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My good friend Marianne Badongen was kind enough to write a guest post for us today!
Marianne is a Missionary in The Philippines. She’s the wife of Roy and mother to two of the most beautiful, best behaved children I’ve ever met (I’m not kidding). I had the honor of traveling the 2,000+ miles to be in her wedding. Marianne has done and is doing some great work on the Mission field. I’m so proud of her! But I’ll let her tell you more…
The Call
I do not know why it is called “the call.” It makes it sound so immediately answerable, so understandable, so audible, and so obvious. How I wish it were really that easy! I would not have made so many mistakes had it been any of those things.
I have been living in the Philippines now for 11 years as a missionary. Many people ask when I received “the call” of God. I usually tell people I do not consider it a “call.” My experience was more like a gradual leading.
I grew up in a Christian family. We attended church every Sunday. I could quote all the popular Scriptures and sing the Sunday school songs. I got stickers for attendance, memory verses, bringing my Bible, and anything else you could do to receive stickers.
When I was not at school or church, I was teaching a collection of stuffed animals. I never really considered any career other than teaching.
As in everyone’s life, a time came when I had to decide if I was living my parents’ faith or my own. I had to decide for myself if I believed in God, His Son, His salvation, His Spirit, and His Word.
During the summer between 7th and 8th grades, I spent a week at church camp. The speakers, teachers, group leaders, and staff demonstrated a living faith that I desired to have. The following October, I accepted the grace of God through Christ’s death on the cross and was baptized to receive forgiveness of sins and the gift of the Holy Spirit. Faith was now my choice and I began to live it (with mistakes of course).
I spent the next few years filling my time with Christian activities like Bible Bowl, youth group, service projects, and as much church camp as I could. Deans of camp knew they could count on me to be a team leader, dorm mom, and teacher. As a camper and as a faculty member, I learned so much about God and living a Christian life.
At church camp, I met many missionaries for whom the campers were giving their offerings. Commitment, love, courage, faithfulness, and inspiration poured out of these servants of God. I was more than inspired. God was using His Word and these servants to lead me in the direction of missions.
Missions became my passion. I spent three weeks in Mexico between high school graduation and college. This trip solidified my commitment to pursue missions.
Great Lakes Christian College was the next step on this journey of faith. If my years at church and summers at camp gave me a mountain of knowledge, college was like building the Sierra Madres.
At this point, you might be thinking that my faith and determination were without wavering, discouragement, fear, and questioning. Let me assure you that idea is far from true. I had love, faith, knowledge, determination, and supportive family and friends; however, what I lacked caused me to compromise God’s will for me more than once. I lacked self-esteem. I did not see myself as God saw me; I chose to dwell on my physical imperfections rather than walk in confidence as a child of God. (I chose to listen to Satan’s lies in this area. I was not forced into this thinking. This foothold I gave Satan nearly cost me the contentment of knowing I was doing God’s will for me.)
Strong pressure to get married was everywhere at Bible college. Summers were filled with student weddings. Relationships entered conversations in the cafeteria, dorms, hallways, offices, and even classrooms. It was hard not to be in a relationship.
I never had a boyfriend in high school. I was new to the area of relationships. My lack of self-esteem combined with the newness of relationships was a bad combination for me. I took the first offer of a relationship. When that ended quickly, I accepted another. I thought my self-esteem issues would be solved by a good relationship. (I now realize the only solution for that is in the realization of God’s unconditional love.)
When someone asked me to marry him, I accepted the offer. He told me numerous times that he would never leave the country. Why would a person so driven in the area of missions accept an offer of marriage from someone who had no intention of leaving the country? Fear of rejecting a marriage offer that may never come again. (Please understand I did like him a lot and he was a very good man; he just was not God’s plan for me.)
While suffering a severe depression, one of my professors and his wife helped me realize the cause was living outside God’s will. The obvious solutions were a painful breakup and a hard resignation from children’s ministry (a ministry I accepted when I realized missions was no longer an option if I married him).
I expected to feel worse after the breakup and resignation, but I actually felt rejuvenated. I was finally back to living God’s will for me. I wish I could say that I was never tempted in the same again. It took me a few more years to fully develop a God-centered self-esteem rather than a physical appearance –centered self-esteem.
A few months later, I began researching mission opportunities. The requests for missionaries were numerous; however, one appealed to me more than others. A Bible college in the Philippines needed an English teacher. This was a chance to combine my passions of teaching and missions.
11 years later, I am still a missionary; I am married to a man who has the same passion for missions; and I teach our children at home.
I am not exposing myself on this personal level so you will marvel at me. I pray for you to see yourself as God sees you. I pray you have the strength and courage to know God’s will for you and follow. In this, you will find contentment.
If you or your church is interested in supporting the missionary work that Marianne and her husband do, please leave a comment! I’d love to connect her with people who will financially support the work they are doing!
Today’s guest post is by a good friend of mine. Megan Sayer is a writer from Tasmania (that’s the little island at the bottom of Australia). She is incredibly talented and is currently working on writing her memoir. She is fabulous and wonderful and encouraging. Her story has a few Aussie-isms. Read within the context and you’ll understand exactly what she’s saying.
A big thank you to Megan for submitting this powerful story.
By Megan Sayer.
This is what it says.
TELL US, in 25 words or less, Why YOUR family is the BEST in the world. You could WIN! A family holiday to DISNEYLAND! On the back of All Specially Marked Boxes of Weeties. Send your entries on an original coupon to GPO Box 3093 Sydney. Entries close 26th October 1987. The judges decision is final and no correspondence will be entered into it.
I pull a page out of the back of my maths book and copy that down at the top. And then I write my name, because I know that already.
Jennifer Paterson
24 Balmain Park Road
NewNorfolk
Tasmania
Australia
The Southern Hemisphere
The World
The Solar System
The Milky Way Galaxy
The Universe.
Even with my caravan door closed I can still hear them arguing in the house. Barry’s pissed as because Mum bought Weeties instead of Cornflakes even though he doesn’t even live here anymore. Barry came last night for dinner and stayed until Dynasty and now he’s back again. Mum thinks he wants to go out roo shooting with Dad, but I know better. Dad’s on night shift, but it’s really me Barry’s after. He’s all pacy and raw, and smells like stale smokes. I want a lock on my door. Dad says no.
Mum never buys Weeties. But she did today. I roll over on my bed and kick my legs in the air. I don’t know what to write! I mean, it’s not like I can just tell the truth This is the biggest thing that’s ever happened. I have to win this!
The truth is I want to go toDisneylandbecause it’s inAmerica, and that’s where my brother Alex is, inOhio,America. He goes to University. I have a picture of Alex next to my bed that I got out of TV week, and one of our whole family, like in the show, with Mr and Mrs Keaton and Alex and Mallory, but I cut out that other Jennifer and put me in instead. It looks real good, and not even faked. Mrs Keaton is so pretty with that blonde hair, but Mallory has brown hair like mine, so that’s okay. We’re family really.
I doodle on the paper and grab another handful of Weeties and shove them in my mouth. They don’t help me think, so I scoff another handful after. After my name and address I write the question again, and I look over at Alex. He’s on tonight, between The Cosby Show and Diff’rent Strokes. That’s why I love Wednesdays, and that’s tonight. That’s why I run when Mum calls me in for tea.
We have kangaroo again tonight because Dad and Barry had got heaps last week. My Dad’s a crack shot, he can get anything he wants. After TV I go to bed and wrap myself up in my doona all tight and think about Alex.
In my night dreams I run away from home because me and my Dad have an argument, and then I go missing because I can’t find my way home. Tonight I imagine I’m in Disneyland and I’m real frightened, and I can’t find Ohio anywhere, but then Alex comes, with Mr and Mrs Keaton behind him, and when they find me they’re crying and they’re real happy and all, and they hug me, and everything is okay. I always try to think of Alex before I sleep.
There’s a crack of hurt and I wake up enough to feel the heavy weight of Barry on me and his breath on my face. I cry out, must be too loudly, because Barry swears at me under his breath.
“Jesus Christ!”
I don’t know how it happens, but I climb out of my body and get up. All of a sudden I see a man I don’t know standing in my caravan, next to my bed.
I go stand in front of him. He’s got long hair and a beard and he’s wearing this long white dress thing. He’s looking at Barry on the bed, moving on top of my silent form.
It feels like time has stopped. I’m not afraid. I reach out to touch him and he reaches back. His hand feels warm, scratchy on mine. We stare at each other for a long time, and then, as if he’s drawing me with his eyes, I step closer.
He puts his arms around me and hugs me tight to his chest and I’m flooded with a feeling like I’ve not had since I was a little kid, a feeling of home. He smells like old milk and sunshine, and his beard tickles my forehead. I don’t want to be anywhere but here.
From where we are standing I can see Barry on the bed, moving rhythmically on top of my sleeping body, but then the man who holds me shifts his weight and I turn to look out the window instead, and that’s when I see him.
Dad’s home. He’s seen what Barry’s doing to me, and the Weeties spilled all over the caravan floor.
He’s got the shotgun.The stock up to his shoulder and the muzzle trained on Barry. When he talks it’s not like his normal voice, but a deep growl.
“Git off of my girl you mongrel.”
Dad’s a crack shot. He never misses. That’s why we eat so much roo. Kangaroo burgers. Kangaroo sausages. Kangaroo steak and Kangaroo meatloaf. I don’t mind. Mum says it saves money at the butchers, but sometimes I sneak in anyway.
Sneaked.
Barry jumps up, off of me and the bed. He looks stupid and awkward with his floppy donger hanging out, and he grabs the doona over him, like he can really hide what he’s done. It feels funny, just for a second, standing here watching my sleeping self on the bed, and then I feel the man in the white dress’s big hand in my hair and I breathe him in deep again and close my eyes against the warmth of his body.
It’s only for a second.
There’s a click, the trigger-set on Dad’s .26, and I need to get back into me quick.
I need to move.
I need to stop him.
I need to help Barry.
I turn and scream as loud as I can, fight against the man’s hold to get back to my body and act, but I can’t. I can’t make myself move, and I don’t even think my words are heard.
“DON’T HURT MY BROTHER!”
Dad’s a crack shot. He never misses, but he must’ve heard me, just a little I reckon, and he turned, because today he missed Barry. There’s blood everywhere, and as everything turns white around me and the man in the caravan I know the blood is coming from my body.
It’s just him and me now, the white man. I’m distantly aware of Mum screaming, and Dad crying over my broken body. Barry’s holding his head in his hands.
I don’t mind. I’m surrounded by the white now, and it’s all I want to be. Washed. Safe. The colours of life disappearing.
Then, very gently, the man in the long dress steps away and holds me at arms length to look me in the face. His voice floods me, gentle like sunshine.
“You can’t stay here” he tells me.
I can’t stay.
“Your family wants you”.
There are no tears. I look into his face, and I believe him. There’s nothing else I can do. Mum and Dad. Barry. They’re crying now. My old body is still and broken.
The man in the white dress stands straight, and looks over to someone behind me and smiles.
“She’s ready”.
I turn around.
There’s another man there in the white, with thinning grey hair and a beard. His wife is blonde, and they’re sitting at a round kitchen table I’ve seen before. Mallory is there, and then out from the living room steps my brother Alex, wearing that stripy jumper like in my bed-picture, and that smile, like he and I are sharing his very best secret.
He reaches out his arms, and they all look up and smile.
Mr Keaton says my name.
“Jennifer.” I run to them, and one by one they put their arms around me until we all stand together in a tight knot of family.
And I know the truth.
I don’t need Weeties orDisneylandany more.
I am already here.
For our very first guest post of October, we welcome Amelia Rhodes. Amelia is the writer of Creative Non-Fiction, a public speaker, storyteller, runner, crafty lady…and on and on. She’s also the mom that is ever present at her kids’ school, volunteering and building relationships with the kids. She’s also a huge supporter of her husband and has written about their courtship (seriously…it’s super cute. You can find it on her blog). Amelia is an incredibly dear friend to me. I’ll have to tell you how we met. Anyway, the point is, Amelia is fabulous. And busy. Very, very busy. But she’s doing it for the glory of God!
Check out Amelia’s blog Stories For Us.
Color of Glory
We made the trek to the top of the hill because God had sent me a message, “Gather your family and friends and head to the hilltop at dusk. I will meet you there.”
My husband, children, parents, in-laws, and a smattering of friends congregated because we believed. We believed He would appear. We sprawled atop blankets on a lawn lush with nature’s dense green carpet. We lay on our backs in hushed anticipation. The sky slowly grew dark, and a sea of stars began their nocturnal passage across the sky. Conversation slowed. We admired the expanse of space with curiosity of all that lie beyond our visibility. We waited. We awaited His Glory.
Instantly, He appeared in flashes of light that filled the sky in fashion reminiscent of the famed Aurora Borealis. Colors brilliant beyond any color of the rainbow or crowned jewel filled the sky eclipsing the stars. I gasped with joy, overcome by the resplendence of His beauty. He’d promised just a glimpse. If this were but a glance, what would the whole of His glory be? Surely it would slay me.
I managed to tear my eyes away from the bedazzling display in the sky just long enough to observe the faces around me. Tiny streams of liquid love made tracks down each of their countenances.
My heart swelled with love so much I thought it might explode with each resounding beat. The display seemed to last forever yet be too brief all at the same time. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. No one could know for sure, we were so enraptured with His glory. The mere minutes may have been hours. The hours may have been minutes. His glory superseded all constraints of time.
We lay there in silent adoration, unfitted to speak.
My eyes sprung open and gaped wildly at the white ceiling above my bed. My heart was racing, yet a strange calm enveloped me as I penetrated that land between dreams and reality and struggled to distinguish the two. I gazed at my husband silently sleeping, unaware of the astounding journey we had just taken together. If only he could have experienced my dream. If only I could have clenched his hand and he transcended that subconscious world where I sometimes wonder if God speaks to me most freely.
With shallow breathing, I declined moving for fear of losing the awe that still ached in my bones. Had He just given me a glimpse of Himself through prismatic flashes of light in the sky of my dream?
I could not abandon the awe-inspiring attitude of worship that consumed my soul that day. It was weeks before I could describe the dream, even to my husband, as though sharing it might dim its lasting reality.
I soon caught myself daydreaming about the color of His glory. I saw it in the in the rainbow bursting through the gray winter clouds, and in a drop of water glistening on a red rose petal. I beheld it in small, chocolate brown eyes gleaming in the morning sunlight, and in the amber sunset sinking just below the corn field horizon. I spied it in the lime-green blades of grass bending in the wind of adoration. I considered it in the fiery red, yellow and orange rain of leaves floating silently to the ground. I perceived it in clouds of purple lilacs saturating the air with fresh perfume.
Had He, through my dream, attempted to unlock my eyes to the shades of His glory surrounding me each day, glory that I had passed over, driving past in a flurry of errands, raking up as a dreaded chore?
Whether He had or not, the aftereffect of the dream clings with me still.
—-
I stood in the kitchen leisurely washing dishes and cooking with my Grandma. As the movie Inception reminded us, the mysterious thing about the world of dreams is that everything appears entirely normal until you awaken. Never mind the fact that my Grandmother passed away years ago, or that she had suffered with limbs crippled by arthritis for nearly a decade prior to her passing. In dream world it was as natural as breathing to be serving with her in the kitchen. Illness had no effect. Death had no victory.
She gazed out the window where we saw workers harvesting crops in a field. She murmured, “Now that’s never happened before…” her voice trailed off in bewilderment. My head turned to the window, and before I could finish asking, “What’s never happened before?” I discerned what she meant. The laborers in the field stood frozen in time. With the exception of the two of us, the world was caught in movie-like still frame. I looked back at her and realized what had happened. He had come. The long awaited Messiah had returned.
My heart quickened and I immediately thought of my children. My hands dropped the soggy dish towel as I sought to find and seize my little ones. I was uncertain; were they ready? Before the towel struck the floor, my heart calmed as my spirit heard “Fear not. They are ready. Now come.”
Instantaneously, I was speeding swiftly towards the sky. For a millisecond I thought of love uncompleted and work unfinished. But immediately all thoughts of earth and its people and its work dissolved like the breaking dawn. Only one thought mattered. Only one Person.
I heard a thousand angelic voices intonating the most majestic song as they repeatedly declared His name like the building crescendo of noontime bells. A radiant light blazed above me with more intensity than the sun. I was drawn to the exquisite light with overwhelming happiness and peace. My heart sang as it soared, “Nothing else matters. Nothing else matters.”
Just before I collided with the Light, I awoke. I glanced again at my husband, the ever-steady source for reality. My hands gripped the sheets as I contemplated remaining in reality or attempting to recreate the dream world. Intuitively, I knew that once my eyes had opened the dream-beauty had climaxed like a first kiss, a sweet intensity that can never be resuscitated. I lay there, breathless, marveling what it might be like to someday burst into the light of His presence.
Somehow, what had once been a fearful unknown was now a peaceful hope. It was as though these dreams provided a pin hole of light in the darkened veil through which I currently see God. These eyes, clouded by a human film, were given the smallest of glimpse for what could someday be. Now our God-relationship is blurred, distorted by an inherited astigmatism. But someday the darkened veil will be shredded. That day we’ll see not miniscule glimpses, not hopes, not dreams, but clearly face to face – the full color of His glory, the utmost of His perfection, and our own delightful completion.
“Killing Urges” inspired by Amy Sue Williams! Congratulations, Amy! I’ll get in touch with you about the fabulous Freeset T-shirt!
Want to read the winning story, click here.
Did you miss any of the stories? Looking to get caught up? Well, here’s a list of all the stories (in the order in which they appeared)…
Good-bye, George — Inspired by Kristi West
Starting Over — Inspired by Julie Weber
Boston and Babies — Inspired by Alex Skye
The Timpanist — Inspired by Jessie Heninger
Playing Debussy — Inspired by Holly Becker
Farmboy Soldier — Inspired by Rob Meyer
The Break — Inspired by Rachel Tear
No Going Back — Inspired by Megan Kidd
When I Woke Up — Inspired by Marianne Badongen
Used Car Exile – Inspired by Shannon Caroland
Being Found — Inspired by Kristi West
Fierce Memory — Inspired by Lindsay Clem
Distance — Inspired by Beki Hodgman
Play Acting — Inspired by Betsy Carter
Bucket Kicker — Inspired by Kate Fineske
The Removed — Inspired by Megan Sayer
Runaway — Inspired by Mandy Rose
Broken and Empty — Inspired by Kristi West
Zernogin and the End of the World — Inspired by Brian Carter
The Bearded Lady — Inspired by Betsy Carter
Shunned — Inspired by Trevor James O\’Brien
Implosion — Inspired by Karen Schravemade
Prank — Inspired by Nickole Huffman
Leaving — Inspired by Heather Hammond
Blood Out — Inspired by Adam Meyer
Hostage — Inspired by Holly Becker
The Policy — Inspired by Amelia Rhodes
Mr. Fuzzington — Inspired by Robyn Orme
Dance of Hope — Inspired by Elizabeth Ferguson
A BIG thank you to all of you who provided these 30 amazing inspirations! And another BIG BIG thanks to everyone who read them!
I will be taking a short break (so that I can finish my novel). However, don’t fret! There will be 5 posts each week. Some from my archives, some from fabulous guest posts and some of really beautiful art!
Get your ideas together. We’re doing this challenge in January! Let me get your mind thinking:
Name one character, one personality trait, one setting, conflict in 10 words or less.
Whoa! What a fun (and incredibly challenging) month September was! Well…and part of October. 30 stories inspired by some very creative people! Thanks to everyone who contributed a story idea!
The voting is now open for the Ultimate Winner from the 7 finalists (week 6 had a tie). You can vote starting now (Octboer 9) through tomorrow (October 10 until midnight Michigan time).
Here are your finalists. In order to make it easier for you…you each get 2 votes to use however you want. Also, I’d like to encourage you to “share” this with your friends and family! Let’s get more of a voting pool!
Here they are…your top 7.
Week 1: Starting Over — Inspired by Julie Weber
Week 2: Playing Debussy — Inspired by Holly Becker
Week 3: Killing Urges — Inspired by Amy Sue Williams
Week 4: Zernogin and the End of the World — Inspired by Brian Carter
Week 5: Blood Out — Inspired by Adam Meyer
Week 6: Dance of Hope — Inspired by Elizabeth Ferguson and Mr. Fuzzington — Inspired by Robyn Orme
Check in on Tuesday, October 11 to find out who won! And to get a list of ALL the 30 stories from the Challenge!
Happy Reading…and use your 2 votes wisely!
That’s right. We’re voting for the following stories from week 6 (from 10/7 to 10/8 at midnight Michigan time). Then, check back on Sunday and Monday (10/9 and 10/10) to vote for the FINAL winner!
But first, let’s figure out the winner for week 6. Here are the stories. Read them and let me know which is best!
Hostage — Inspired by Holly Becker
Mr. Fuzzington — Inspired by Robyn Orme
The Policy — Inspired by Amelia Rhodes
Dance of Hope — Inspired by Elizabeth Ferguson
Vote by commenting below! Happy reading!
Today’s story is inspired by Elizabeth Ferguson. I met Liz through my cousin at a Better Way Imports Awareness Event. I liked her right away. Then I heard that she’s called “Crazy Liz” by a lot of her friends. I’m still not sure what that’s all about. But I’m hoping to find out (curiosity has always been an issue with me). Liz is a member of Kava Writer\’s Collective (I love her stories set in the 1990’s…she’s awesome). Liz is a loyal friend, a sweet wifey pooh and she loves her pets. Oh. And she’s flipping hilarious. I’m not kidding. And, if you ever have to call AAA…be nice. You might need her help.
Here’s her story idea…
Kachina Wildhorse is a Native American teen girl. Setting 1980’s in North Dakota. Conflict: she wants to be normal and popular. But she lives with her Grandparents who want her to live in the traditions. They are poor.
Kachina was always reminded of what her name meant. Kachina, a shard of hope for the Lakota. Kachina, the sacred dancer. Kachina, the one to represent the past by her dance. Kachina, the only future for her family. Dance, Kachina, dance. Dance for the heritage, the past, what was stolen, for what little remains.
She rested on her bed, reading “Teen Beat” magazine. There was a stack of them in her backpack. Already read through, cut up and handed down to her by a friend at school. Pictures of Michael J. Fox, John Cusak, Madonna. Not a one of them looked like her.
“Kachina, what are you reading?” her grandmother asked, walking into her room.
“Just a magazine.” Kachina shoved it under her pillow.
“Tunkasila wants you to do your language studies.”
“Tell Grandpa that I have too much school work.”
“So much school work that you have to look at these magazines?” Her grandmother pulled the glossy papers out from under the pillow.
“Grandma, I don’t want to study the language.”
“It’s our heritage, Kachina.” Her grandmother had a hurt expression. “If you don’t learn our traditions then they will die…”
“With me,” Kachina interrupted. “I know. You tell me that all the time.”
“But all you want to do is become like them.” She held up the magazine. “They have no respect for anything. Not their family, their culture, their ancestors. Not even for themselves. And you want that for your life?”
“I want a life that’s free from a whole bunch of dead people.”
“Kachina…” her grandmother said. She couldn’t finish.
“You didn’t live in a teepee. Didn’t hunt for food and clothing. You weren’t the one that the land was stolen from. That’s all the past. It isn’t you and it isn’t me. Life changed. It isn’t like that anymore.”
Her grandmother backed up against the wall, clutching the magazine. Kachina stood up, walked toward the door.
“Your mother said the same thing,” her grandmother said. “And think what happened to her.”
“I’m not my mother.”
Kachina had to get outside. She was so suffocated within that house. In the room where her mother grew up. With the same wallpaper on the walls that her mother looked at. The same bed she had slept on. The same pressure to live the traditions of the past. Not allowed to be who she was.
And so, her mother had rebelled. Run away. Off the reservation. Away from the safety of holding onto the past. Into the dangerous world of discovering who she was. And who she became was a single mother at a young age. Abandoning Kachina before even naming her. Took off. Never to be seen again. To live her own life. To make her own traditions. To sever the past. Like leaving a shadow behind.
Kachina looked out over the reservation. She felt a weight. Like an anchor that planted her, not letting her move from the past. She was held to a life she never understood.
Small houses and trailers were placed next to roads and sidewalks. Paint chipped, rusted aluminum, cracked cement. The church where her grandfather preached. The area set aside for tribal dance, bon fires, meetings. All around her was tradition and the past crashing into the present and the new order. And the collision was a devastating reality and necessity.
Kachina wondered how long anyone would live there. All the children were sure to move away. Go to college. Get jobs. Leave the poverty and restrictions of the reservation behind them. She would go as soon as she could. It would be the end of looking back. Of being the hinge of past and future.
“Kachina?” her grandfather called from the house.
“I’m here.” She turned to him. He walked toward her.
“Your grandmother is upset with you.”
She nodded.
“I understand, though.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s a lot of work to carry on our traditions.”
“But it isn’t fair.” Kachina felt her small body shake. Emotion took over her. “I’m tired of living every one else’s lives.”
‘What do you mean?”
“You treat me like my mother, afraid I’ll run off and ruin my life. You want me to be like you, to learn this language and dance and the stories. And I’m supposed to be like the women from so long ago. Before they lost everything. But none of it is me. Why can’t you both just look at me and see me?”
“We’ve asked too much.”
“I want to be like the girls at school. They have nice clothes. Nobody shops at the second hand store except me.”
“Kachina, you know we don’t have money for that.”
“And all the white girls have big curly hair. And I’m stuck with this!” She flipped her silky, black hair. “It won’t curl no matter what I do.”
“You’ll be thankful for your hair someday.”
“And my skin. It’s darker than all the other kids.”
“But aren’t they always trying to have tan skin?”
“None of them have to relive history all the time. They just get to be kids.”
“They don’t know who they are.”
“I just want to be myself.”
“And who are you?”
“Kachina Wildhorse.”
“Yes, yes you are.” Her grandfather kissed her cheek before walking back toward the house. “We’ll have our language class tomorrow.”
She wondered, what did it mean to be herself. Why was it important for her to be Kachina Wildhorse. She realized that it meant more than hair and skin and clothes.
Kachina closed her eyes and breathed in the air. She imagined a woman swirling and hopping and spinning. Fringes of every color swung around the woman’s body. Joy and sadness and loss moved through her motions. She danced like a butterfly as the men sang and hit the drums.
Eyes still closed, Kachina knew that dance linked her to the past. And it also propelled her into the future. Who they once were was what made them what they would become.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to embrace all that made her who she was. She opened her arms, letting the drum beat in her head move her body. Around and around.
For all of you faithful voters…thanks! Last week’s winner was Blood Out — Inspired by Adam Meyer. Be watching out for the stories this week: Hostage and Mr. Fuzzington. We’ll have our vote on Friday and Saturday (10/7 and 10/8). Then, on Sunday and Monday (10/9 and 10/10) we’ll have our vote for the ultimate finalist who will win a T-shirt from Freeset! Whoo!
Today’s story is inspired by Amelia Rhodes. I met Amelia at Calvin College’s Festival of Faith and Writing in 2010. We became fast friends. She was the first reader of my novel “Paint Chips”…which was a huge leap of faith for me. But she proved to be an encouraging critique partner. Together we dreamed up the idea for Kava Writer\’s Collective (our critique/editing group). Our friendship has been one of literary collaboration, encouragement and lots of coffee. But it has also become one of trust and vulnerability. She is an amazing friend. I know she has my back and she’s always pushing me to be better. She’s the mind behind Stories For Us and a regular contributor to Circle of Friends (women’s ministry) and Catapult Magazine. Here’s her idea…
Man. Married and his wife is expecting their first child. Life seems perfect; great job, beautiful wife, starting a family. But a dark secret haunts him, causing erratic and irrational behavior. He must get it out or it might kill him. But the consequences are equally devastating.
Christopher stood, looking out the dining room window of a house that he would soon leave. The marble counter tops, tile floors, expensive furniture, stainless steel appliances. The baby’s room with fresh pink paint on the walls. A mahogany crib. Closet full of tiny, frilly clothes.
A house for a family he would have to abandon. For his first baby. His last baby. That he would never see, hold, smell, kiss.
It was all his fault. His addiction caused it all.
He started with slot machines. Then he tried the gambling tables at the Casino. Just for fun. With a few buddies. He’d only take in $20. Then it became $50. And up and up and up. Eventually, the Casino got boring. He needed more risk.
There was a backroom card game at a bar in this small town. The risks were high. The players were a rough group. And Christopher tore them up for the first month he played. He’d win a couple hundred bucks here, a thousand or two there. He bought new clothes. Paid off his student loan. Got gifts for his wife. All that extra money got spent before he knew it.
And the second month, all he did was lose. All that he’d won. Then he lost more. They let him write “IOU’s” for what he couldn’t pay in cash. The stack of debt piled up. But they kept letting him play. And he couldn’t seem to win.
“Listen, Bud,” the owner of the bar said. “Don’t you know when to quit?”
“I’m just trying to win my way out of that mess.” Christopher had no idea how big that mess was. “I can tell my luck’s coming back around.”
“Nope. Can’t come back in ’til you pay it all off.”
“How much is it?”
The man wrote a price on the back of a bar tab. It was more than Christopher made in four years.
“And if you don’t feel like payin’, we’ll get it out of you other ways.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’ll take pieces of you until there’s nothing left.” The bar owner smiled. “And don’t think the police can help. We own them.”
He bought a hefty life insurance policy. He knew that he would have to wait two years. Before that, his suicide wouldn’t pay out. He paid the bar owner a little every week. Otherwise, bad things would happen. He forgot once and “someone” shot a bullet through his front window. Fortunately, no one was hurt. But it was enough to make him remember the payment.
Just two years, he’d thought. He only had to make it that long. Then Lydia would have enough money. The bar would be paid off, his mortgage would be taken care of. His wife wouldn’t have to work for a few years. She’d move on. Find another man. One who wouldn’t get addicted to poker. But that was before he learned she was pregnant.
She’d been so excited. Screamed and cried and laughed and jumped into his arms. Every doctor’s appointment made her more and more eager for parenthood. And they only set in dread for him.
As Christopher looked out the window he knew that his baby girl, Emma Christa, would be born in one month. And the two years wait was up that morning. If he waited until she was born, he would never have the courage to leave them.
“Hey, Chris,” Lydia said, walking into the kitchen. “Did you sleep at all?”
“No. Too much going on in my mind.” Christopher turned toward his wife. Her hair was in a messy ponytail. The shirt she wore barely covered her round belly. “You’re beautiful.”
“Right. I feel like a bull just tossed me. Man, that mattress is killing me.”
“You can buy a new one.”
“No. It’ll be just perfect after Emma comes.” She rubbed her stomach. “I need coffee.”
“Are you sure that’s okay?”
“You don’t want to stand in the way of my coffee right now. Seriously.” She moved awkwardly to the coffee maker. “So, what’s so important that you can’t sleep?”
“How about you make enough for me, too. I could drink a cup.”
“Sure thing, Babe.”
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I put all my life insurance in the lock box. The one in our closet.”
“Great. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The key is tapped the the bottom of my sock drawer.”
“Did you take out any insurance on me?”
“No. Just me. And I highlighted all the numbers you’ll need to call when I die.”
She turned to him. “Why are we having this conversation right now?”
“I was just thinking about it. I wanted to make sure you knew about it.”
“What’s going on, Chris?”
“Nothing. I’ve been thinking about getting some doughnuts. How many do you want?”
Christopher didn’t wait for her answer. He got into his car and drove. Could he go do it right then? Get everything over with. She knew where the papers were. She’d be fine.
Or would he need to tell her about everything? She wouldn’t let him follow through with his plan. And they were just about out of money to pay the bar owner. Christopher certainly didn’t want to be tortured. And he didn’t want anything to happen to his family.
“God! I don’t know what to do!” he whispered. “Just tell me what You want! I’ll do it. Just keep us safe.”
He found himself pulling into the bakery. Half a dozen doughnuts in a box sat on the passenger seat as he drove home.
When he unlocked the front door, he could tell something wasn’t right.
“Lydia?” he called. “Babe? I got you a couple long johns.”
No sound.
He walked into the kitchen. The coffee was done brewing. But none had been poured out of the carafe.
“Lydia! Where are you?”
His worst fears raced through his mind.
They’ve taken her. Where’s the note? They’d leave a note. What could they have done to her? These guys are monsters.
He dropped the box on the kitchen island counter. It slid across the glossy marble and fell to the floor. But it didn’t make the sound he expected. It was a softer sound. Not cardboard on tile. But cardboard on body.
She’s down there. What happened?
He rushed around the island. She was on the floor, holding her stomach and breathing hard.
“Are you alright?” he asked, kneeling down.
She shook her head. “It’s time.”
“No. It’s too early.”
“Try telling the baby that.”
—
The delivery was quick. Emma was all screams and red face when the doctor laid her across Lydia’s chest. Christopher was ruined by the beauty of his wife holding their daughter. Nothing was more worth living than that.
Three days later, they were home. Lydia put Emma in her crib for a nap. When she walked back to the living room, Christopher was pacing.
“Hon, she’ll be okay. We’ve got the baby monitor. We can hear everything.” She hugged him.
“Listen, we have to talk.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I did some stupid things. I owe some guys a lot of money.”
“Okay. Slow down. What did you do?”
He told her the story, knowing that he risked losing her, losing Emma. He thought about omitting the suicide plan. With the gun that was in the glove compartment. But his mouth kept disclosing more and more.
And her eyes brimmed with tears.
“And if you want to kick me out, that’s okay. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
He touched her knee. She pushed him away.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go now. Don’t forget where the insurance papers are.”
“They’re no good if you kill yourself.”
“Well, I had to wait two years. Now the insurance will pay off no matter what.”
“But I’m no good if you do it.” She looked up. Her eyes were bright red. Her face was wet with her tears. “Don’t leave us.”
“I don’t know what else to do.”
“Go upstairs and look at our baby. You’ll know what to do.” She waited. He didn’t move or even speak. “We’ll sell the house. The cars. Move in with my parents. They’ll understand.”
Christopher sat on the floor. He was numb. It was hours before he got up. Lydia was cradling Emma on the couch, speaking soft words to calm her.
“Can I hold her?” he asked.
Lydia nodded. He moved himself to sit by her and put out his arms. Holding his child felt so natural. The shape of her body molded to his.
“She’s beautiful.” He couldn’t help but kiss the baby’s head. A lingering, breathtaking kiss. He smelled her hair. So fresh. She wiggled, opened her eyes.
He realized, looking at her, what he must do.
He would put the house up for sale. And one of the cars. He would call a lawyer. Work more hours. Get a second job. Whatever he needed to do.
Christopher chose Lydia and Emma. He chose to live.
Today’s story is inspired by Robyn Orme. Robyn works at Great Lakes Christian College. Here’s her story idea…
9 year old dog. Modern American home. The child he has loved and cared for is leaving for college in another state.
Mr. Fuzzington
Okay, first of all, I hate my name. When this lame brain family adopted me my name was Marco. Mysterious, handsome, exotic Marco. But no.
“I can’t call this cute little puppy Marco,” the mother of the family said. “That name’s just too grown up for him.”
Uh. Hello. She didn’t think I was going to grow up? Now I’m the butt of all the canine jokes in the neighborhood. I can barely go outside to do my “business” without hearing the neighbors bark “Mr. Fuzzington, you sure are Fuzzy.”
Now, I know, it’s a pretty dumb rip. But you try pooping when someone’s calling you Fuzzy. You couldn’t do it, could you? Didn’t think so.
Anyway, my point is, this family is something else. I’ve lived here for 63 years. That’s 9 in human years. Why do they age slower? Couldn’t tell ya. But I do know it isn’t fair. Not at all. And they’ve been making me crazier all that time. Always patting my head, using me for a pillow, talking to me in this annoying baby voice and giving me the food off their plates. Sure, I eat it. I’m not proud of it. But they’ve got me in a corner. I’m so sick of that dry, nasty pellet junk they put in my bowl. A little steak is pretty nice once in a while. Oh, the indignity of eating table scraps.
The only one in this family that I could actually stand was Andy. Now that kid was cool. He let me sleep in his bed. He’d sneak me little pieces of food under the table. He let me hang out with his friends and told them my name was “Zing”. That’s class, I tell ya. He even let me ride his skateboard. That was one good dude.
Apparently, human children get released from the pack at a certain age. They move away. They keep calling it “college”. Sounds more like exile, if you ask me. They sent my Andy off. He’s gone.
All I do now is hang out in his room, sleeping on his bed. The sun shines in that spot all day long. The family thinks I’m depressed. I mean, I miss Andy, but it’s not destroying my life. You know what I mean?
“Oh! Mr. Fuzzington. Are you super dooper sad that Andy’s gone? Oh, poor little puppy.” They gush over me. Hugging on my neck and smashing my face into their arms.
Has no one in this family heard of personal space? I mean, come on. And that dad has got to go a little heavier on the deodorant. And they say I’m a filthy animal. Oh, and, incidentally, I’m not a puppy. Just in case you didn’t know.
“Why don’t you tell us what’s wrong, Mr. Fuzzington?”
Okay. Obviously they didn’t get the memo. I’m a dog. I can’t talk. And even if I could, I’d rather eat the mother’s tuna noodle surprise than talk to those people. And, by the way, it’s pepper. Pepper doesn’t count as a “surprise” in any recipe. It’s nothing more than evidence of a weak mind. How about you try a little dill weed or cumin. Or, here’s an idea, scrap the tuna casserole. Nobody likes it except that stupid cat that lives around here somewhere. It’s called creativity. And a good cook book. Invest in it.
“Maybe he wants to go outside.”
Uh, no. I don’t want to go outside. (See above. I hate going out there.)
“How about your squeaky toy, boy? You wanna play with that?”
I’m not kidding. If that little girl squeaks that ugly toy in my face one more time…I’m liable to snap. The only reason I chew on that thing is because I’m trying to kill it. Like, what is that thing made of? Super magic rubber or something? It won’t die.
The other day the little girl was watching a movie. There were two dogs and a cat that got left behind by their really negligent people. Well, for some dumb reason, those pets were trying to find their people. They went hundreds of miles. The girl called me to her. I obeyed. What? She had popcorn. Don’t judge. Anyway, she started crying into my neck.
“We’d never leave you like that, Mr. Fuzzington.”
Oh, little girl, if only you would. If only you would.
Ah, you know. I can’t be so hard on these people. They mean well. They’re just a tiny bit awkward. Like the way the dad wears socks and sandals. I mean, I’m a DOG, and I know that’s not right. Or how the mother burns dinner and thinks that it’s okay to give it to me. As if I really want that slop when it isn’t charcoal black. And the little girl. Always either sobbing or laughing like a crazy person. But I can’t be too mean. She’s got that Bieber Fever. It’s not looking so good for her.
Even with all that, they’re alright. I guess.
One thing I learned pretty young; life is always changing. And we don’t have a whole lot of control. Like the family that adopted me. Or the fact that they decided to “fix” me (even though it seems a lot more like being “broken” to me). I’ll get used to Andy being gone. And maybe I’ll even come to like the new nickname that the girl gave me: FuzzyBuzzyWuzzy. No. I’ll never like that.
But good things will happen for me. I’ll still get bits of peanut butter sandwiches. There’ll always be a bed for me to nap on. And I might even try and get to know the new lab chick down the street.
What? I’m fixed, not dead.
Don’t forget to VOTE for last week\’s stories. The “polls” will be open until tonight at midnight (10/3/2011). I’ve had to extend the September Challenge into the first week of October…I got a little behind. Who knew I wouldn’t be able to write 30 short stories in one month? Well, hopefully, you’ll enjoy the stories from this week! Be sure to get your ideas brewing…We’re doing this challenge again in January!
Today’s idea comes from Holly Becker. Holly was week 2’s winner with the story idea for Playing Debussy. Holly is, seriously, amazing. Anyone who knows her would agree with me in this: Holly is kind. She embodies that Fruit of the Spirit better than most people I know (including me). I can’t tell you how I admired her in college for her unselfishness, her readiness to befriend her classmates…again, I’m gushing about Holly. To know Holly is to love her. That is all. Here’s Holly’s 2nd story idea…
Setting; Courtroom. A defense attorney, first case out of law school. Sick with a cold and very nervous. She’s opinionated, tough outer layer is just a shell. Conflict: 30 minutes late from lunch recess and everyone is waiting.
Julie
There’s a reason I’m late. I seem to be tied up at the moment. Literally. It’s really no fun when there’s snot oozing all over my face and I can’t even wipe it on my sleeve. I’m trying to such it back up into my nose. It isn’t working. But it’s probably better that I can’t smell anything. From the looks of this room, I’m pretty sure it would stink pretty badly.
“Hey!” I yell. “How about a tissue or something!”
No one answers me.
“I’d even settle for a baby wipe. Just anything! Come on!”
Today was my very first case as a Defense Attorney. Yup. I’m fresh out of law school. Lucky me, I got on “Public Defender” duty. This case is a no win. Literally. Neither side is going to be satisfied. No matter what the verdict, those kids are going to grow up without parents no matter what happens. But it wasn’t my client who offed them. I’m guessing it’s the guy who has me wrapped up in the itchiest twine in all of Indiana.
As if I wasn’t nervous enough for this trial. We had to throw in a kidnapping, too. Great. Just fantastic. And the dude had to take my phone.
“Could you pretty please bring me my phone? How do you expect me to play ‘angry birds’? Man! This place is boring.”
I’m pretty certain that the police would never call on me in a hostage situation.
—
Rick
Julie never struck me as a late person. More of a “show up just in time” type. But not a “30 minutes behind” girl. I’ve been texting and calling. No answer. This isn’t looking good.
“So, where’s the chick?” the defendant asked.
“She’ll be here,” I answered. “I hope.”
“You hope? Man, what’s wrong with this system? I can’t afford my own lawyer, so the State gives me the two of you. She’s never done a trial before and you’re a jerk.”
“I’m not a jerk.”
“Whatever. Just do what you got to. I can’t go to jail for this.”
What I didn’t tell him was that if he was found guilty he would be facing the death penalty. Those were facts that I left up to Julie. The only reason I’m here is, well, because Julie needed help carrying the files. And this was supposed to be way more interesting than answering phones all day.
“All rise,” the court clerk says. “The honorable Judge Watson presiding.”
Oh man, we’re screwed.
—
Julie
If I ever find myself in need of kidnapping someone and holding them captive, I’ll choose a dark, dank, disgusting room. Man, this place is awful. I really hope he doesn’t live here. It isn’t fit for humans.
“Hey, you mind telling me what time it is? I kind of have to pick up my kid at some point today. Don’t want him to get scared.”
Okay. I don’t have a kid. I’m just trying to play on this guy’s emotions. You know, make myself human in his eyes so he feels compassion. I don’t think it’s going to work. Just the way he bonked me on the head and shoved me into his van, well, doesn’t give much hope for mercy.
It was during the lunch recess. The whole morning was spent with the Prosecutor causing trouble and me objecting every single thing I could think of. Let me tell you, objecting is a powerful drug. It’s the power to get the other guy to shut up. We hadn’t even gotten to closing arguments yet. Man, that prosecutor is a blow hard. Anyway, we recessed for lunch, which I didn’t even get to eat, thank you, Mr. Kidnapper. I went out in the alley for a smoke. Yeah, I know, smoking will kill me one of these days. Whatever. And that’s when the guy got me.
I didn’t get a look at his face. He had an Easter bunny mask on. I remember telling he was “tacky” right before he hit me. Lesson learned; never mock a really big dude wearing a bunny mask.
The floor boards above my head are creaking. He’s moving around up there.
“Could you spare a girl a glass of water?”
The door opens. Bunny mask man is coming in here. No glass of water. No tissue. Is that a gun?
—
Rick
The judge is looking at me with a disapproving glare. As if it’s my fault Julie’s late.
“Son, you’re going to have to proceed without her,” he’s nodding his head as he says this. “She’s 35 minutes late. I simply can’t wait longer.”
“Sidebar!” I yell.
“No.”
“Can you say no to a sidebar?”
“I can do whatever I want.”
“Chambers?” I’m literally shooting in the dark with that one. Well, not literally. I don’t have a gun or anything.
“I’m the one that calls chambers.”
“Your Honor,” Mr. Big Shot Prosecutor says. “The Defense is clearly staling. I think we should proceed with or without the lead attorney.”
“I object.” They haven’t caught on yet that I’m not a trial lawyer. I’m Julie’s secretary. Yeah. Go ahead. Make fun of the dashing young man who happens to be a secretary. Just know this, if you need something filed, there’s no one more efficient. And, no, I will not get you a latte. Jerk.
“On what basis?” I think that Prosecutor actually just stuck his tongue out at me.
“My cell phone is ringing,” I say. “It’s Julie.”
“Well, answer it.” The judge has his head on the big desk thingy. “And put it on speaker phone.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, pushing the buttons that think will put Julie’s voice on the speaker. “Hey, Julie. Just letting you know; you’re on speaker.”
“Listen, Rick. I’m being held hostage by the Easter Bunny.” Julie sounds kind of calm. So, I figure she’s messing with me.
“You are the worst liar I’ve ever met. Seriously, the judge is listening.”
“Oh, hey, your Honor. Listen, I’m not kidding. This dude has me in his basement or something…what’s that?…Oh. He just told me it’s more of a crawl space than a basement…A Michigan basement? Oh. Well, that’s interesting. Why do they call it a Michigan basement?”
“Julie, get on with it.” What the heck is she doing? “Where are you?”
“Like I said, I’m in a Michigan basement here in…where am I?”
The judge is looking none-too-pleased. “Madam, please get on with it! Where are you and why aren’t you here?” His voice is like James Earl Jones’. But here’s the funny thing: he looks like the guy on “Yo-Gabba-Gabba”. So funny.
“Presently, sir, I’m being held hostage. Now, don’t worry. This guy isn’t hurting me. He’s willing to tell us where we are.”
“But who is he?” The judge’s voice is a little less fierce. More like when James Earl was the voice of the Lion King’s dad. What was his name? Oh, I’ll Google it later. Anyway, kind of regal, but not ticked off. So, not Darth Vader James Earl. Why in the world does my mind get off on these tangents?
“Well, he’d rather tell you when somebody comes to get us. And I’m really hoping you guys can get here fast. I’ve got to pee.”
She is such a spazz.
—
Julie
Okay, here’s the deal. The Easter Bunny turned out to be a guy named Mickey. Well, not the real Easter Bunny. The guy in the mask that kidnapped me. And don’t think that the irony of a kidnapper being named Mickey escaped me.
See, Mickey witnessed the crime. He saw what happened. But he was way too scared to come forward. Gang members are usually discouraged from tattle telling on their fellow gang members. And, yes, just like you, I’m wondering how a guy named Mickey survived in a gang. He, however, didn’t want to see an innocent man go to prison. So, he thought, very wrongly, that if he could kidnap me, the trial would stop. Little did the poor kid know that I’m really not all that important. Not even close.
After I explained that to him, he wiped my nose and untied the twine. By the way, I discovered that I’m allergic to twine. Huh. You learn something new every day.
Anyway, I told him that to really make a difference he’d have to take the Prosecutor. And that would be a federal offense. Which I’m still not sure is true. But, you know, I am a lawyer. What else do you think they teach us at law school? So, I told him that if he’d let me call Rick, I’d be able to get the Prosecutor to come to him. And that, with his statement, we’d be able to make a deal on the kidnapping. Another detail that I wasn’t totally sure about.
So, I called. Well, you know that. And they came and got us.
Turns out that my first case was dismissed. My client went home to his family. Rick decided that he didn’t want to come to court with me anymore. And I’m already working on my next case.
And, yes, I’m working on quitting the smoking thing. I don’t want to meet up with an Easter Bunny wearing Mickey ever again.
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