Stories we have written:

Good job!

I actually read Sarah's story a while ago, but I'll post what I thought now, (having another reason also for posting).
First of all, it had a very good storyline and message, and was well-written.
One thing that initially threw me off was when Amanda is thinking, after Martin got shot, of his mission to "bring down" the assassins. And then she kills Jay. While I certainly enjoyed reading her thought processes, it actually seemed to pull away from the situation at hand (that of defending herself and others), such that when she killed Jay, I first thought, "Wait, did she just murder him?" :P
I especially liked way the story ended. It's so wonderful (maybe the wrong word?) when characters die for their crimes, yet know that in Christ, all will be well beyond. It just has an emotional appeal you wouldn't really get if they were legally pardoned, or escaped. :) Good work, Sarah!

I have a question for everyone, also. If I wrote a story, and if I wanted to share it with you all, would you rather I give you a link to another website, or would you prefer that I post the whole story in this forum thread? (Imagining, for instance, that it had 2,700 words and was heavily paragraphed.)

Thanks Caleb! I really appreciate constructive criticism and am storing all these helpful bits of friends thoughts, so when I rewrite the story I can incorporate some of this wonderful (maybe the wrong word?) insight! :D

I think you should post a link and the first part of the story… ;)

Well, then. I'm back.
First let me say, that this story isn't even overtly Christian. It's another of my emotional experiments, so I'm eager to see what ye all think. Or rather feel. (Rationally figuring out human emotion is impossible, but fun to try.)
I'm not sure if I should classify it as dystopian or not; maybe ye could help me with that too. It's set a while in the future, where anarchy and violence is de facto, but things aren't necessarily overcrowded, diseased, etc.
Anyway, here's part of the story, and the link: http://heirsoftheinklings.weebly.com/caleb-wright/the-fifth-door

The Fifth Door
… She hasn’t come back. I can’t stay in my room and do pushups forever. I walk into the hallway, and start banging on doors, not knowing which is hers. Predictably, she doesn’t answer.
At the end of the hall, I start punching the doors down. The first goes down with one swing of my right arm. I instantly sense that something is wrong. The inside has been torn quite to pieces; what little furniture was abandoned has been ripped apart. I cough at the dust, and turn away.
The next door falls under my left fist. This room is the same—no sign that it has been recently lived in, only destroyed. So on down the hall, until I come to one room.
Something tells me this his her room, and I won’t like what I find inside. I test the doorknob, which I find is not locked, as the others were. Slowly I open it, and indeed do not like what I find.
Perhaps I should be disgusted, but I’m not. …

http://heirsoftheinklings.weebly.com/caleb-wright/the-fifth-door

I read it. Looks good. Did you leave spaces to add more writing to? Is the story complete? Only thing that bothered me, "I enter the dark, underground subway building with my preferred weapons, my fists, leading the way." Is this correct punctuation wise?

No, the story's done - that's not to rule out sequels, but I don't really know what I'd have them do. You're just supposed to use your imagination at the end, because nobody really knows what happened next…

That sentence probably should be changed. Thanks for pointing that out. "I enter the dark, underground subway building with my preferred weapons—my fists—leading the way." Is that better?

Okay. Here's a comedy I wrote about a person who sees strange things happening in and hear his apartment, and jumps to rash conclusions. It's kinda creepy, but in a funny way. I just sat down and improvised this; none of the plot was planned beforehand.

+PARANOID ACTIVITY+
by Nathan A. Wright

Whoops! I forgot I'm still carrying my pistol in my hand. So that's why people keep staring at me so rudely. I'll seal it in its concealing place again. I had taken it out in case I needed it when I walked down the alley. The guys there make me nervous. They're muscular and have satanic tattoos. I'm not muscular (and, for that matter, I do not have satanic tattoos). So I just got a pistol in case they try any funny business; this is serious business. I just moved into a new apartment today, and the people next door make me uncomfortable. When I moved into that particular room, I didn't know I'd be next to people with crazy whopper muscles and satanic tattoos–I was unaware of that feature.

I'm in my room now; I sit down at my desk, turn on the lamp, and start my laptop. What's that noise? On this first day of living here, I'm already facing problems. I get up from my desk and walk over to the other side of the room. Now the low humming sound I heard seems to be coming from the side I just came from. I begin to walk back to where I was when I first heard the noise. But wait–I pause in the middle of the room. The monotonous, mellow moan is muffled and seems to come equally from all corners. I go sit down at my desk again. Now it again comes from the opposite side of the room.

Maybe if I turn off all the appliances, one-by-one, I will discover the troublesome cause of this noise that annoys me. I turn off the air. I turn off the lamp. I turn off my laptop. I turn off the–no! I can't turn off the oven; I'm cooking cookies in there! Well, I'll just have to wait to turn that off. I survey the room. Except the oven, I've turned off all the appliances I've found, but still the sound resounds all around. It must be the oven, then! But wait again–no; there is yet one appliance that is still running: the lights. I flip the switches down. It's now entirely dark, because it's late in the evening. A new dimension now comes to the sound: a babyish whimper.

And now, what is that?! The lights in my apartment might not work right tonight, but now I see the frightful sight of a slight light spark in the dark, but it is not coming from any of my appliances. I stand stalk still, like a stone statue, staring straight at it, startled. A few beams shoot out in various directions and reflections; then it goes out. In an attempt to take a step forward, I take a step backward. Could the light have been coming from the window? It must have been, but such an odd light it was.

My heart jumps! A combination of a roar and a shrill shriek suddenly seems to shatter the air, making me shudder with sheer shock. But it only lasts for less than a second, and now all I hear is a familiar beeping sound. My heart un-jumps, and I laugh at myself with relief. It was just the oven. My cookies are done cooking! Hip hip hooray! I turn the light back on. I'm pretty sure the oven beeping just scared me because I was already confused, but that scream is still quite distinct in my mind. There are two possibilities. One possibility is that I was simply imagining it. The other possibility is that I was not simply imagining it. I turn on the lights, and the mysterious noise goes back to what it was at first.

I grab the oven mitt and open the oven. I feel the heat rush out. But when I withdraw the cookie tray, the cookies look precisely the same as they looked when I put them in. They are unbaked! How can this be? I set them on the table, take the mitt off my hand, and touch a cookie with the tip of my finger. It's hot! It feels like it's been baked, but no change has taken place in the dough or the chocolate chips. Did I do something wrong with the oven? That's very possible; I am a total incompetent when it comes to cooking. The only way I've prepare food in the past is with a salt or pepper shaker; I'm not a baker or meal-maker. Even these cookies were bought frozen by the dozen from the store; I just followed the baking directions on the box.

Well, anyway, I'll try to cook the cookies again later. Now is a good time to turn off the oven to see if it is the cause of the noise. So push the POWER button–half expecting to hear another scream, but only hearing the same old beep–then turn off the lights again. I still hear the noise, and it again alters in nature. I wait for a little bit. Nothing happens. I wait for another little bit. Nothing happens again. Hmm. I turn the light back on. As the electricity comes on, it makes a whiny squeal that gives me goosebumps.

As I'm wondering what to do next, I hear the sound of wood creaking. It stops short, and I see my desk drawer slowly open. This is all impossible, right? I'm scared. I need to get out of here! Seeing the drawer open reminds my of my car keys, which I keep in it. I need a break. I'm gonna go for a drive. I open my desk drawer for my keys. I rummage through everything else in the drawer. It no longer contains the keys! And now that I notice it, my cell phone was there too; and now it's not there too. Where is that smartphone? Stupid phone! I look on the table, in my dresser, through the pockets of my pants and coats in the closet–and in each of those places, find the absence of the keys and phone. I'm starting to get seriously concerned now. Do the gross people next door have anything to do with this? Is there more to those satanic tattoos than meets the eye?

I guess I'll attend to the cookies again. What now?! Someone has started to eat the cookies! Okay, I may have just been confused before, but now that my cookies have been stolen, I am angry. One of those people next door must be hiding in my room! Looks like I'll be getting some money soon–when I sue mister satanic tattoo man! I try not to tremble with trepidation as I tip the tray to the trash can. I'm honestly getting horrified. Even if those people do assault me, I wouldn't want to shoot them–because then I might get in trouble. I do not appreciate this burglary–even if this is just a prank. Still cantankerous, I grab a spanker to use on this prankster–a frying pan. Now, to actually find this bully. When I catch this moron, I'll sue him half the money in his bank for this low-rank prank that stank!

Refusing the temptation to wave the frying pan wildly about the room, I look under the bed. I don't see him–but I don't see anything, for alas! it is all dark under the bed. So I use a flashlight. As the flashlight turns on, I hear the same noise I heard when I turned the room lights on! Looking under the bed, I am certain I see a white blur for a split second–which instantly shrinks away into nothing or flees. Right now, one word pops into my mind. It starts with an A. It has ten letters. It is something I have never believed in:a pparition.

Now I hear a tapping on the wall. No. Surely this cannot be. But there it is again! It knocks more sharply! Oh. Silly me. It's someone knocking at the door. I peep through the peep-hole. What is that? I am in a distressing dilemma. If I don't open, I'll come off as an enemy. If I do open, I have no idea what this someone or something will do to me. But if I don't open, it's likely to either wait for me to come out or break in. So I guess I'll just open up and do whatever it wants.

Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… no. I'm not prepared to open the door. I rush to my dresser, open the top drawer, and take my wallet. Meanwhile, my visitor knocks a few more times. I go back to the door and take a deep breath. Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… no. I'm still not ready. I feel my pants to make sure I left my concealed weapon with me. While my hand is there, I also feel that my keys and smartphone are in my pocket. Okay, my bad. Anyway; I need to open the door–soon. Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one… open!

"Hello," drawls a deep voice. My visitor's massive arms and neck are wrapped in bandages, and I can see red, black, and even green fluid seeping through. It's all I can do to hide my disturbance.

I shove my wallet in his face. "Take it and begone!" I plead.

Standing perfectly still, he crosses his eyes to focus in on the wallet. "Thank yo," he says, "but I'm workin' fer free."

My heart skips a beat. "Does that mean–" I croak. My heart skips another beat.

"Yeah," the visitor says, raising his eyebrows. His mouth broadens into a cheery smile. My spine tingles. "I'll accept tips, but I don't need jer money," he continues, with a slow chuckle.

Sick humor! I can feel my face whiten. Sweat drips onto my eyelids.

"Ah… y'okay?" asks the visitor.

"What's going on?" asks a sharp voice from behind the visitor. It is a police officer. I stare at the two in bewilderment.

"What is it you want?" I ask.

"Please excuse my appearance," the first visitor said. "I just had some tattoos removed; ya see, I became a Christian recently and needed to get rid o' my satanic markin's. I'm a repairman; this section o' the apartment buildin' desperately needs fixing."

I step back to allow him in. The officer is close at his heels.

He begins to survey the room in both usual and unusual places. Meanwhile, the officer seizes the cookie box from the counter and says, "Have you eaten these yet?"

"No," I say. "It's a long story, but I never did eat them."

The officer sighs with relief. "We discovered a very dangerous agent in these things," he says. "It's supposed to allow you to eat them without gaining any weight. But when it was discovered, these were made illegal–but it was so recent that they're not out of all the stores yet."

"Yup, this room's as bad as all the rest," booms the repairman. "Ya got mice under yo bed, and there's a hole there where they all run. You'll never see 'em, 'cause they only come out when it's dark and run away when it's light. And ya got termites in yo desk. They've already eaten the part that supports the drawer; now the drawer won't close."

"I'm sorry; I can't help asking," I finally say. "Why the coh–uh, I mean the police officer?"

"Well, man; nothin' against ya; but I saw ya walkin' down the street with a gun in yer hand today. I wanna do ma job in all the rooms here, but I wannad to have protection in here with you, just 'cause I dunno anything about you; and I thought it'd be good to have an officer check ya out anyway. Hope ya understand. We'ren't accusin' ya of anything, though."

The officer adds, "He told me that he saw you acting strangely in your room. He said he and his wife were walking down the street, and as she was showing him a prism jewel next to the window, you turned your light off. When he told her that you were the man with the gun, she screamed and instantly hid the jewel."

"I think bees are nestin' in the air vent in the ceiling," the repairman says. "They keep flyin' back an' forth, 'cause they don' like it when they hear me walk close to where they are."

This explains a few things. I stand thoughtful for a moment, then say "Oh."

Well, where is it?

Well, where is it?

Sorry; I forgot to actually paste it in. xD

Well, where is it?

Sorry; I forgot to actually paste it in. xD

XP

Here is a short story I just finished today:

WITH CHRIST IN GLORY

Clara tried to swallow the lump that was in her throat. She could not. She longed for the comfortable bad in her house, but she knew that she would never see that bed again.
"Well?" said the judge, sternly.
Clara, startled, looked at him, and boldly met his angry glare.
"I did not kill the man." She paused a moment, then continued. "These witnesses are lying."
The judge eyed her. She as not a pretty picture, standing there with a pale but clam face, in ragged shorts and shirt. Even when happy, she was not a very pretty girl - though you could hardly call her ugly. She was not a child, but did not seem much older than twenty, though her face showed that she had no easy life - at least, not anymore. The judge, who was cruel, thought he could get a bit of fun in this.
"There is more than enough evidence to prove that you are the liar. Your sentence will be -" here he paused for some fun, to see Clara's face wait anxiously. But Clara's face never moved, and she stood boldly, facing the judge.
Finding no fun in this, the judge planned another trick. "Your sentence will be the exact opposite of a life sentence -" and here he waited.
Clara's eyes seemed to brighten for a moment, but then looked a bit frightened. She still glared at the judge.
"A death sentence." the judge finished with almost a grin.
Clara did not seem afraid. She clasped her hands together with a look of almost joy, and raised her eyes heavenward.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clara sat in her prison cell, waiting and thinking. It was only a few hours till her execution. She knelt down and prayed.
"O Lord, you alone know my feelings and thoughts, and you know that I am innocent of this crime they accuse me of. But Lord, if it is your will that I should come home to you so soon, I will be happy. I will not blame these men, for while they are doing evil, you are doing good, and bringing me home. And I - thank you."
Clara continued praying similar things for a long time, and when she sat up, she realized that she had but a few minutes before she would go to be with her Lord.
She felt a bit sad, but knew that her family would not care - they had forsaken her and believed the judge. But she knew, also, that while friends, family, and even her husband had forsaken her, there was One who would never forsake her - one whom she could trust, and she loved Him with all her heart, And now, soon, she would see him and embrace him, and live with him in glory forever.
A man came in to get her. He was surprised at the look of joy on Clara's face as he led her out.
She died, knowing that this would bring her to a better life with Christ in glory.

THE END

That was really good, Nathan!!

wipes tear That was really good! :)

Whose story are you talking about?

If it's mine, then thanks!

yes, was yours!

Thanks, then! :)

:)

1st chapter of my novel, Living For Christ:

Chapter I
A Promise Kept

“But look at the sun, you must be going now, my boy,” smiled the minister.  “Don’t forget what you promised me.”
“I won’t, sir, I truly won’t,” answered the boy.  He was small and short for his age, about nine years old.
He ran to the door, but before opening it looked back at the minister.  “Goodbye, sir.  And thank you!”
He then went outside into the crisp autumn air.  The sun was low on the horizon.  He hurried home, and barely had time to say hello to his mother before rushing to the other smaller room. His mother had just recently been converted, and before that had been a drunkard like her husband.  She had sent her darling boy to the minister’s to borrow some yeast for the bread she was making, but really meant for the minister to talk with him about salvation, as he did with almost everyone who stopped at his house.  She guessed what Charlie was doing in the other room. She was right.
“Oh Lord, I’m sorry for all those sins, and would you please forgive me?  I want to go to heaven when I die.  Please come and save me and forget those sins, and I will try to live for you.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.”  Charlie has promised the minister to pray to God and try to live for Christ. And, young as he was, he understood and kept the promise. He went to bed that night with a wonderful feeling.
In the morning, before he got up, he remembered his promise.  He went down on his knees beside the bed and prayed.  “Good morning, Lord.  Isn’t it a nice day? I will try to be as good as the weather is today.  I won’t forget my promise, I mean, I’ll try not to. And please bless my father and mother and the little baby in mother’s tummy.” Charlie was about to say, Amen, but then he remembered what his mother always prayed. “And please bring my dear husband – I mean, my dear father, to you, and the baby when she’s old enough.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
He then jumped up and ran down the stairs.  “Good morning, Mother!  Oh, Father, I’m glad you’re home!  Good morning!  Good morning, little baby!”
Charlie's mother replied, smiling, “Good morning, Charlie!”
Charlie's father grunted, “Morning.”
And of course the baby did not answer at all. Then suddenly Charlie said, “Father, can you run down to the minister’s?  I left my handkerchief there last night.”  He had intentionally left it there.
Charlie's father grunted again.  “You do.”
Charlie’s face fell, but he obeyed. He knocked on the minister’s door.  No answer.  He looked through the window.  There was nobody there.  Being both a smart and small boy, he was able to open the window from the outside and crawl in.  The parlor, where he had left his handkerchief, was at the back of the house.  He had to walk through most of the rooms to get to it.  But he didn't see the minister or his wife anywhere. He took his handkerchief, and then decided to peek through the rest of the rooms to see if he could find the minister.  He glanced into the laundry room. He walked through the sitting room and looked around in the dining room. It would take a long time for me to write all that he did, so we must hurry over that. Where do we find him but running up the carpeted stairs and, at the top, finding himself at one end of a long hallway. There were a couple doors he opened as he walked down it, but he found nothing.  There was only one door left, at the end of the hallway.  He opened it.  He gasped.  There was the minister in his bedclothes, snoring loudly, while his wife beside him stirred a bit on the bed.  She almost opened her eyes.  Charlie held his breath.  However, she thought better of it and turned over for another snooze. Charlie covered his face with his hands and laughed softly.  He moved toward the bed.  He meant to shake the minister awake for a prank. He put his hands over him.  He gently put them down.  He almost shook the minister, but suddenly thought, “Is this living for Christ?  Would Jesus do this?”  He took his hands off and slowly tiptoed out the door.  He tiptoed all the way to the open window, and quietly climbed out of it.  He softly closed it.  Then he broke into a run.  He ran hard and fast toward a large tree in the neighborhood.  This was his “thinking tree”.  He climbed up and sat down in his normal place. He was glad he had not awakened the minister.  He wished he had not even gone upstairs.  The more he thought about it, the more he wished he had been more courteous and Christ-like.  Then he heard his mother calling.  “Charlie!  CHARLIE!”  He sensed anxiety in her voice.
He thought, “Oh no, have I been keeping her waiting?  Here I am all comfortable, and she's been waiting for me the whole time!” and then, “Oh no, will I get my newspapers delivered on time?”  He was a paperboy, and he had to deliver papers to the whole town before nine o'clock, or else he would lose his job.
He quickly slid down from his position in the tree and hurried home.  His mother was waiting at the door. “Oh Charlie,” she gasped. “Father's gone off and left me here, probably to the saloon to get another drink, for he took all our money, and – oh!  The man comes today to get the rent, and here I am with nothing, and it's already eight o'clock.  How will you ever deliver your papers in time?” She gasped for breath, tears streaming down her face.  “And the man comes at precisely nine o'clock, to see about your papers, and then the rent man comes at ten! And the policeman stopped by this morning while you were out, and said that if the men don't stop drinking, he'll take them all to jail, and leave them for a month.  Then there's the washing that you know I do for other people, and the bucket's empty, and Father's not here to fill it, for you know it is quite too heavy for you or me to lift it when it's full.” She gasped again.  “And if I don’t wash, I’ll lose my job, so I'll have to sell our clock to get the money we need.”  She sobbed.
Charlie looked at her with a lump in his throat.  Sell her clock?  Impossible!  The clock that hung from the nail on the wall was the family's only valuable possession, and Charlie knew his mother loved it dearly, for her mother had given it to her, and her mother had given it to her, and her grandmother bought it and gave it to her.  No, Charlie decided, that clock would be the very last thing his mother sold.
“But here I am, keeping you waiting now.  Go, boy, get your papers and pass them out.” Charlie ran away.  “And HURRY!” his mother called after him.  Then she sighed heavily and turned toward the house.
Charlie ran to the office quick as a flash.  He grabbed his papers and scarcely had time to say “Hello” to the man at the counter before he disappeared.
Charlie didn't stop to talk to the people he delivered papers to today.  He threw the first paper to the nearest house.  A lady was picking flowers in her garden, so he didn't have to ring the bell.  She looked up and smiled.  “Good morning,” she said pleasantly. But Charlie didn't hear her.  She looked around and saw him at the next house.  She supposed that this was a new paperboy who was in a great hurry to play a ball game or get to school.  She smiled again and shook her head.
Charlie made a new record for his paper route.  But still, when he came back, his mother was crying at the door.  He looked at her sadly, but then hurried inside.  He glanced at the clock, not noticing the angry man in the shadows.  It showed that it was about 9:40. He sat down hard on the floor and almost cried.  He was not really crying, for he did not make any noise, but two little tears came out of each eye. He wiped them away furiously.  He was too big to cry.  Anyone – at least, any boy – who was nine years old was much to old to cry.  Suddenly he found himself pulled to his feet. A large, red-faced man with a straggly black beard and long hair was holding him by the collar.  He shook him violently.  Charlie cried, “Please, sir, oh, sir, let me g black o, please, sir!”
The man finally stopped.  “What do you mean, you young ruffian? You weren't done by nine o'clock!” He shook Charlie again, and Charlie began to cry. “You whimp!” shouted the man.
Charlie’s mother stood helplessly by.
This went on for a while.  Finally the man let go of Charlie. “Well,” he said. “You've just lost a job.” He began to walk away.
Charlie ran after him. “Sir,” he said. “What about my pay?  My pay from last week that you couldn't get to me?”
The man turned around, and his face grew even redder.  “You'll have nothing of it,” he said calmly.
Charlie felt that he would burst with anger. He wanted to run up and punch the man, to kick and fight until he got the money.  But then he remembered how Jesus had suffered so much – without a word! It would not be living for Christ if he did that. He shrank back as he watched the man walk away. Then he sat down and cried. His mother cried too, but then looked at the clock and said, “I’m going to look for your father. It's not like him to go out so early.”
Charlie nodded, and continued crying. It didn’t take long for his mother to return, and he sobbed until she did.  She came in weeping harder than he was.  “Oh, Charlie,” she gasped.
“What, Mother? Was Father at the saloon again?”
“No,” she answered.  “I don't know where he is; I inquired of the saloon keeper, and he said he hadn't seen him since yesterday.”
Charlie was stunned.  He knew what his mother could not say.  Father – he must have run away. He felt hopeless. He couldn't see, for his eyes were full of tears.  Then he said, “Oh, mother, I'm so sorry, I can't – I mean,” and here he stopped.
Then suddenly his mother stopped crying.  She looked at him with hopeful but teary eyes and said, “Charlie, someone can and will help us if we but ask him.”
Charlie knew what she meant; she didn't have to say it. They both knelt down by the couch. “You go first, Mother,” Charlie said.
“Dear Lord, you know what a fix we are in. Please bring my dear husband, and Charlie's dear father, back to us and to you. And please help Charlie get back his job, and the money he deserves, and please help me somehow be able to continue washing. And, Lord, please help us be able to keep the clock, if it is your will. In Jesus' name, Amen.”
Charlie began. “Lord, I hope you are having a better morning than I am. Please help Mother and I out of this, and bring Father back, and get me back my job, and get us water, too, please. And please let us keep the clock, too. In Jesus' name, Amen.”
They arose as someone knocked on the door.  Charlie's mother brushed her hair back from her face and wiped her eyes, then opened the door.
There stood the Charlie's employer.  He was smiling. “Good morning,” he said, bowing to Charlie's mother.  He turned to Charlie. “Hello, boy!” And he actually shook Charlie's hand!
“Boy,” he said, “You were very respectful to me, though I was so rude to you. You did not say a word when I treated you unfairly. I saw that you were very sorry that you did not get it done by nine o'clock. And I would like to give you back your job.”
“Oh, sir!” Charlie said.  “Thank you!”
“And here is your pay for last week.” The man opened his hand. Inside was double the money that Charlie was normally paid.  “Good day, ma'am.” He bowed to Charlie's mother, then turned to leave.
Charlie ran after him. “Oh, sir, you gave me more than I earned.”
The man looked at him, and smiled.  “I didn't give you any more than you deserve,” he replied.  “You are an honest fellow, and you earned it. Actually,” and here he drew out his wallet, “you earned more.  Here,” and he thrust yet another week's pay into Charlie's hand! “That is for you, to spend it on whatever you want.” He smiled again.
Charlie felt as if he would burst again, but not with anger. His heart was bursting with joy and thankfulness. He proudly brought the money back to his mother.

Aaand chapter 2:

Chapter II
The Minister's Visit

Charlie's mother was overjoyed to see the money, and she knew that they had gained a friend. However, her heart was still heavy about her husband. She drew Charlie into the house, and they knelt down again and prayed that their father and husband would come back to them, and then find Christ.  	Charlie went first this time. “Dear Lord, I thank you for the money and kind Mr. Willows. I thank you that we can now pay the rent, and some to spare. Please help Mother be able to continue washing for people, and please, oh Lord, please, please bring back Father to us, and then help us lead him to you. In Jesus' name, Amen.”
Charlie's mother was softly weeping as she began. “Oh Lord, I do thank you for dear, kind Mr. Willows. I thank you for the money he brought. But Lord, two things rest heavy on my heart: my washing, and my husband.  Please let me keep up my washing, so that we may be able to buy bread and have enough to eat. And oh Lord, I beg of you, do not let my husband die without knowing you, for Jesus' sake. Please bring him back to us, O Lord, and then lead him to you. I thank you that Charlie got his job back, too.  In Jesus' name, Amen.”
They rose up. Charlie looked at the clock. The little hand stood at twelve, and the big hand stood at ten. As they both expected, there was a knock on the door. Charlie ran and opened it. The man said, “Half a dollar.” Charlie’s mother, in her quiet, ladylike way, walked toward him with it, smiling.
“Hurry up, you good-for-nothing slowpoke.” Charlie’s mother stopped smiling. She gave it to him without a word.
He snatched it from her and walked away, scowling. Charlie was about to yell, “It’s not my mother who’s good for nothing! You’re the meanest, most good-for-nothing person alive!” He was just opening his lips to begin when he thought, “Charlie McKaney! Is this living for Christ?”  No, he decided. He closed his mouth.
His mother put an arm around him and led him into the house. She closed the door, and began to prepare to leave to buy some bread. But then yet another knock came on the door. “Goodness!” cried Charlie’s mother. “How many people plan to stop by today?” She finished smoothing her hair as Charlie opened the door.
There stood the minister. “Hello, my boy!” he shook Charlie’s hand. “Good morning, ma’am.” And he bowed to Charlie’s mother as if she were the finest, richest lady in the land!
Charlie was smiling happily, but a sad look was still in his face. It was the same with his mother. They said together, “Good morning, Mr. Sampson!”
The minister looked first at Charlie, then his mother, then back at Charlie. “Everything going fine?” he asked.
Charlie looked at his mother, and his mother looked at Charlie. “Well, sir, I mean, sir, not — not really, sir,” Charlie answered.
The minister looked sympathetically at Charlie, and then his mother. “What is it?”
“Father — h-he ran away.” Charlie whispered. His mother burst out sobbing, Charlie soon following her example.
The minister had heard long before this time about Charlie’s father.  He took off his spectacles to wipe them, for they had suddenly grown misty. “Well, my boy, have you kept your promise?”
Charlie tried to smile as he answered, “I’ve tried, sir. I do find much comfort in what Christ promised us, as does my mother.”
The minister smiled. “Have you found it hard?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, indeed, it has,” Charlie answered, a little smile coming to his lips. He remembered that morning, when he had almost awakened the minister. “I have already had many battles with myself, whether to do right or wrong.”
“And who has won those battles?” inquired the minister.
“God and conscience have, sir, so far.”
“Good!” exclaimed the minister. “And may I be so bold to ask what you have been tempted to do?”
“Well, sir, the first time, I couldn't find you when I went for my handkerchief, for as I expected, Father would not. So I peeked through all the rooms in the house.”
The minister turned a little pale.  “Every single one?” he asked.
“Every one that I could find, sir,” answered Charlie, turning red, as his mother just watched.
“And, pray tell, how is that a victory over evil?” The minister, for some reason, seemed a bit nervous.
“Well, sir, that isn't quite the whole story. I went upstairs, and –” Suddenly Charlie remembered something, and said, “There was one place I didn't go in in your house. There was a trap door in the sitting room, and when I opened it, a board said, 'Keep out'. So I didn't go through.”
The minister seemed very nervous now, and he said, “Listen, never, ever, go into that room, boy. Do you hear me? Never, ever.”
Charlie was surprised. “Uh... yes sir...” he answered, then he went on with his story. “So I went upstairs, and I found you sleeping with your wife.  I almost woke you up, but thought, 'Would Christ do this? Would this be living for Christ?' So I didn't.”
The minister's face was solemn. “Remember that, my boy, and it will help you in life.”
Charlie flashed him a smile. “I will try, sir, I really will.”
Charlie's mother was happily watching them, but her heart still ached with a sadness that she knew would never leave her until her husband came back to her – and then found Christ.
“Well, well,” said the minister. “I just came to check up on you, and ensure you kept your promise.” He smiled at Charlie. “Good morning, ma'am. Goodbye, Charlie.”
Charlie's mother ran after him.  “Uh, Mr. Sampson, uh, could I ask a favor of you?” she asked a bit shyly.
“Why, yes, ma'am, anything I can do to help?”
“Um, well, I suppose it's rather silly, but could you get us some water? The well is directly behind the house. The bucket is quite too heavy for either Charlie or I to lift.” She pointed to the large water bucket.
“Why yes, certainly, ma'am! I'll be right back.” The minister grabbed the water bucket and headed out the door.
Charlie's mother sat down.  “Well, that's another problem fixed.”
But Charlie added, “For now. We can't ask him to get water every week, can we? Or... can we?” They did not have to wait long for a response. The minister was coming through the door now. “Here it is, Mrs. McKaney. And feel free to get me any time it runs out. Unless, of course, I'm sleeping.” He smiled at the red-faced, grinning Charlie.
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you!” cried Charlie's mother.
“Yes, Mr. Sampson, thank you. You just saved Mother's job!” Charlie said.
“My pleasure, ma'am.” the minister bowed to Charlie's mother, and shook Charlie's hand again. “Good morning.” He walked out the door.
Charlie ran after him.  “Goodbye, sir!  And thank you ever so much!”
The minister turned around for a moment.  “Goodbye, Charlie.”
Charlie ran back into the house. His mother was preparing to go out and do her washing. “Charlie,” she said. “You'll have to be here alone.”
Charlie sat down. “I know, Mother,” he said. “I have been alone before.”
“Now be good. Don't go anywhere, but you may play in front of the house. But, whatever you do, don't try to make a fire, even if you're cold.” They both smiled, remembering how the fireman had come when Charlie made just a little fire in front of the house.

Hehe… I wanted a little suspense there.

I'm in suspense too, because I haven't even figured out why the minister doesn't want Charlie to go into the room! I have a couple crazy ideas, but…

Not a story…but at the request of Rachel…

Unit One: Horizons
Jonathan Edwards

On October 5, 1703 Jonathan Edwards was born to his parents, Timothy and Esther Edwards. He had four older sisters and in later years he had six younger sisters. His father was the pastor of the congregation in East Windsor, Connecticut. He moved there with his wife, of eight days, in 1694. He was the first pastor of the congregation and held that position until his death.

Each house in the town was built on a lot of land so the town was quite spread out. Their nearest neighbors were the Stoughton’s. They were sister and brother-in-law to Timothy Edwards. Jonathan and his sisters spent much time with their cousins next door.

Not only was Timothy Edwards the pastor of East Windsor, but he was also the school teacher. The school was in the parlor of the parsonage. So, when Jonathan was old enough to attend school he was taught by his father along with his sisters and the other children of the town.

From very early on Jonathan was deeply religious and extremely concerned about his relationship with God. He would spend long hours in the land back of their house talking with God. He would also spend time with his classmates praying.
Jonathan wrote: “I had a variety of concerns and exercises about my soul from my childhood…The first time was when I was a boy, some years before I went to college, at a time of remarkable awakening in my father’s congregation, I was then very much affected for many months, and concerned about the things of religion, and my soul’s salvation; and was abundant in duties.” But though, he was so diligent in religious things he still was fearful and “uncommonly terrified with thundered, and…struck with terror” when he saw a storm coming up.

But, at the age of thirteen, his years of wandering in the back woods and meadows was over. In 1716 he was enrolled in Collegiate School of Connecticut in New Haven…which later became known as Yale College. Jonathan studied Latin, Greek Hebrew, Geometry, Rhetoric, Logic and Bible. Yale had the largest library at that time and so Jonathan spent much time in reading many different books. One thing that impacted him greatly in reading was Isaac Newton’s works. In reading about how the universe worked it meant that God was not a God of whims but a God of order. This strengthened his ideas of God.

By 1719 he had grown to six feet. He was naturally quiet and withdrawn around others. Many people thought he was unsociable but the reason he was quiet was because he always thought before he spoke. He served as College Butler and though it was an honor to have that position it kept him from becoming close friends with anyone.

After graduating from Yale Jonathan continue a graduate study in theology. While in his second year of that he was converted. He wrote in his Personal Narratives: “…The first instance that I remember of that sort of inward, sweet delight in God and divine things that I have lived much in since, was on reading those words, 1 Timothy 1:17. ‘Now until the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise God, be honor and glory for ever and ever, Amen.’”

“As I read the words, there came into my soul, and was as it were diffused through it, a sense of the glory of the Divine Being; a new sense, quiet different from any thing I ever experienced before. Never any words of scripture seemed to me as these words did. I thought with myself, how excellent a Being that was, and how happy I should be, if I might enjoy that God, and be rapt up to Him in heaven, and be as it were swallowed up in Him for ever! I kept saying, and as it were singing over these words of Scripture to myself; and went to pray to God that I might enjoy Him, and prayed in a manner quite different from what I used to do; with a new sort of affection.”

“From about that time, I began to have a new kind of apprehensions and ideas of Christ, and the work of redemption, and the glorious way of salvation by Him. An inward, sweet sense of these things, at times, came into my heart; and my soul was led away in pleasant views and contemplations of them.”

Jonathan completed his education in 1722. After passing his prerequisite trials he was licensed to preach. Almost immediately he received a number of invitations from different Churches. In August 1722 he moved to New York to preach at a small Scotch Presbyterian Church. While there he met a man named John Smith. He and John became close friends. They would spend time walking along the Hudson River talking to God and together.

Next spring he decided to return home. The wages paid him were not enough for him to support himself and so he was going to look for a new place. He was sad to leave Madam and John Smith. And so, he spent the summer of 1723 at his father’s house.

Again, many Churches invited him to be their pastor but he didn’t accept any of them. Instead he became a teacher at Yale. At that time there was no one as appointed leader of Yale and so Jonathan became not only a teacher but also head administrator. He was in charge of all discipline of the students. Instead of feeling joy and strength he became weary and depressed.

In 1725 he became very ill. He tried to return home but became even worse. He was bedridden for four months. And for the rest of his life he suffered from long illnesses. The trustees of Yale were very pleased with his work and offered him a larger salary and asked him to stay on. But Jonathan was ready to move on.

Early in 1726 his grandfather, Solomon Stoddard, (his mother’s father) invited him to come to Northampton, Massachusetts and serve as assistant pastor. Solomon Stoddard had been pastor there for fifty years and knew he needed help. He had much power in that community and had even changed the requirement for Church membership. No longer did someone have to have a profession of faith. Instead it was open to everyone so long as nobody was “openly scandalous”. Late 1726 Jonathan conducted a service, was found acceptable and invited the position of assistant pastor. Jonathan accepted the position.

On July 20, 1727 Jonathan married Sarah Pierrepont. He was 23 and she was 17. She was a good spouse for Jonathan and brought him much joy and cheerfulness. While he was quiet and reserved she was charming and witty.

In February 1929 Solomon Stoddard died and left the Church to Jonathan’s care. The people of the Church really liked Jonathan and Sarah. Jonathan not only conducted the services but also visited the sick and needy. He also spent much time with the children. In the pulpit Jonathan didn’t use gestures and kept his voice low and his face solemn.

In the coming years Jonathan and Sarah had eleven children…eight girls and three boys. They had very strict rules for their children and closely supervised each of them.

In the 1730’s the great awakening was starting. Jonathan’s sermons started affecting his listeners differently…especially the young people. They started holding prayer meetings every day. In 1734 two people in town died and he used that as an example for the need for personal salvation.

George Whitefield came over from England in 1740 and began preaching in America. On October 17th he stayed with the Edwards family. He stayed for four days and preached four times at Jonathan’s Church. After hearing Whitefield preach he and Jonathan became close friends.

On July 8, 1741 in a Church in Enfield, Massachusetts Jonathan preached his famous sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” He wasn’t even able to finish the entire sermon because people were crying out and asking how to be saved.
By the end of the 1740’s the revival had quieted down. Jonathan then carefully studied the revival and its effects. He admitted that some of the outward signs were in excess but that God’s Spirit really was working. Since the revival Edward’s saw the need to rework the Church membership. He knew it would be difficult but he knew he had to correct the wrong.

In December 1748 a woman named, Mary Hulbert, wanted to join the Church. Jonathan Edwards asked that she make an open profession of faith. At that same time he presented his statement about membership to the church committee. Mary was willing to do so but opposition rose from within the Church.

Nobody stood by him, except his family, and all were ready to get rid of him. There were many attacks against him but throughout them all he remained calm. On July 2, 1750 Jonathan Edwards preached his last sermon at the Northampton church. He had served there for 23 years.

A position at the Indian Mission at Stockbridge was offered to Jonathan. They moved to Stockbridge a year after his dismissal from Northampton. He proved to be a very good director and administrator.

In 1754 war broke out with the Indians a fort was built and the Edwards family lived there. Many settlers from the surrounding countries went there for refuge and the Edwards were busy serving them. The Stockbridge Indians remained neutral in the war.

By this time Jonathan’s oldest daughters were married and had homes of their own. Esther had married Aaron Burr (president of Princeton University) and her son, Aaron Burr, became the vice president under Thomas Jefferson.
There the Edwards were at Stockbridge for six years. While there Jonathan kept busy with writing and pastoring. He produced much of his writing while at Stockbridge.

On September 27, 1757 Aaron Burr, Jonathan’s son-in-law, died suddenly. The trustees of the college offered the position of president of Princeton to Jonathan. He initially declined but when others gave their advice he accepted the position.
Shortly after moving there the small pox started spreading. Jonathan and his daughter Esther received an inoculation. At first he received just a light case of them but then a worse case came upon him. When he realized that he was dying he had his daughter Lucy take down his last words.

The people around him thought that he couldn’t speak, hear, or understand. But then he said quite clearly, “Trust in God, and ye need not fear.” Those words were his last. He died on March 22, 1758.

Two weeks after his daughter, Esther, also died of small pox. The next fall Sarah Edwards went to Philadelphia to get Esther’s two children and there died. They were all buried at Princeton University.

Are we going to get more of your story Ian? It was really good.

Unfortunately, no. My mom advised me that I probably shouldn't put more on here because it had the potential to be published. I have a feeling that she meant that it had a very slim chance to be published though. :P

I know I haven't been on here for a few months, but I have some exciting news!!!!!!!!!!!

 I AM PUBLISHED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

   Check out my book at www.priscillajkrahn.com

Adventures of Amy is a modern/Christian/fiction/adventure for 12-14 year olds. (Other ages will enjoy it too. In fact my biggest fan is an older woman!) My goal with this book is to not only entertain, but to have a strong Biblical message.

Adventures of Amy - A criminal father, cousins she had never met, and a past she had never dreamed of. Can Amy find God's love when everything she knows is taken away? When unexpected danger, a frightened sheriff, and a mad surgeon come across her path can Amy really find peace? Suspense and danger are at every corner. Who can she trust? Is there hope?

I would post a picture of the cover but I don't know how so you'll just have to go to my website.

www.priscillajkrahn.com

Wow - that is very exciting, Priscilla!! Congratulations! :D I would love to be able to read it someday. Keep up the great work!

That's is so awesome! :D

Wow Congraulations! :)

^I would buy the book but I don't have any American money… Or an american bank account. :)^

(This is Rosie again) At the anticipation/request of Bethany, I'm posting this on here real quick. Had a random aspiration recently, and ended up writing this - thinking of the past month and those who have loved ones who are struggling, dying, or have died due to cancer.
To my friends who are weighed down by the painful struggle/dying of a loved one…there is hope, to the one who clings to the One.

"She is dead.

The only person I ever cared for. The only person who ever cared for me. The only person I could ever call ‘friend’.

My soul sinks beneath this crushing weight…called despair. My body shrinks from this looming shadow…called death.

My heart aches. My soul cries out. My mind screams against it.

But she is gone – and I can do nothing to change it. Why do I feel so helpless? Why do I still cling to a hope that this all but a nightmare?

I am in a dark tunnel…I cannot see even a glimpse of light ahead.

I am in a pool of unbearable sorrow, sinking – down, lower down. Am I to sink beneath these waters unnoticed, uncared for?

But what is this? A tear? What nonsense!

Tears are irrational; crying is of no use. For what is its purpose? What does it accomplish? It does not change one’s circumstances.

My friend. My dear, dear friend! Why should your life be cut off so quickly? Ah, this life is a vapor!

Oh, my soul! This is the consequence for loving someone! I might as well have been cursed. Curse love! For what is love, when we all die eventually!

But wait! says my soul. There is One. Have you even so forgotten the Lover of your soul?

If He is the Lover of my soul, why then, has He allowed this? If He loves me, why?

Have you allowed yourself to so quickly fall prey to doubt? my soul replies. Is your faith so small, so easily swayed? Do you not trust His will, that what He does is for your good?

Yes, but the pain…it overwhelms me. How is this for my good?

Is He not Healer to the brokenhearted, Comforter to those crushed in spirit? my soul answers. Has He not conquered death and the grave? Have you lost that hope?

Hope…can I yet find peace from this sorrow?

To the one whose trust is in the Savior, the One who triumphed over death, there is hope indeed.

Yes…hope…all is not lost. In Him, all is not lost. Death is not the end – it is but a doorway…Yes. Yes!

My Savior! My King! There is yet hope! Oh, my Savior, my Savior! I believe!

I believe. Help my unbelief."

^Rosie signing off.^

Wow, Rosie. I'm really impressed, that was very, very well written. Thanks so much for sharing it! Very convicting.

Why It's Dumb To Say You're a Christian If You're Not

There once lived a shepherd who loved his sheep more than himself. He fed each individual sheep its own kind of food, depending on what it happened to need. Whenever one strayed, he would not give up till he found it.
There was another shepherd, too. This shepherd was cruel and careless. He never fed his sheep, but left them to find their own food. This made the sheep happy, for they were free to do what they liked. But they didn't realize it wouldn't be good for them in the end. Whenever a sheep got lost, the shepherd didn't care, and usually didn't notice.
These two shepherds were the only shepherds in the world. They owned all the sheep in the world. Every sheep belonged to one or the other. If a sheep from the cruel shepherd's herd realized how terrible his owner truly was, and came to the good shepherd, the good shepherd always took him in. He would rejoice over each new sheep. The bad shepherd cared nothing about his sheep. He left them to themselves. However, he was always tempting the sheep from the other shepherd's fold to come to his. Sometimes they would come for a little while, but would never really be owned by the cruel shepherd.

Now, was it the sheep's goodness that made him part of the good shepherd's fold? Of course not. Yet was the good shepherd to be blamed that the sheep of the cruel shepherd's fold were not with him? Most certainly not!
Would there be any reason for a sheep from the bad shepherd's fold to lie and say, “I am from the good shepherd's fold”? No!

We are the sheep; Christ is the Good Shepherd; Satan is the cruel shepherd. We belong to one or the other, there is no in-between (Matthew 12:30). It is not of our own goodness that, if we have come to Christ, we are Christians, nor is it any fault of Christ's that we are not if we have not. Therefore, what is the use of saying we are Christian if we truly are not?

Whenever I'm trying to sleep, i make up a story in my head.
they'r usually about the hardy boys or tom swift or hardy boys and tom swift or with most of the characters in books i've read.

Lakeview isn't a large town. In fact, just about everyone knows everyone else. The kids are in the same activities, the adults go to the same meetings, and everyone goes to one of the two churches. Lakeview is a pretty quiet town; nothing unusual ever takes place there. Until one day... * * * It was a normal Wednesday afternoon. At least, that's what Bradon Grant thought. He and his younger siblings, Kaitlin, Sawyer, and Eden, sat at the kitchen table finishing their homework. Bradon dropped his math book with a sigh of relief. "Well, that's that for today! Not every day I get through algebra, English, and science in - what?" he suddenly exclaimed, looking up at the clock on the wall. "Half an hour? That can't be." "What do you mean?" Sawyer asked. "It's got to have been at least an hour and a half that we've been working here." "I know. But look at the clock! I looked at it when we started, and it said 1:30. Now it says 2:05." "You're right, Bradon," Kaitlin said. "That can't be possible. Sawyer or Eden, did you change the clock? No one else has been in here." "No," they both answered. Bradon stood up and took the clock off the wall. "They're right," he stated. "They couldn't have changed the clock without us noticing. See, you would have to push this button to change the time." He demonstrated, and a loud beep sounded. "We would have noticed if they had tried to change the time." "But, then who changed it?" Kaitlin asked. Ding, dong. The sound of the doorbell rang through the house. Bradon ran to open the door. "Oh, hi, Dylan." Bradon smiled at his friend. "What's up?" "I just wanted to find out if anything strange has been going on here at your house," Dylan said. "Yes, there is, but how did you know?" "Does it have anything to do with clocks?" Bradon was confused. "Yes again, but how did you know that, Dylan?" Dylan ran his fingers through his red hair. "Our clocks are all messed up. They all say the same thing, but that time can't actually be correct. It's way later that the time it shows, that's for certain. And then our neighbor came over and told us his clocks weren't working, either. We called all the people on our street. Of the ones that were home, all of them were having problems too. That's why I came over. I wondered if it was just our street or others, too." Bradon led Dylan into the kitchen. "See? Our clock says 2:07, but it must have been a couple hours ago when it still said 1:30. We were just trying to figure out how it could have been changed." Dylan and the Grants checked the other clocks in the house, too. Sure enough, each one read 2:07. They slumped back into their chairs around the kitchen table, confused and frustrated. Silently they each thought about how the clock switch could have happened. Eden sat straight up and snapped her fingers. "Does any of you have a cell phone?" Bradon frowned. "Yeah, Dylan and I both do. But what does that have to do with anything?" "The clocks on cell phones are set by satellite," Eden pointed out. "If you check what time it is on your phones, we'll know the correct time." Everyone was quiet for a moment. "You're right, Eden," Bradon said. "I didn't even think of that!" He and Dylan both reached into their pockets and pulled out their phones. Frowning, they fumbled with them for a few minutes. Then Dylan looked up. "I don't know about you, Bradon, but my phone seems to be dead." "Can I see?" Sawyer asked. Taking the phone, he pushed a few buttons and waited. "Uh, Dylan, your phone's not dead." "It's not?" "Nope. But something is wrong with it." He handed it back to Dylan. "A screen comes up that says 'Searching,' but nothing else happens." "Mine's doing the same thing," Bradon commented as he shut his phone. Dylan sighed. "Well, I'd better be going. I'll let you know if anything else happens." * * * Over the next two days, Dylan and the Grants visited with several people from around town. For each person, it was the same story. Their phones wouldn't work and their clocks were wrong. Kaitlin had the ingenious idea to check the town sundial, next to the town hall, and find out what the time was from that. Unfortunately, the pole that cast the shadow on the correct time was broken off. Undaunted, Bradon was still determined to get to the bottom of the problem. * * * It was late Thursday afternoon. The Grants, as well as Dylan and his sister, Geneva, were sitting at an ice cream parlor after a long day of fruitless research and searching for clues. Licking her sticky fingers, Eden asked, "Is there any other place we could look to get an idea of what's been happening with the clocks? Stores and restaurants that usually close at five, before dark, now close at least an hour after dark. Everyone knows we're living by the wrong time, but yet we all have to go by the same clock - a clock that's wrong. Something has to be done." Bradon sighed. "I don't know, Eden. I can't think of anything else we could try that we haven't already tried." "I wasn't with you yesterday," Geneva spoke up, "so I don't know what you did then. Did you ever think about checking the clock house?" Everyone stared at her blankly. "You know," she continued, "the clock house. That funny little building that sits next to the town hall." Still no response. "Lakeview isn't a normal town." "That's true," Dylan replied. "We have just one school, two churches that believe practically the same, everyone knows everyone else, children and adults alike can vote on city issues. No, this isn't a normal town. But what does that have to do with the clock house, or whatever you called it?" "Maybe you don't know this, but I just read the other day that even our clock system isn't normal. The clocks on our cell phones work the same as anyone else's, but have you noticed that all the clocks sold in this town are electric?" The others nodded. "That's because all of those clocks are run by one giant clock in a building I call the clock house. The clocks that are sold in town all have a chip in them. That chip is what connects them to that giant clock. If that clock stopped working, all the other clocks would stop working as well. That's why we have the sun dial - just in case that big clock stops. Then they can fix it and make sure they still have the right time." Finished with her speech, Geneva took a bite of her ice cream. The others looked at each other. "So..." Kaitlin began slowly, "If we go to the clock house, we could get someone to change the clocks back? If that's true, how come the mayor or someone didn't fix it right away?" Geneva shrugged. "It's possible that he doesn't know about it. I know he's the mayor, but not many people at all know about it. It was in a very old book I found that had the history of this town in it. The big old clock has never been wrong, so no one needed to know about the system." Sawyer groaned. "So you're telling us that all we had to do was go change that big clock, and our problems would be solved?" "Well, what are we waiting for?" Eden asked. "Let's go change that big clock!" "Hold it," Geneva broke in. "That's not the only problem. In fact, if we go change it now, we might have more problems." "She's right," Kaitlin commented. "For one thing, we can't find out what the correct time is because the sun dial is broken and the cell phones aren't working. For another thing, though we may know how the clocks were changed, we still don't know why the clocks were changed. We need to find out who did it and why, before we do anything else." "Good point, Kaitlin," Bradon said. "And thanks to Geneva, we know where to look next!" * * * They made their way to the small building Geneva called the clock house. Dylan was the first to mount the steps to the wooden door. "Think we should just walk in?" he asked. Bradon hesitated. "It can't hurt," he replied. "If Geneva's right, it's likely nobody's been in here for decades. And we'll be careful so we don't break anything." Cautiously, Dylan turned the rusting doorknob and pushed open the door. "It turns pretty easy," he muttered. "Not like it's been left shut for thirty, forty, fifty years. Strange." They entered, looking around themselves with interest as they did so. On one wall hung nearly a dozen old pictures, yellowed with age, each depicting a different type of clock. All along the opposite wall were gears and parts that they assumed ran the big clock. But where was the big clock? "Look!" Geneva exclaimed, pointing to a large wooden table. "All those gears and parts are connected to one long wire that connects to this clock, here on the table." The clock wasn't quite as large as they had expected, but it was still a fairly good sized object. Down one side were several buttons: one read "Set Time," and the other buttons were arrows. "That must be how the time was changed," Sawyer said. "Now the question is - who changed it?" Bradon said. "There's no dust on the buttons or the clock, like it had been disturbed recently. So now we know for sure how it was done." "And look here." Kaitlin pointed to an object on the floor. "What is that black thing? It looks like an electronic device, or something." "I've seen one of those before!" Dylan gasped. "It's a jamming transmitter. No wonder our cell phones weren't working." Sawyer adjusted pretend glasses on his nose and cleared his throat. "Now that that's cleared up, we must now uncover the culprit. It's elementary, my dear Watson." A chorus of groans met his speech. "Enough with the fancy talk, Sherlock," Bradon teased. "But you're right. We need to find out the who and the why. We've already found out the how. Okay, guys, look around this place and see if you can find anything. A footprint, gum wrapper, anything that our criminal may have dropped." They searched for the next half hour but couldn't find anything. Dylan asked, "Did it ever occur to you that it may have just been some kid from town playing a practical joke?" "It's not very funny, if it was," Kaitlin muttered. "Kaitlin's right. Even if it was just a prank, it's caused a lot of problems - and not just for us. I'll have to ask some of the other kids tomorrow," Bradon said. "I think we'd better get going, though. It's getting late and we probably won't find anything else today." As they began filing out the old wooden door, Geneva's sharp eyes caught a piece of folded paper on the floor. She snatched it up and showed it to the others. "The prankster, whoever he or she was, must have dropped this. This paper's pretty new." "Open it up, Geneva!" Sawyer exclaimed. "What's inside?" She unfolded the paper and held it up for them to see in the fading light. "It... looks like a string of letters," she said, obviously disappointed. "It's just jibberish." "It could be a code of some sort," Eden pointed out. "A code?" A smile flashed across Kaitlin's face. "Then I know who we need to call." "Who's that?" "Donovan Ryland." * * * At nine o' clock sharp on Friday morning, Donovan Ryland arrived at the Grants' house, where they, Dylan, and Geneva were waiting eagerly. Donovan was a friend of Bradon, though a year older. He was known for his love of cracking mysteries, as well as his love of languages and codes. If there was ever a mystery or a code someone couldn't solve, they knew who to call. "We're so glad you're here, Donovan!" Bradon welcomed him. "We've been trying to figure out this code all morning, but we're completely stumped." "Well, that's what I'm here for," the young man replied. He and Bradon entered the kitchen, where everyone else was poring over the coded message. He took a seat next to them and began studying the paper. Pulling out a notebook, he began writing. "What are you doing?" Eden asked. "Copying the message. I don't want to work on the original message yet, just in case I need to write on it or something." "Do you have any idea of what type of code it could be?" Dylan asked. "Let me finish copying this... okay, there. What kind of code is this? Well, take a look at it and see if you can figure it out." They read the vertical string of words silently. "Me Etin Ga T Theh Al Lstar Tsa Ttenyo Un Eed Twoe Xtr Ah Ours." "Is it in a different language?" Bradon asked. "No. From what I see, I am pretty sure this is just an encoded English message. Okay, do you know what a substitution code is?" "I think so," Kaitlin said. "You choose one letter, say 'a,' and use that for the letter 'c.' So 'b' is 'd,' 'c' is 'e,' and so on." "Ah, I see I've taught you well!" Donovan joked. "Yes, that's right. So this could be a substitution code. Why don't we take some different letters and try it out?" They worked on this for nearly half an hour before finally deciding that wasn't the answer. "It could be an acrostic, couldn't it?" asked Sawyer. "That's possible," Donovan replied. "But it wouldn't make much sense." "MEGTTALTTUETXAO," Geneva read. "No, even backwards that doesn't make much sense." "You're right. Now, here's what I think is the best possibility. I was thinking of this earlier, but I wanted to check the substitution code first. It's possible that it could be a space code." "Like rockets and aliens?" Eden asked. "Not quite. The space code basically means that you take all the spaces out from between the words you've written, and insert the spaces somewhere else. Sometimes, each individual word is written backwards. That makes it trickier. But it looks to me like this one is pretty normal. Can you see what it is?" "Meetingatthehallstartsattenyouneedtwoextrahours," Dylan read slowly. "Oh! It's, 'Meeting at the hall starts at ten. You need two extra hours.'" "What in the world does that mean?" Geneva asked. "I'm not sure," Bradon said. "I guess I just figured it would all make sense when we decoded the message. That seems pretty ordinary to me, though. Nothing suspicious in telling someone when a meeting starts." "What meeting?" Dylan asked. "The one at the town hall?" "Probably." "Wait just a minute!" Donovan broke in. "Think about it for a minute. Why would someone need two extra hours just to get to the meeting at the town hall?" "That's a good question," Kaitlin said slowly. "But... what's the answer?" "Just listen to this theory for a minute," Donovan requested. "A thief knows that there is a meeting starting at the town hall Saturday morning. He decides that he's going to sneak into the building that morning, since, unlike most days, nobody would be at the hall until just before the meeting starts. He doesn't live in town, and he wouldn't be able to make it there before the meeting starts. Maybe he works late in his town, or something. I'm not sure. But anyway, he decides to change Lakeview's clocks forward two hours so they start the meeting later, giving him plenty of time to get to the hall, rob the safe (if that's what he was after, which is what I suspect), and get out of there before everyone shows up. And by jamming the cell phones and breaking the sun dial, he can be sure that no one will find out the correct time." "That's an interesting theory," Kaitlin said. "Let's say it's true, and he plans on arriving there at ten tomorrow - which would be eight by our incorrect clocks. How do we stop him?" Sawyer grinned. "I have an idea..." * * * Saturday morning was bright and clear, with hardly a cloud in the blue sky. All the clocks read 7:30, but just the same, nearly fifty people were filing into the town hall. The sheriff was there as well, ready to arrest the criminal. Donovan had alerted the town authorities about the potential robbery, and had mentioned Sawyer's plan. Sawyer's plan was that everyone arrive at seven thirty instead of ten. That way, they would have the meeting already under way when the robber made his entry. However, they would be silent and wait until he was beginning to open the safe. Then they would surprise him, and he would be caught red handed. Donovan nodded to Bradon as they entered the hall at the rear of the crowd. "Well, do you think it'll work?" he asked. "Time will tell." Donovan, the Grants, Dylan and Geneva kept their eyes glued to the clock. Suddenly, the sheriff, who had been standing guard at the window during the meeting, called, "Everyone quiet, please! There's someone coming." Everyone ducked down so that they wouldn't be seen. No one made a noise; all were straining their ears for even the slightest sound. Eden pressed her ear to the door. She could hear a stealthy footstep in the hall. She whispered, "He's walking down the hall." The people slowly began tiptoeing to the door. The mayor carefully pushed open the door and stepped into the hall. There, on the polished white floor, were tennis shoe tracks. He nodded, signaling the people to follow him, and slipped down the hallway in the direction the tracks led. Sawyer crept up to the mayor and whispered in his ear. A grin crossed the mayor's face and he, in turn, whispered to the sheriff. The sheriff took the lead and continued following the tracks. The tracks rounded a corner. Around that corner was the safe and, probably, a robber. The mayor motioned for everyone but the sheriff to stay back. The sheriff turned the corner and - "Boo!" Jumping nearly a foot in the air, the would-be-robber let out a yelp of surprise, slamming the safe door shut. The sheriff took advantage of the man's shock and clapped handcuffs on him. "But sir, what is going on?" the man protested angrily. "Why would you arrest me for just wanting to do my job and fix the safe?" The sheriff didn't answer but looked at Donovan. "The note, please?" Donovan handed him the message they had decoded. "Do you recognize this?" he asked. The man shook his head, but his fidgeting and shifting eyes gave away the truth. "And how do you explain the fact that you snuck in here before the hall was supposed to be open, instead of coming in and doing your job during the meeting? You shouldn't have needed to sneak if you were being honest." The man hung his head. He had been caught - and all because he had changed the clocks. "The iniquities of the wicked ensnare him, and he is held fast in the cords of his sin." (Proverbs 5:22) THE END

This is a neat story!
^even though i did figure out the code without reading how they broke it^

I like those! @ EVERYONE: I had this sudden inspiration for a story where ALL the Memversers are in one HUGE family. Would y'all mind if I used your first names? BTW, Carissa and Sam would be mom and dad, if they agree. :P

Could i be in it??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????/

I like those! @ EVERYONE: I had this sudden inspiration for a story where ALL the Memversers are in one HUGE family. Would y'all mind if I used your first names? BTW, Carissa and Sam would be mom and dad, if they agree. :P

Could i be in it??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????/

Sure. If I ever make it.

ARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It says the file might have been trashed and wants me to sign in but i don't have an account so i can't!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
^couldsomeonepleasehelp???^

Alright, I'm resurrecting this thread. I wrote this story for a specific prompt, so if it seems a bit strange, that's why.

Breathe. Please, Breathe.
Blood was welling out of my knee, the scraped flesh stung but I didn’t notice as I stared at his little face, motionless against the grey background of cement.

Just moments earlier we had been twirling around, the heels of my boots clicking against the concrete, his laugh puffing into my ear as we chased the other kids. He was too young to ride on my shoulders, but I was too young to know that.

I don’t know what happened—
His hands slipped, still gripping my hat and pulling it off my head.
My foot slipped, the cowboy boots failing to gain any traction on the hard surface of rock.
Hair clung to my face, snapping with static electricity, and we both fell together.

I caught myself with my hands, but he fell from higher, and he was so small. The back of his head cracked against the ground, and all I could do was stare, kneeling next to him and thinking breathe, please.

I thought he would start crying, that he would have a big bump on his head, and everyone would know I gave it to him. But instead he was so still. The first sound I heard was a scream, and the door burst open behind us. Footsteps rushed up and stopped. From far away, someone was yelling, “No! No! No!”

Somehow I knew Mom was there, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. I couldn’t breathe, or move. Everything was frozen in place. Then, silently, I was falling toward the cement. Part of my brain knew that I had already fallen. I was on my hands and knees. It could not take this long to hit the ground. Blackness filled my sight.

My eyes flew open, and I jolted upright, heart throbbing in my ears. It was still dark, but I could see the dim glow of my alarm clock in the corner. Closing my eyes, I breathed in slowly. Just a dream. Breathe out. He’s okay. Breathe in. I caught him. My knee still hurt, the pain from the dream lingering after the vision was gone.

Even though the room was stifling, and our open window did nothing to assuage July’s heat, I pulled my blanket up to my chin as I lay back down. I caught him, I reminded myself. The fear had been real, seven years earlier, when I felt him slipping, but I pulled him into my arms and kept my footing. Mom had been scared, sure, but there was not that terrifying fury that my dreams invented.

William, little brother, I’m sorry. Part of me wanted to get up and go into the boys’ room, just to see him sleeping in the top bunk. My heart was still pounding, and I felt wide awake. Dear Lord, thank you that I caught him. Thank you for keeping him safe. As I prayed, my heart slowed down, and the memory of the dream became less stark. The reality of the room, my bed, and the steady breathing in the bunk below me began to sink in, and my dream receded further into the darkness. At last, I fell back asleep.

That's wonderful Sarah! Good job! I know that feeling! I don't know what I'd do if something happened to one of my siblings, although one of them was close before and I was terrified but all I could do was pray. Thankfully God has healed him and everything is okay!

Writing a new short story now.

Yay! Can't wait to hear it!

Hi all! I wrote this story awhile ago. I often find myself in the same predicament as Adaline and I too, often have to stop and and ask God to help me with something I'm having I'm having a hard time with. I hope you will find this little story encouraging! Please feel free to tell me what ya all think! God bless you!

Slipping into Pride
~by Keirstin Erickson~

Adaline sat there at the window sill looking up at the beautiful sunrise. "What a lovely day." She sighed. Then she got down on her knees and prayed like she did every morning. "God help me do my best, my absolute best! I want to praise you and live for you! Help me do my best! Thank you God!"

After a few minutes, she got up and combed her long strawberry blond hair. I feel like good things are going to happen today! It's going to be a wonderful, awesome day!_Leaving to practice piano, she sighed at the big stack of schoolwork she had to do later. _I hope it won't take me too terribly long.

Later that day, Adaline was quite happy with herself as she had learned to play a difficult piece and finally had gotten the hang of it. Singing throughout the house, she skipped up the stairs to try to finnish her work.

"Okay, where's my pencil?" She groaned.
Where her nice, pointed pencil had sat, there was a small pencil with no end or eraser. Someone took it! She looked on the on her desk and couldn't see another one.

Walking into the loft, she called down to her sister, "Jess, any idea where my pencil is? It's gone and someone replaced it with this stubby one."

Jess sat in one of the over stuffed chair across from the old stained coffee table that her grandfather had built as one of his projects as a teen. Remembering Grandfather made Adeline sad since he passed away last year.
Jess had her 5th grade school books piled all over it. She was the kind of person who doesn't like to study, but when she gets around to it, she can't focus on any thing else.

"That would be Conner." Without looking up from her book, she responded," He asked where he could find a pencil and I told him to look on our desk."

"That was the only one on our desk!" she sighed. She stepped down the long flight of stairs to her dad's office where Conner was. Should I let him be or confront him? she thought, I know! I'll ask for it back, then offer to help him find another one! That sounds good.

She approached the office and peeked in.
There was Conner, with her pencil.

"Hey, Conner." The ten year old pretended not to hear her.
"It's not nice to take things that don't belong to you."

She waited a moment to let that sink in.
"Why'd you take it?"

Connor looked up. "I needed a pencil and this was the only good one I could find."
"But it's mine," she debated, trying to keep her voice calm, "You knew it was mine."

"If you want one so bad, here's one." He dropped another pencil on the ground.
"No," she argued, "You took mine and you have to give it back."
She reached for the pencil in his hand.
"If you want, I would be happy to help you find a new one. Please give it back!"

"Adeline! I'm using it! The one I dropped on the ground is just fine!" he yelled.
"Then why'd you take it?" she asked.
"Because I like this one!"

Why won't he just give it up! Adaline stomped up to her room. I have like four more hours of school than he does! Plus, I'm more concerned with how's he's acting. she told herself, How can he treat me that way? I didn't do anything!

She plopped herself down in her chair, frustrated. She leaned back and stared at the ceiling, not feeling like studying anymore.
As Adaline sat there, it occurred to her how foolish she had been.
What am I doing? she asked herself sadly, This morning, I asked God to help me do better and this the first thing I do, go down and argue with my brother? Over what? A stupid pencil?
A tear rolled down her face. Why didn't I leave him alone? Why didn't I turn the other cheek? I'm the oldest. I'm supposed to be setting the example!

Suddenly, she knew what to do. She got down on her knees and started praying. Adaline asked God to take full control of her life, to help her listen to that small, still voice. To help her to become acceptance with joy. To accept any situation that God allows her to be in with true joy. To be obedient in all that He asks of her and treat her family with love and be that light that God called her to be. To please give her wisdom and help her love her siblings.

After a few minutes of prayer, Adaline rose, opened the desk drawer, and pulled out a small piece of paper. Inside she scribbled a few words and then dug through the piles of odds and ends in the desk. In between the pages of a notebook, she found found two unused pencils. One Adaline sat next to her book, the other she wrapped up in the note and sealed it with a smiley face sticker.

When she found Conner reading a book in the loft, she sat the note next to him and returned to her school. A few minutes later, he walked in and read the note out loud. "You wrote, 'I'm sorry, will you please,' uh, 'forget me'?"
Adaline smiled. "Forgive me."
"Oh, I read all of it except for that part. Yeah, I forgive you." He set the note on her desk.
"Thank you Conner! I'm so sorry for the way I treated you! That was wrong of me!"
"That's okay." he answered.

A moment later he ducked his head back in, "Adaline? Will you please forgive me as well?"
"Yes, I forgive you."
"Thanks."

Adaline smiled and whispered, "God you are good! Thank you!"

Wow! Its 2 am and I need to go to bed! Love ya all!

November is National Novel Writing Month!

I've never participated, and I'll probably be too busy to join this year. It's my hope that one of these years I'll be able to do it, though. Has anyone else ever written anything for NaNoWriMo, and/or is planning on participating this year?

Oh! That sounds like fun! I just don't have the time…. or if i do i need more inspiration

Oh really?!

I'm planning on it, if I'm allowed!

If you're wanting to officially participate, you have to be committed to writing a minimum of 50,000 words this November. You can see why I haven't committed myself this year. :P

Something I started a few days ago when an idea popped into my head. I don't know if I'll finish it or not…time will tell. :)

A fire crackled in the stove, sending out a cozy warmth. Papa sat in front of it, reading his newspaper; Momma was by his side, knitting comfortably; Danny and Timmy were sprawled out on the floor playing with one of the new kittens. And I, Lydia, was seated at the table writing.
Writing seemed what I did all the time to people. Plays, stories, poems, and the like were turned out from under my pen day after day. Our neighbors and most of the other people in the community didn’t think it was right for a girl to be trying to become an author like I was. But there were a few- a very select few- that encouraged me in my endeavors, like Uncle Barney from the other side of the village, Mrs. Delaney from the mercantile, my best friend Peggy Greene, and of course my Papa and Momma. They thought it was all right as long as I made sure I learned everything else a proper girl should have been learning in those days.
You’d think that someone who loved writing as much as I did wouldn’t like any other womanly skills such as cooking and sewing (like in other books), but I liked those almost as well as I did writing, which my Momma was glad of, since I was her only daughter in the midst of a family of a Papa and two growing boys. I was still a normal girl who liked to play in the woods, have picnics with my friends, jump rope, and bake. It seemed to me that outsiders who had heard of my odd interest, before they met me, expected me to go around with a pencil tucked behind my ear, a notebook in my pocket, and my nose stuck in Albertson’s Synonym Finder. But that’s not how I was. I was just a normal girl in a little village with an abnormal desire to go somewhat beyond the usual essays and summaries we were required to write in school.
A few of the other children in school made fun of me, but I thought it was just because they were jealous of me because I took away most of the prizes in school for the story contests. Most of them, however, were enthusiastic and encouraging as they read my newest pieces.
I must touch on the main children in my school who you will be hearing about. The ringleader of those who made fun of my writing abilities was Charla Reese. She had brown hair and green eyes and was the daughter of a former sailor who had moved to our village when his wife died when they lived in a large town.
My best friend’s name was Peggy Greene. I had known her all my life, and she had become the sister I never had. She and her older brother, Keith, and I had been “The Three Musketeers” for as long as we could remember. All three of us were fourteen (Keith and Peggy were twins, but he was born first). They were the most encouraging about my writing, but they led the other children to feel the same about it.
On this particular evening, I was working on a story I had named ‘The Harvesters’. My Momma had two china figurines on the mantle of a young man and a young woman with their arms and baskets full of produce. She had had them since she had gotten married, and I determined to write a story about them once I was done with all of my other projects.
Papa folded his newspaper and stood up. “All right, now. Let’s begin our time to worship the Lord.” He stuck his newspaper in the kindling box for a fire starter for later, then reached up to a shelf and pulled down his Bible. He opened up to Colossians 3:17 and began to read.
“…and whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him.”
He kept reading, but I wasn’t listening. I mulled over that verse again and again. Whatever you do in word… so in your books, too! Or deed… even the simple action of writing! Do all in the name of the Lord Jesus… So…committing the book to Him? I’d heard of some people doing that, but never thought of doing it myself. Giving thanks to God the Father through Him. Giving thanks for what? I wondered. Maybe the success of the book? For the idea? I’d have to think about that.
After a family prayer, I plodded up to bed with a candle in my hand and the boys trailing behind me, Danny carrying the kitten.

I wrote this this summer while we were studying John 6. (I just finished it a couple days ago.) I thought it would be unique to tell the story as it would have seemed to little children. Annnd here it is! :)

“Mother, may I go now?” the small boy eagerly tugged at his mother’s sleeve, dancing with excitement.

“If you have finished your job, you may,” she smiled down, brushing some hair away from her face with a floury finger, leaving a streak of white on her cheek. She quickly bundled up some barley loaves and small, pickled fish into a scrap of cloth. “Here is your midday meal. Be back for supper.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” he cried as he turned to dash out of the door. She returned to her kneading.

Suddenly she remembered something. “Joseph!” He popped his head in the doorway. “Yes, Mama?” “Please take Leah with you. She has been itching to get out of the house all morning. It would do her good.” He hesitated only a moment. “Of course I will! She is quite a nice companion to have along, you know. LEAH!” he called loudly.

Mother jumped. “Hush, Joseph! You must keep your voice down when the baby is sleeping.”

He looked apologetically at her, then ran to the bottom of the ladder and called again softly, “Leah! Would you like to come into the village with me?” He heard a rustling above him, then a smiling brown head appeared in the hole.

“Oh, may I?! I would love to come, if Mother says it’s all right, at least.”

“She says you may. Now please hurry!” he was dancing around while he waited. His sister scrambled down the ladder and they scurried out the door together, thanking Mother as they went. She called after them, “Be back for supper!”
“Yes, Mother!”

The two children made a pleasant picture, walking down the street hand in hand. Joseph was six years old. He wore a little red and tan tunic and small sandals. He had dark, curly hair and mischievous brown eyes. Leah was about nine years old and was wearing sandals and a light green dress. Her hair was a lighter brown than Joseph’s, and wavy instead of curly. She only had it pulled back in a ‘pony tail’, as they called it, at the back of her neck with a small piece of string. The two were best friends and spent a lot of time together.

They had a fort some way out of the village. They played for hours, for it was morning when they started out.
Suddenly, they spotted a large crowd of people up on the Mount of Olives. Joseph tugged at his sister’s hand. “Leah, let’s go see what those people are doing!” They set off running, and soon they were up the hill. The people were all standing up, but were all focused on one man a bit further up the hill. He was saying something, but they couldn’t hear what.
They moved in among the crowd so as to hear what he was saying.
When they got near, they saw that he was dressed in the common clothing of a villager, but it was dusty from traveling. He looked quiet and had big, strong hands, showing that he was used to working hard. There was a group of about a dozen men near him. “Companions, perhaps?” they whispered to each other.

They turned their attention to what the men were speaking about.
One of the twelve men gathered around him said, “Send these people away so they can buy food for themselves in the surrounding villages and towns.”

He shook his head. “They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat.”
The men looked startled and began complaining a little amongst themselves. The main speaker spluttered, “But, Jesus! Two hundred denarii worth of bread would not feed this multitude!” The other men murmured and nodded in agreement.

Jesus asked them, “How many loaves do you have?”

One of the men looked over to the crowd. He spotted Joseph and Leah at the edge of it. Joseph was clutching the bundle of their food. He hurried over. Leah cowered back, but Joseph stood firmly. He spoke kindly. “Here, son. Have you got food in that bag? The Master has need of it. Come with me.” He led the way up to the small group, the children following with no protests.

Jesus noticed the man coming with the children. “What have we here, Andrew?” he asked, looking kindly at Joseph and Leah.

Andrew took the little bundle from Joseph’s outstretched hand. He untied it and peeked inside. “This lad here has five loaves plus two fishes, Master.”

Jesus smiled. “Bring them here to me, then make the people sit down.” The other men motioned for everyone to sit on the ground. Joseph and Leah sat down in the front row.

In a few minutes, everyone was seated, looking expectantly up at Him.

He took Joseph’s loaves and the little fish in His hands. Then, looking up to heaven, He blessed them. It was a simple blessing- like one the two children’s father would have done. Father was always sincere, but this Man made his look like nothing.

After the blessing, Jesus began breaking the bread into pieces. No one really saw how it happened, but soon everyone had as much as they wanted, and more.

When everyone had been filled, Jesus quietly said to the disciples, “Gather up the leftovers so none of it is wasted.”
Joseph and Leah saw with amazement that there were twelve big baskets full left! They whispered together, “How did He do it? Mother just sent five tiny loaves and the two fish…”

Suddenly, Leah looked at the sun. “It’s getting terribly late! We shall be late for supper if we don’t hurry; home is a long way off.” They straightened up and Joseph was turning to go, when Leah pulled on his arm. “Oughtn’t we thank them- Him?”

“I suppose Mother would want us to,” he followed her up to the little group. They were preparing to set out as the crowds dispersed.

Leah stepped up to one of the men and tapped him. He turned around, a bit surprised and almost annoyed. “Yes? Can I help you?” he asked the little girl.

“I…we…we would like to say thank you for the food,” she stammered.

“Yes, I will tell Him,” he gave a nod and began to turn away, but Jesus had looked over and interrupted him. “What is it?” He asked in His quiet way.

The man looked flustered. “Oh- it’s nothing, Jesus. They only wanted to tell you something. I said I would tell you.” Then, turning to Leah and Joseph, “Run along, now, children.”

Jesus again interrupted. “Wait,” he beckoned to them. “Now, what was it?”

This time, Joseph answered. “Thank you for the food, Sir.”

“Thank you for bringing it, young man,” he patted Joseph’s shoulder.

Leah spoke up. She was terribly nervous. “We must be off. Thank you again, Sir!”

He smiled understandingly, gave a little wave, and said, “Goodbye!”

When they were down on the road, they spoke. “How did He do it?” Joseph repeated, a puzzled look on His face.

Leah shrugged. “I dunno. He must be some sort of sorcerer, I guess.”

Joseph raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think you should say that. He didn’t seem like that kind of person. Besides, it’s against the law to be a sorcerer.”

“I suppose not,” Leah agreed, “But there has to be some explanation to how He did that. Maybe Mama would know.”
They turned the conversation to other things.

When they reached home, Mama asked them how their day was. “We had a very fun time!” they answered cheerfully.

Father came in and washed his hands and face. When they were all seated, he said the blessing over the food.
“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam hamotzi lehem min ha’aretz.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

As they began eating, Father spoke. “I’ve been hearing strange rumors this evening. You may remember that man they call Jesus”- here the children looked sharply up at one another-“They say He was near the village this afternoon. The story goes that He was up on a hill with his twelve companions and five thousand followers- plus women and children! They were all hungry and the hill was too far away from the village, so He fed them from a lad’s midday meal.”

Mama looked at him confusedly. “How did He do it? Just one boy’s small meal?”

Joseph hesitantly raised his hand. “With your permission, Father, may I tell?”

Father looked strangely at Joseph. “If you know what happened.”

Joseph assumed an important look. “Well, as Father said, the people were hungry. So He had them sit down on the grass. Then one of His companions went over to a little boy and asked him for his lunch. The little boy gave it to the man, who took it to Jesus. Then Jesus blessed it and began breaking it up. It just kept going and going! Everyone got some, and there were twelve big baskets left!”

Father asked after a moment, “How do you know all of that?”

Leah nodded at Joseph, a grin on her face. He said proudly, “I- we- were there. The hill was near our fort. We saw the crowd and went up.”

Leah couldn’t hold herself still any longer. “It was Joseph’s!” she burst out. “It was Joseph’s meal He made bigger!”

Mama said slowly, “Then you saw it happen?”

“Oh, yes!” Leah grinned.

Joseph cut in, determined not to let Leah tell the whole story. “Yes, yes! We saw the big crowd up on the hill, and went up to see what it was. Then a man asked me for my lunch, Mama. I let him have it, and you know what Jesus did with it. He broke it up and gave some to everyone.”

Mama wasn’t sure if she should believe them or not. She looked at Father over the table. He raised his eyebrows at her and shrugged. “So goes the story, I hear. We can’t help but believe them. Joseph said it in much more detail and with more confidence than the other men were telling it.”

Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door. Father stood up and answered it. It was Joachim, the baker from across the street. “Jonathan! Have you heard the story?!” Father held up his hand. “Yes, Joachim; I have.”

Another man, whom Joseph recognized as the butcher, burst in behind the baker. He started to say something, then stopped and looked at Joseph. His face lit up. “Do you see?! You see that little boy there?!” he tapped Joachim on the shoulder, pointing excitedly at Joseph. “He’s the one! He’s the one whose lunch we ate today. I know! I was there!”

Father pulled the butcher in. “Are you sure? He was just telling us about it, but we weren’t sure about whether we should believe him or not.”

The butcher nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, yes, yes! Quite sure indeed! His sister was there, too.” Leah nodded.

Father nodded as well. “I see. Now, thank you for coming and confirming our doubts.” And he ushered them out, much to the two men’s dismay. He turned to the rest of the family. “Well, I suppose we can believe you now.”

He proceeded to ask them about Jesus and His followers. The children told them as much as they could remember, and he finally sent them to bed.

---

The next morning after breakfast, Mama and Father told the children to get their sandals on and to follow them. The two noticed that Mama had a bag of food with her.

“Where are we going?” Leah asked.

Father turned around in the doorway and smiled. “We’re going to see Jesus.”

This isn't really a story, but I couldn't find a better place for it. I wrote it to be published (hopefully) on The Rebulution and thought you guys would enjoy.

In September of 2015, I was in a major bike crash.

I remember that day like it was yesterday.

I was going about 25 miles an hour, which can be a fatal speed to crash at. When I fell, the pavement didn't even touch my head, which in and of itself is very unlikely. I was able to call my dad to pick me up.

I though I was fine. But my dad, not so much. He quickly brought me to the ER, where the doctor discovered that I had lacerated my liver.

I was transferred to the hospital, where the trauma doctors realized the extent of the liver damage. I most likely would need surgery to prevent fatal bleeding.

Hip x-rays were ordered because that is where most of the force was delivered. I had also managed to fracture my pelvis.

Then, I realized what had happened. I was blessed to even be alive at that point. I could physically feel God in that room. And let me tell you, God's presence is the best life experience ever.

I was in the hospital for a total of three days. Although I see it as some of the worst days of my life, they also were some of the best.

All other distractions had been taken away. I had one-on-one time with God.

I remembered yet another bike crash (OK, maybe I have problems with bikes) that should have resulted in my death. My only injury was a concussion. God's hand was all over it. There was an off-duty nurse on the trail that I was riding on who knew what to do, unlike my friend riding with me. God truly was protecting me.

Two weeks later, my pelvic fracture was completely healed. No signs of any injury. At all.

I didn't end up needing surgery for my liver, and it healed within 6 weeks.

My point in saying all this is that God protects us.

Until his plan for your life is fulfilled and He calls you home, you are safe in his arms.

All God asks is that you trust him. Always.

There may be days you don't believe it. You don't feel God near, you can't see him, and you don't think he is with you. I've had many of those days myself. But Psalm 139 says that wherever we go, whether it is up into the heavens, or in the very depths of Sheol, if we rise on the wings of the dawn, or settle on the far side of the sea, God is with us, and he is holding us.

You have no need to be afraid. Whatever you are doing, God is with you. It doesn’t matter if you are speaking in a crowd or wrestling an elephant, talking to the lonely kid at school, going on a missions trip, standing up for what you believe or jumping off cliffs.

He loves you dearly, for you are His child. Just place your trust in Him.

This is not a story, but it is an article I wrote recently. :)

The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower. {Psalm 18:2}

The other day, I read this verse in my devotions, and it was one of those verses that kind of leaps off the page at you. I decided to outline all that this verse said God was to me. As I meditated on each thing, I was overwhelmed by the attributes of my Father. I hope that by sharing these things with you, that you also will come away encouraged! ♥

-My Rock
Many mountains have large rocks in them- can you move them very easily by pushing and shoving them? No, of course not. They are large and very heavy…very firm and stable. You can stand on it and it won't move. That's how our God is: He is unchanging and we can stand firmly on Him!

-My Fortress
What is a fortress? It's a place that keeps you safe from outside enemies. That's what our God is. He is our refuge…our safety. His name is a strong tower, and if you run in, you'll be safe! He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. {Ps 91:1}

-My Deliverer
Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness, and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear Son: In whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins.
{Col 1:13-14}
Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them out of their distresses. He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death, and brake their bands in sunder. Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men! {Ps 107:13-15}

-My God, My Strength, in Whom I will trust
Our God is the King of Kings. Our God is strong. Our God keeps His promises. Our God is unchanging. We can completely trust Him. God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah. {Ps 46:1-3}

-My Buckler
I looked up the word "buckler" in the Hebrew, and it means "a shield; a protector; a defense." He is our shield! Our Protector! We only need to trust Him. Every word of God is pure: he is a shield unto them that put their trust in him. {Proverbs 30:5}

-The Horn of my Salvation
We were wretched sinners, heading for eternity in hell. But God, who is rich in mercy and loved us so much, sent His own Son to pay the price for our sins. He put our sin upon Jesus, the perfect and spotless one. He became sin for us, who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him. {2 Cor 5:21} From Him comes our salvation. Nothing else can save us. He is our salvation!

-My High Tower
What comes to your mind when you hear "high tower"? The Hebrew defines it as "a cliff (or other lofty or inaccessible place); altitude; refuge." Reminds me of when I have gone hiking and I'm standing on the big rock overlooks. I'm so high up, the breeze is blowing on my face, and I can look wayyy down into the valley and across the miles. Nothing down there can reach me while I'm way up here! He is my High Tower!

My friends, may you mediate upon the strength of our Lord! He is waiting for you with open arms- just trust Him and rely in His strength!!
In closing, here is a favorite passage of mine. Who is God, save the Lord? It is God that girds you with strength! Go in His name!

As for God, his way is perfect: the word of the Lord is tried: he is a buckler to all those that trust in him. For who is God save the Lord? or who is a rock save our God? It is God that girdeth me with strength, and maketh my way perfect. He maketh my feet like hinds' feet, and setteth me upon my high places. He teacheth my hands to war, so that a bow of steel is broken by mine arms. Thou hast also given me the shield of thy salvation: and thy right hand hath holden me up, and thy gentleness hath made me great. {Psalm 18:30-35}

…I betrayed him so many times. He calls himself the chief of sinners, but I was the one who deserted him when he needed me. And I knew the truth. I told myself I was doing God’s will, but I always knew it was really my own will. It was not even fear that made me leave in the end; that would have been weak, but honest. No, I just had my own stubborn, stupid idea, and I would not listen to his wisdom.

Sure, he was never perfect. When I started shouting, he shouted right back. Barnabas tried to calm us both down, but I stomped out like a sulky child. Then I just kept going. At first I was too angry to go back, but as the miles between us widened and several days passed, I began to be ashamed. I thought he would still be mad at me, so I kept going. I was still full of pride. Finally, I told myself that now it was too late to go back, that the break was for good.

God had to work on my heart for a long time. Through Barnabas and others, I did realize at last that I was wrong, but even then I thought that my relationship with him was irrevocably ruined. When he forgave me fully and immediately, I understood the grace of God in far greater depth than before.

Lord, Your redemption is beyond our finite comprehension. Every day I praise Your name because of the wondrous works You have done for the children of men. Grant me Your grace that I may share what I have learned of redemption with all who need it, and let me never forget my own sin and blindness.

Yeah, I stopped working on my other story and started a new one.

Now I need all the feedback I can get, to make sure I'm not being utterly confusing.

So, tell me. To start off with, who is the "I" and who is the "he"? This is supposed to be pretty much a stand-alone section (I jump into another part of the story in the next chapter), so if it is unclear, I need to change it. And if you all don't get it, no one will!