times. God had gotten them through some really close calls, but this time seemed to be the end of the road, no more hope . . . they were going to see their Maker.

They hadn’t eaten a solid meal in over a month. The only food they could really count on was what they found in the trash dumpster behind the local store, and that food usually made them pretty sick, but it was all they had. In fact, that food was what made them so sick this last time, and what is probably contributing to their slow, painful death.

The kids had been taken away about one year ago. The local authorities deeming that they were unfit parents, swooped the kids away into a foster home. Without phone and a vehicle, they are unable to arrange visits with their kids, so have given up on ever seeing them again.

A native of Southern California, Pastor Leslie Tipton, has had a lifetime of experiences and opportunities. After graduating from San Diego State University, she joined the USMC as a Second Lieutenant.

Following a ten-year career in aircraft logistics and maintenance, she then left The Corps to follow another calling. Working for non-profit agencies serving people living with HIV/AIDS, she found that service to and love for her neighbor was her life joy. Pastor Leslie was ordained a reverend in May of 2007, and is currently serving as Associate Pastor of Administration at Church of the Holy SpiritSong in Wilton Manors, FL. 40| PARABLES

Forget about finding help from anyone in their city. Ha, help is what everyone called it, but when they humbled themselves to ask all they found was judgment and condemnation. Whatever happened to love your neighbor as yourself? That always comes with a mixed bag. If God’s love is unconditional, how is it that the ambassadors of His love don’t mirror that same love?

And because of somebody’s rule about “mixed racial” marriage, and all of the hate that comes with that, they had been shunned from every church in the city. Once the kids were taken away, more judgment and more backs turned.

As he looked over at this wife, he began to cry. He wished there was something he could do for her. She was so sick. Her face was so thin that her eyes looked as though they would just sink right into her skull. As she tried to sleep, he reached over to stroke her hair, what was left of it anyway. He loved stroking her hair and her face. It always made her smile, and her smile was what made him smile. As another wave of pain came over him and unconsciousness loomed in the foreground, he wondered if this would be his last thought.

As he came back to reality, he thought, This just isn’t fair. We tried so hard to do everything the right way. What went wrong? But none of that mattered now, as they lay on a cardboard bed under the bridge. He could see her breathing slowing. He knew she would be gone soon. That feeling of fatigue came over him again, this time too powerful to fight off. He moved closer to her on the ground, kissed her head, and said his last goodbye. “I’ll see you on the other side, Babe.” As he drifted off into unconsciousness, there seemed to be others there with them. Perhaps they were angels coming to minister to him as he passed. With all hope gone, he knew it was over. He gave in to the temptation to fall away into sleep, wondering what death would be like after he was dead.

Even when it’s over, it’s not over. Even when it’s over, IT’S NOT OVER. The story of Daniel going in to the lion’s den is a great story of the protection and supernatural power of our Lord.

We listened to it just now. Daniel was a Hebrew youth of noble birth carried off to Babylon in the first captivity under King

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Nebuchadnezzar, about 605 B.C. He became a member of the Babylonian royal service early in his captivity and spent most of his career as a high-ranking advisor to the king, whose successors seem to have given Daniel less prominence was brought to the fore again once King Darius became ruler of Babylon.

You see, Daniel was in Babylon, but he was not “of” Babylon, just as we are in the world but not “of” the world. When you are of the world, you look at things in your life around you with worldly eyes and worldly beliefs. But when you are of God and His Kingdom, you look at life and things around you with eyes of faith, hope, and an “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” attitude.

So we find ourselves now in Daniel Chapter 6. To bring us up to speed, let me give you a synopsis. King Darius had appointed 120 satraps over his kingdom, and three governors over them so that he would incur no loss, either through rebellion or financial ruin. A satrap was a provincial governor, sort of like our city mayors. They each had a province to rule over. The three governors ruled over those “mayors” or satraps. Daniel was one of the three governors. Verse three tells us that Daniel “distinguished himself above the governors and satraps, because an excellent spirit was in him; and the king gave thought to setting him over the whole realm.”

Uh oh, trouble’s comin’! The other leaders became jealous of Daniel, and knew that the only way to get at him was to do it based on his worship of God. So they devised a plan and put it into action. They went to King Darius to present a part of the plan to him. Listen to what Scripture says.

Daniel 6:6 They lied . . . this plan was to trap Daniel, and we know that Daniel wasn’t consulted on this supposed decree. Now the trap is set, and now we know why they were called “satraps.”

Remember, of the world.

Once King Darius signed the decree, it was done.

Let’s continue on in Scripture Not only did Daniel not follow the decree, he continued to follow his prayer pattern and devotions to the Lord by opening his window in his upper room. Bold, courageous and undaunted by the decree.

So it happens that Daniel is observed praying to God (trap set, trap sprung). Daniel is caught.

Surely he has no hope of getting out of this one. The “rulers” take this to the King, who declares that anyone who has not followed the decree is to be dropped into the lion’s den. They remind him that royal decrees of Medes and Persian are irrevocable. Side note here: There is evidence from other writings during these times that royal decrees of the Medes and Persians were irrevocable. Then they tell him it was Daniel who broke the decree. The king is devastated that this has happened. But he holds true to the decree, and orders Daniel to be put into the den of lion’s.

Surely Daniel is done for now.

Now let me share with you some details about the lion’s den during these times in Babylon. The den was either a cave or a pit with an opening perhaps at the top but also on the side for “easy access.”

According to Bible scholars, there could have been anywhere from seven to ten lions in the den at one time. They were fed daily a health diet of several livestock and were known to devour as much as was sent into the den. Additionally, there was no place to hide and no way of escape out of the den.

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