Whom Should She Trust? - Part 3

Good morning Friday Fiction Fans,

I know a few of you are still reading this blog.  Life does have a way of getting busy, but I don't want to keep posting if no one is going to read the stories. :) Oh, well, I'll keep it up longer and see what happens.

Last night I attended a concert by the New York Woodwind Quintet. It was very lovely and they were very impressed by our town and the community's support of music from the classrooms to the concert halls. (Okay, so the concerts are always held in different churches, but . . .) It's always delightful to HAVE to sit and do nothing but enjoy the music and think, if you can get your mind to stay focused on something besides the music and watching the musicians play.

I have written this week. I need to get 800 more words written this week to reach 5k. I think I can. Please be praying for this story. I know I have to be near the end, but I'm not sure how everything gets wrapped up. I especially don't know about Gina's piano. :) But you don't know about her piano, do you?

Oh, I could use your help here. I'm going to be taking over the Widows' Secret Sister ministry at church this year for a friend who is getting married and moving away. Last year we had Bible names for all the Secret Sisters so the Widows could write back to them. This year I'm going to use names like "Faith, Joy, Melody, Noel, Hosanna," and such things. The problem is, I am in need of a few more. Any ideas for me? I'll take anything I can get. Thanks.

And now I'll let you get on with what you really came here for. :) Enjoy!

Whom Should She Trust?

Part 3

    “Two months ago! It has been three years since he–”
    John drew her into a sunny walkway. “I know. It may seem hard to believe, but out west it is harder to receive mail. I do know that the letter had been sitting in a post office for eight months before I came by and claimed it. I had been traveling quite a bit. Even if I had left a forwarding address as they do here in the east, the letter would no sooner have started on its way, than I would have been on the move elsewhere.”
    He was expecting the next question.
    “Why didn’t you write and explain your long silence?”
    “I did, many times, but no answer came back.”
    Silence was the only reply. Miss Hannah was thinking of the order she had given to her servants after her father’s death and her decision to trust no one. “I want to see no mail or anything of the sort from strangers. I am alone and very wealthy. I may perchance fall prey to some scheming, dishonest man because he pretends to have love and sympathy for me while in reality he wishes for nothing but my money.” Could John’s letters be mixed in with those? Could Candace have inadvertently placed those letters with the others? It was possible. After all, she had never met John. He had already gone west when she came to The Glen. “I . . . I . . . I didn’t know you had written. I’m sorry.”
    “Never mind. I’m here now, and I’m staying for a while. By the way, I heard in town that Miss Hannah is very close and doesn’t like company. I hope she can reconcile herself to the fact that I will stay here and no where else.” John looked down at the blushing cheeks of his cousin.
    “As if I’d really let you stay anywhere else,” was the reply which entirely satisfied him.
    “Say, I remember that tree!” A turn in the walk brought them again in sight of the house. The large old tree stood near by; its gnarled branches stretching toward the sun and out in an arching canopy of shade when the leaves grew full.
    “You ought to remember it. You nearly killed yourself falling out of it one day,” and Hannah shook her head at the remembrance.
    “You mustn’t be too hard on a fellow, Hannah. I was laid up for weeks after that fall.”
    “Don’t I know.”

    The lamps were lighted, not in the library where Miss Hannah was want to spend her evenings, but in the parlor. John was with her and quite dignified and proper. For nearly three long years Miss Hannah had not enjoyed such an evening. She listened with interest as John told of his adventures out west in California. When the old clock chimed twelve o’clock, she started.
    “John! Where has the time gone? I had no idea it was so late. You must be tired, and here I have kept you awake and talking until this late hour. Zeke,” she ordered, as that individual entered in answer to her summons, “show Mr. John to his rooms, please.”
    John kissed her hand and bade her good night with a low and graceful bow.
    “He may have spent the last five years out west, but he hasn’t lost all the charm of his early training,” Hannah thought as she issued orders for the morning before retiring herself.
   
    Several days following the arrival of John, passed before Hannah gathered enough courage to tell him her troubles. Several times John had asked questions about her seclusion, but each time she had skillfully turned the conversation, leaving the questions unanswered.
    The air was warm and pleasant. John and Hannah were outside together in the garden. The white pillars of the house shone in the sunshine, and the air was heavy with the perfume of hundreds of flowers, vibrant with life and beauty. “John,” Hannah interrupted his tale of life out west. “John, . . . I . . . I need help.”
    “I’ll do all I can.”
    “I don’t know if they want my money because I don’t know whom to trust. Can’t you tell me?”
    “I don’t know if I can or not. Suppose you start at the beginning. Why can’t you trust someone, and who is that someone?”
    Beginning with her father’s death, Hannah poured out the whole story. “And so I just stayed at home and wouldn’t trust anyone because I was so afraid.”
    John remained silent for some minutes after his cousin had ceased talking. “Hannah,” he said at last, “there is Someone who will never be dishonest with you if you will only trust Him.”
    “Any one, John, if I can only know he is trustworthy.”
    “The Lord Jesus Christ is the one I am talking about, Hannah. He is always faithful and will be a constant companion, friend and guide if you will let Him. I could never have survived some of the hardships out west if He hadn’t been with me.”
    Hannah searched her cousin’s face. Was it possible to have the same peace that she saw on his face and had seen there since he had first made his appearance? She had seen that look also on her beloved father’s face just before he died. Could Jesus Christ help her? Would He? She could almost hear her father’s last words, “Father, keep my little girl safe.”
    The silence grew so long that John turned to look at her.
    “I do want to know Him, John. Will you show me how?”
    The quietly spoken words sent a thrill through John’s very being. He would be delighted.
    Thus it was that Miss Hannah Ward, the beautiful, young, and much admired heiress, at last found the only One whom she could perfectly trust, knowing that He would never be false to her.

Did it end the way you thought it would?

Did you enjoy this story?

What do you want posted next week?

Whom Should She Tust - Part 2

Good morning Friday Fiction Fans,
How was your week? It must have been busy since no one commented. Oh, well. I have weeks like that too. I just can't seem to have time to get on a blog, read the post and then comment. Sorry.

This week has been a good writing week. I thought last week was a good week. Last week I got 6k written. This week I already have 7k written and I still have today and tomorrow to write. And yes, I'm working on "Finding Joy." It's been fun. I've named a cat "Bitty" and something happened that I thought wasn't going to happen for quite a while. Just goes to show you never know what will happen when you write a book. ;)

I'm working on other projects and such. Starting to work on decorations for the "Widow's Luncheon" that us "secret sisters" host for the widows at church on the Saturday before Valentine's Day. Our theme this year is pink and music. :) It's going to be fun.

And I have to get to work on some blog posts for Read Another Page, so I'm going to go now. I hope you enjoy this story.

Whom Should She Trust?

Part 2

    A brief time elapsed ere the servant reappeared. “Tain’t no use, Miss Hannah. De gintleman say he won’t leave da place till he sees you if he has ta wait till tomorrow or de day after dat or de day after dat. An’ he didn’t give me no card an’ won’t tell me no name. I does like his looks though. I tink he is an honest man.”
    “He is a very rude man if you ask me. No name, no card, and insists on seeing me when I have declined to see him. And yet, oh Candace, how can I refuse? My father would be ashamed if I were to act as my feelings now tell me to.”
    Candace waited in respectful silence. She knew it was best to let her mistress speak her mind in peace.
    “Very well, . . . I will see him. Show him in here, Candace.”
    Miss Hannah once again turned wearily to her desk and picked up her pen, but she did not write. In spite of herself she felt a slight curiosity towards this strange gentleman who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Who was he, and what did he want? She had no desire to see him, she told herself, and yet at the sound of approaching footsteps she rose in dignified silence and turned towards the door, her father’s words repeating in her mind,
    “Be careful whom you trust. Be careful whom you trust. . . .”
    As the door was opened, the stranger paused on the threshold; a look of admiration plainly visible on his face at sight of the fair lady before him. After a low bow he entered. Miss Hannah gave a slight nod of acknowledgment and turned to Candace.
    “Thank you, Candace. You may leave. I will ring for you when I want you again.”
    Candace nodded and withdrew, leaving her mistress alone with the strange gentleman.
    For a full minute they both stood in complete silence. Miss Hannah waiting for the gentleman to make his errand known and leave her once more in peace. The stranger, tall and broad shouldered, with an easy air about him, gazed in unconcealed admiration at his hostess.
    “Hannah!”
    Miss Hannah started.
    “Oh, Hannah, it has been so long, and yet you haven’t changed. You are as beautiful as ever.” The gallant words were uttered as the stranger came forward with both hands outstretched and a smile on his face.
    Miss Hannah took a step backward and reached for the bell while keeping an eye on her unwanted visitor.
    The stranger saw his mistake and paused. “Hannah, don’t ring! You don’t recognize me. I should have known you wouldn’t. Here,” and he pulled off his waistcoat and pushed his left sleeve up revealing a jagged scar. “Does that tell you the truth?”
    Miss Hannah stared at the scar and then into the blue eyes which looked so steadily and honestly back at her. It had to be . . . but how could she be sure?
    The stranger seeing her distrust and hesitation, forever dispelled it by pulling out a curiously shaped watch guard and repeating as though from memory,
    “This is a present from me to you. Whenever you see it, remember, be true.”
    “John! It can’t be . . . But it has been five years! Why didn’t . . . How came you to . . . Where . . . when? Oh, John! Let me cry, it’s been so long!” Her head rested on his shirt front while the tears fell.
    “My dear little Hannah. It is a long time, but the story is soon told.” John tightened his arms around her. “Can’t you even greet me with a smile? I promise I won’t run away this time.”
    The merry words of long ago brought Hannah’s head up with a smile “as bright as the sun,” John thought as he kissed the fair girl in his arms.
    “Oh, John! Come, tell me everything. I am longing to know.”
    “Can’t we walk out in the garden? I feel so confined here.”
    Hannah’s rippling laughter rang out as it had not done for so long. “You always felt that way here in this room while I loved it. Yes, of course we can go out. Let me just ring for Candace to bring me my shawl.”
    “Stay,” John’s hand caught hers back from the bell. “Never mind the shawl. If you must have something, use this,” and with a quick move his waistcoat was around her shoulders. “I hate wearing one of those now as much as I ever did.”
    “John, you are impossible!” and slipping her arm through his, she led the way out into the sunshine.

    Candace turned from the doorway. “I jest knowd it. Dat’s her lubber sure ‘nough. I saw dat gintleman, an’ I says to my self, “Candace dat man has gotta be Miss Hannah’s lubber.” An’ now I knows I’m right.”
    “Lubber? Miss Hannah’s? Candace, I thought yo had more sense den dat!”
    Candace turned, hands on her hips, “Now Zeke Andrews, don’t you go an’ try ta tell me dat de man walkin’ right now in de garden with Miss Hannah ain’t her lubber. I knows better.”
    Zeke looked out the door a moment. “Maybe its a cousin. I heard her say there’s a heap of dem, dough dey don’t come ‘round here no more.”
    “An’ her wearin’ his coat! Now yo talkin’ like a man wit no sense in his head. Sure Miss Hannah got a heap o’ cousins, an’ I knowd dat. I’s seen dem all at de burin’ o’ Massa, an’ I’s sayin’ dat aint one.”

    “Now tell me everything, John, please.” Miss Hannah looked as eager as a child as she gazed up into the face which was watching hers with such interest.
    “It won’t take long. I only received your letter about Uncle’s death two months ago and have been trying to reach here ever since.”
    “Two months ago! It has been three years since he–”

Is John Miss Hannah's "lubber"?

Do you have any relatives that you haven't heard from in years?

Would you recognize them if they showed up?

Whom Should She Trust? - Part 1

Good morning Faithful Friday Fiction Fans,

I'm listening to the rain on the roof now and wondering how covered in ice the trees will be by the time it is light outside. Yep, we're getting freezing rain. I'd rather have snow. What about you? Are you all having winter weather?

This week has been busy. I've been quite productive as far as emails, working on the Bike Trip book, taking care of other things and yes, even writing. I'm hoping for 6k words written this week. And they've all, at least so far, been on "Finding Joy." I think it's going to be fun to go back and reread this entire story all the way through since it's taken a while and and I've written other things in the middle of it. My goal is to have it all written by the end of this month. I don't know if I can or not as I don't know how much is left, but I'm sure going to try.

The story I'm re-posting today is one that I published in my book "The Lower Lights and Other Stories" which I'm sure most of you haven't read. It was one of my earliest short stories (3 parts) and the first one that caused others to say, "I can't believe you wrote that." If you haven't read it, I hope you enjoy it. And if you have read it, I hope you don't mind reading it again.

Whom Should She Trust?

Part 1

    The room was dim and hushed. A young girl was kneeling beside the bed, deaf to any sound save the slow breathing coming from the form lying there. A sigh brought the girl’s head up, and her eyes gazed intently at the pallid face on the pillow.
    “Papa,” she whispered, “speak to me once more. Tell me what to do, whom to trust. Oh, Papa–” she broke off abruptly as her father’s eyes opened slowly.
    “Hannah?” The name was scarcely audible even in that still room.
    “I am here, Papa. I am holding your hand.”
    “Hannah,” he said again, “be careful whom you trust. Oh, be careful . . . They want the money . . . most of them. . . . There is a right one. You must not trust the others.” His eyes closed.
    “How do I know whom to trust, Papa? How can I be sure he too doesn’t want just the money? Papa!”
    The weary eyes fluttered once more. The girl bent tenderly over him.
    “I . . . am . . . going . . . home now. Hannah, . . . come home . . . too . . .. Pray, Hannah.”
    Hannah bowed her head, but no words could she utter though she tried.
    “Father . . . keep . . . my little girl . . . safe.” A tired sigh followed the low whispered prayer, and all was still.
    The doctor laid quiet fingers on the limp wrist and then glanced at the still form of the girl beside the bed.
    “He is gone.” The words were spoken softly yet they reached the ears of the girl.
    Hannah raised her head, looked long at the face on the pillow, then rose and left the room.
    Yes, her father was dead. She was alone in the world. Alone. The word brought a shiver. Her whole life had changed so quickly. She had been sheltered and cared for; now so suddenly she must do for herself. Could she manage the large estate left her as well as the immense fortune which now belonged solely to her? What had her father meant when he told her they wanted the money? Who wanted the money? And who didn’t?
    Hannah never fully remembered the days and even weeks that immediately followed her much loved father’s death. She was conscious of only one thing; she was alone.

    One night, several months later, Hannah lay in her bed, staring out the nearby window at a brilliantly full moon.
    “Oh, Papa, if you were only here to advise me! I think my heart will break without you! Oh, why am I so alone? Who is it that truly wants me and not my money? Is it Mr. Everson or Mr. Adkins? Or someone else? Mr. Everson asked me to be his wife this evening, and Mr. Adkins asked the same thing only two days before? If only I knew whom to trust!” Hannah turned restlessly on her pillow. “And Mr. Sawyer wants to buy that piece of land. How do I know the price he offered is fair?” For some time her thoughts were in turmoil. Unable to decide what to do and whom to trust, Miss Hannah made a decision to trust no one. She would live her life out alone if she had to. She had no real friends and no relatives near. Surely she could just stay quietly in her own home with her servants. “Perhaps someday,” she thought just before falling asleep, “I will find out who I can trust. Surely someone is trustworthy.”

    And so, the days and weeks passed, turning into months and then into years. Hannah quietly dropped out of all social life, which wasn’t difficult for she had felt no interest in it since her father had died. The invitations for dinners gradually grew fewer and fewer and at last ceased all together. Former acquaintances now acknowledged her rare appearances in public places with a bow or a nod.

    It had been three years since her father’s death. They had been three of the loneliest years of Hannah’s life. There had been times when her resolve to trust no one had nearly failed, only to be strengthened by stories of dishonor and treachery. She vowed she would remain the sole mistress of The Glen. “Unless,” she always added to herself, “I can find someone that I know I can trust.” The southern mansion was as beautiful as ever it was in the days gone by, yet the the former gaiety was gone. No longer were large parties held on the grounds in the warmer months nor in the large parlor and dining room in the winter. There was no one to enjoy the extensive grounds and spacious rooms except Miss Hannah and the servants.
    “Miss Hannah, I’s sorry to bother you, but dere’s a gintleman dat insists on seein’ you.”
    Miss Hannah looked up, “Oh, Candace, why do people persist in intruding where they aren’t wanted? Do tell him I am busy, otherwise engaged, anything.”
    “So I did Miss, but he jest walked in an’ took a seat. Said he’d wait a spell. I ain’t sure what to do.”
    The sunlight streamed in the large open windows upon the beautifully decorated library, the rows and rows of beautifully bound books and the lovely form seated at a desk. A gentle spring breeze wafted the delicate fragrance of the garden flowers into the room and stirred the dress and hair of Miss Hannah.
    “Do, Candace, try once more to show him out, for I do not wish to see him.”
    “I’ll try, Miss Hannah,” and Candace departed with a shake of her head.
    A brief time elapsed ere the servant reappeared. “Tain’t no use, Miss Hannah. De gintleman say he won’t leave da place till he sees you if he has ta wait till tomorrow or de day after dat or de day after dat. An’ he didn’t give me no card an’ won’t tell me no name. I does like his looks though. I tink he is an honest man.”

How would you have known whom to trust?

Who do you think has come to see Miss Hannah?

Are you getting winter weather?

Finding Joy - Seak Peek

Good morning Friday Fiction Fans,

I don't know about you, but I'm enjoying some cold winter weather with a little bit of snow on the ground. :) Not enough to do anything but look pretty, but it's here.

I'm actually getting this ready to post on Thursday afternoon because on Friday morning my sister and I will be heading over to my brother's house early, like before 7 AM early, to babysit all the kids except Nephew #4. They are taking him to a hospital a few hours away to see about his arm. Poor guy. He injured it back in October but after an x-ray were told it wasn't broken. It turns out, it is. And it's not healed yet. So . . . Please pray for him. He's almost 4. We'll be there until they get home. And no one knows when that will be.

I've had a lovely time actually getting to write this week! I'm so enjoying jumping back into this story. I have a feeling it's going to be longer than 60k words. You don't mind, do you? I didn't think so. Actually I have no idea how long this story is going to turn out. But I'm pretty sure I'm on the downhill side. Now, since I wasn't sure what to post today and didn't have time to go find one of my old stories to re-post, I decided to take the advise of a reader and drive you all crazy. Ready? I'm going to pull a section from my book "Finding Joy" and let you all tell me what you think.

Finding Joy

a snippet

    A little while later, as the family sat around on the tarp and had their breakfast of granola bars and slightly warm juice, Mr. and Mrs. Martin discussed where to start on the enormous task of cleaning. In the light of the morning sun, the place looked worse than the night before, and Paige was overwhelmed.
    “There are a few things that need done right away,” Zach remarked. “The bathroom needs cleaned and the kitchen should be scrubbed.”
    “But the kitchen is so big!” Paige looked around in dismay.
    “That’s why we’re going to start by cleaning the places where the fridge and the stove go. If we can get places for them, we’ll be able to enjoy cooked meals instead of just peanut butter sandwiches.”
    “I like peanut butter sandwiches,” Gina put in.
    “Would you like them breakfast, lunch, and dinner?”
    After thinking about it a moment, Gina slowly shook her head. “No. Let’s get the fridge and stove.”
    “I’m glad we brought cleaning supplies,” Paige remarked. “But I don’t think we have enough.”
    “Once we get the place for the kitchen appliances ready, I’ll go into town and pick them up, and I’ll buy more of whatever else we need at the same time.”
    Paige was about to speak, but a sudden harsh ringing shattered the stillness and made everyone jump.
    Gina’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “What’s that?” she gasped into a moment of quiet.
    The ring came again and Zach sprang up. “A telephone! I’ll buy ice cream for the person who finds it and answers it before they hang up.”
    Instantly Paige and Gina were on their feet. All three of them converged on a small hallway that led from the kitchen to the dining room. They hadn’t really noticed it before. There, hanging on the wall, was an old phone. Almost breathless, Zach picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”
    Gina pressed close to her mom as they stood and listened to the one sided conversation.
    “Yes, it is. . . . We did. Thank you. . . . We were just talking about that. . . . Well, I was hoping to get places cleaned for them today and . . . I see. That would be very kind. I can’t pay but . . .” Zach smiled and gave a little chuckle. “Sure . . . I won’t turn down that kind of offer. And I’m sure my wife would appreciate it too.”
    Gina tugged at his arm. “Ask about a cat,” she whispered.
    “Um, my daughter wants to know if we can rent a cat for a few weeks. . . . Yeah, I’m talking feline here. She thought it would be a good way to get rid of the mice in the house. . . . No.”
    There was a longer pause this time, and Gina shifted from one foot to the other impatiently.
    “Yep. Thank you. We’ll see you later then. . . . Uh huh. Good bye.”
    As Zach replaced the receiver, making some remark about the phone being one with a cord, his wife and daughter, impatient to know who was on the phone, interrupted.
    “Who was that and what did they want?” Paige demanded. “Isn’t it awfully early to be calling strangers at this time of morning?”
    “Did they have a cat, Daddy?” questioned Gina. “Can we rent one?”
    Laughing, Zach held up his hands in surrender. “Hold it! I’ll confess everything if you’ll let me out of this narrow tunnel”
    “That’s what we can call this hall, Mom! We’ll call it the tunnel!” chortled Gina in glee. “Then we’ll have a hallway and a tunnel.”
    “Did you want to hear about that phone call?” Zach pretended to growl.
    Giving a skip, Gina landed on the tarp and sat down on her rolled up sleeping bag. “Yep.” And lifting her dark eyes, she stared right at her father until he laughed.
    “That was Mr. Davis. He’s the man that was mowing the fields here last year after his dad passed away. He’s letting us use one of his empty storage units in town for our furniture. Anyway, he was calling to see if we wanted him to bring out the stove and fridge. And his wife wanted to bring supper for us tonight, but it would have to go in the fridge and then be put in the oven later.”
    “So we have to get them today,” Paige said.
    “The cat, Daddy. Did they have a cat?”
    “He said he’d see what he could come up with.”
    “A cat?” Paige looked from her husband to her daughter in disbelief.
    Turning to her mom, Gina made haste to explain her idea of renting a cat just for a few days to get rid of the mice. “Wouldn’t you rather have one cat in the house for a few days than many mice for a long time?” she asked anxiously. She knew her mom disliked cats greatly.
    “I suppose so. But,” and Paige put up her hands as though to stop a flow of words, “can we please not talk about either one right now? We need to get to work.”
    “Right.” Zach gave a decided nod. “Can you pack up the food, Hon? Gina and I’ll take the sleeping bags and pillows back to the truck. They’ll stay cleaner that way,” he added seeing his wife’s puzzled expression. “We’ll take the tarp out too. I think it’ll be easier to work without trying to keep it clean.”

    Before long the Martin family were all at work. Gina had helped her dad open as many windows as they could so that the breeze would freshen the house. A few of the windows seemed stuck and these they didn’t spend time messing with. “We’ll work on them later,” Zach said.
    The water in the kitchen sink was clear and Paige filled a bucket with hot soapy water. They decided to all work in the kitchen, so that maybe the fridge and stove could be put in place when Mr. Davis brought them over. Cobwebs were swept from the ceiling, and then the floor was thoroughly swept. “I know it’ll just get dirty again,” Paige confessed, with an apologetic look on her face, when Zach raised an eyebrow, “but I just can’t stand to walk on such a dirty floor any longer!”
    “Go right ahead, Hon.” Zach gave her a quick kiss and handed Gina a rag. “Okay, Sunny Girl, let’s get at these walls.”

So, what did you think?

Do you think you'll enjoy more about the Martins?

You can see my small Pinterest board here.

One Thing at a Time

Happy Almost New Year's FFFs,

I can't believe it is almost 2017! Wasn't it just a few weeks ago that I was posting the first time in 2016? Time is flying! I really don't see how it could possibly be anywhere close to the New Year. Do you?

I hope you all had a lovely Christmas. I know I did. With it being on Sunday, we got to go to church and enjoyed visiting with people afterwards since we didn't have either choir practice or bell practice. And neither I nor my sister were working in the nursery. :) Then, after eating lunch, we had a relaxed time of opening gifts at home. Then I got to read. Well, I was going to read, but my best friend called and wanted to know if I wanted to join them in a walk. So I did. It was lovely weather! It was nearly 70º, overcast and quiet. It really was delightful. Then I came home and read.

Right now I'm up at my grandparents'. We don't have much planned. Just relaxing and hanging out. We head home tomorrow. And then it's the New Year. *gulp* Are you ready for the new year? What big projects do you have planned for this coming year? Anything?

I know I've posted this story before, but it's been a few years, and I just thought it was appropriate with the New Year almost upon us to be reminded of a few important things. :) Enjoy!

One Thing at a Time

    “There isn’t any time or I have no inclination!” The girl flung down her pencil and watched it roll across the floor and under a shelf with gloomy satisfaction.
    “No time or inclination for what?” asked an amused voice.
    Turning, the girl saw her brother standing in the open doorway. There was a look of fresh air and sunshine about him and his eyes sparkled with life and energy.
    With a deep, drawn out sigh, the girl turned to stare moodily at the wall, propped her chin in her hand and replied, “Everything.”
    “You’re right,” came the unexpected answer. “I have no time nor inclination to go join some of the other fellows in the saloon, or spend half the night at a party dancing, or play cards with Bill and Tom though they coaxed me to for half an hour yesterday.”
    “But it’s not the same thing, Max!” the girl pouted. “I’d think you, at least, would understand and help me.”
    “Suppose you explain yourself then, Meg and maybe I can.”  The young man settled himself on a chair where he could see his sister’s face and waited.
    For a moment Meg was silent, her pretty face clouded and gloomy. At last she spoke. “There’s nothing to explain. I just don’t have the time to do everything I want to do or should do, and when I do have the time I don’t want to do it.”
    Max nodded soberly though his brown eyes twinkled merrily. “Of course. Just what I said, not enough time and don’t want to. Anything else the matter?”
    At that, Meg glowered at him. “You’re no help! Why don’t you go play ball or go fishing.”
    Max laughed. “Because I don’t want to. It seems to be the same problem you have. Besides, there’s no one to play with. Seriously though, Meg,” his voice became sober. “It sounds like you have the same problem the Apostle Paul had when he said the good that I would, that I don’t do, but the evil that I don’t want to do, that’s what I do.”
    “But I don’t want to do evil, Max,” Meg protested. “The things I want to do are good, but when I have time to do them, I don’t want to do them anymore. And when I should do them, I want to do something else.”
    “Oh, so you’re problem is that you want to do good things when you want to do them and not when you should do them?”
    Meg shrugged.
    “Doesn’t doing something, even if it is good, at the wrong time make it wrong?”
    “No.”
    “There’s a time for every purpose under heaven,” Max quoted.
    “But that doesn’t mean when I draw and paint and when I practice the piano or weed the garden. Or study history,” she added in a lower voice.
    “It doesn’t? Meg, if I were to decide to work on my Latin when I should be preparing my algebra, do you think I’d be ready to recite in arithmetic class?”
    “No, but—”
    “And if you were to practice the piano when Aunt Jane was taking a nap, do you think you would be ready for your lesson?”
    Meg couldn’t help smiling over that idea though she shook her head. Her aunt would soon put a stop to her lessons if she tried it. “But my drawing and reading and weeding don’t disturb anyone.”
    Raising his eyebrows Max folded his arms. “They don’t? What about you?”
    A puzzled look crossed Meg’s face. “What do you mean?”
    “Doesn’t your reading disturb you, when you want to do it when you shouldn’t?”
    Meg’s eyes dropped and she half turned her face to hide a blush, for Max had spoken the truth. She did love to read and often her drawing and garden were neglected while she poured over her history book. “It’s that I don’t feel like drawing sometimes or working in the garden, even if I do enjoy those things.” Her voice was muffled by her hands. “And I have to study for history.”
    “Do you feel like you’ve accomplished everything well if you study your history when you haven’t finished the rest of your work?”
    Meg shook her head slowly.
    Silence fell on the room. A bee buzzed around the open window and the sound of robins singing in the tree outside broke the quiet. At last Meg, without looking at her brother said, “I tried to read only when it was time to study history, but I just can’t seem to help myself. I wish I had more time to read. Or more inclination to do the other things. But sometimes I’d rather be outside in the garden than even reading.” She sighed.
    Max stood up and gently pulled his sister’s hands away from her face. “I’d much rather study Latin than tug at those algebra problems, and if I let my mind be distracted by the Latin I wished I could be studying, I’d have low marks and Papa wouldn’t be very pleased. You love history and reading, Meg, but you also have other things to learn. You have to discipline yourself to focus on the thing at hand. Do one thing at a time, then, when you have extra time, you can enjoy all the more doing what you really like.”
    For a moment Meg sat with her eyes downcast, not noticing the half finished drawing that lay before her.
    “One thing at a time, Meggy,” Max repeated softly, using the pet name he had called his sister when she was small.
    Giving a sigh, Meg looked up into her brother’s kind eyes. “It’s just so hard,” she whispered.
    “Ask Jesus to help you, Meg. He will, you know.”
    Meg nodded and straightened. “Thanks Max. Papa and Aunt Jane are too busy to talk with me like this.”
    Stooping, Max reached under the shelf and pulled out the despised pencil. Handing it to his sister he said, “You finish your work and I’ll go finish algebra, then perhaps there will be time for a walk before supper.” And Meg bent over her paper with a smile.

Have you ever had the trouble Meg had?

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Is there a story you think I should re-post?

Merry CHRISTmas!

Don't forget the real reason behind this wonderful celebration!

Merry Christmas!
 

 
 
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A Christmas Dinner

I'm a writer. And sometimes writers get inspired by strange things. And sometimes by not so strange things. This December I heard a song and my brain said, "Wouldn't that be fun to write into a story?" My Self agreed and I kept thinking that I would write it. But I was too busy. I kept hearing the song because, well, it's peppy and fun and my mom likes to listen to it while she washes the dishes. So I finally wrote it. It was fun. And I hope you enjoy this story. And the song that inspired it.

Christmas Dinner

    It was Christmas day. The air outside was crisp, and the snow sparkled and glittered across the farmyard in the late afternoon sunshine. Inside the house all was warm and cozy. Smells from the kitchen pervaded every nook and cranny of the snug farmhouse, from the living room where the large tree stood looking bare with all the gifts gone, to the farthest corner of the attic where empty boxes stood waiting to be filled once again with the ornaments and decorations of Christmas time.
    Rousing from his afternoon nap, Farmer Jones yawned and stretched. Standing up he sniffed the air and then, tucking his thumbs in his suspenders, he ambled from the living room. “Sure smells good, don’t it?” he remarked to his second son.
    Eighteen-year-old Jeremiah looked up from hanging his coat on the hook. “Sure does. Think Mother has dinner about ready, Pa?”
    “Sure hope so. I’ll go find out.”
    Sauntering down the hall through the dining room and into the kitchen, Farmer Jones sniffed again. The turkey smelled divine! His wife, an apron tied about her ample waist, was bustling here and there, a smudge of flour on her cheek and wisps of her hair curling about her face instead of staying properly in her bun.
    “Mother,” Farmer Jones said, “everybody’s starvin’. Let’s eat.”
    Mother Jones, as she was known far and wide, turned around, a wooden spoon in her hand. “Hold your horses, Father. I’ve got a million courses to get ready, and,” she waved her spoon with a shake of her head. “I’m fixing a treat! I could use some help though.”
    Quickly Father Jones turned around. He heard someone whistling and called out, “Jeremiah, go and help your mother.” Then, catching sight of the thirteen-year-old twins on the stairs, he added, “Jane and Jonah, you too.”
    The clatter of the twins’ feet was heard as they rushed down the stairs. No doubt they had been smelling the feast and were hungry.
    After checking in the living room and the library but not finding his other children, Farmer Jones looked out the front door. “Ah, there’s another one,” he thought to himself, hurrying to the door and swinging it wide open. “Hezekiah!” His shout caused the head of his third son to raise from the wood he had been stacking.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Go and fetch your brother.”
    “Sure thing, Pa. Which one? And where is he?”
    “Jud. I ‘spect he’s in the barn with his horse.” When Hezekiah nodded, Father started to shut the door and then stuck his head out once more. “Then fetch Amy and Sue.”
    Hezekiah’s brown head nodded as he strode off toward the red barn.
    Patting his round stomach, Father shut the door and sighed. He could smell all those dishes Mother was fixing and he couldn’t wait to sit down with his family and partake. It was a favorite part of the Jones family Christmas day.
    It wasn’t long before Hezekiah and Jud could be heard stomping the snow off their boots on the porch. A gust of cold air came in with the boys and Father, turning from watching Jane, her pretty dark hair tied back with a red ribbon, set the table, saw Hezekiah start up the stairs, no doubt in search of the two youngest Jones girls.
    Things were in a bustle as Jed, and then Hezekiah, Amy, and Sue all joined in to help Mother get the food on. Father stayed out of the way. He was no help in the kitchen and knew it. As each steaming dish was brought to the table, his mouth watered even more. Finally he stationed himself before his chair at the head of the table and Jeremiah set the turkey down before him. It was golden brown and steam rose in a fragrant wave.
    As everyone found their places, the three oldest boys, Jud, Jeremiah and Hezekiah, on one side, Jane and Jonah, Amy and Sue on the other, and Mother at the food, Father smiled.
    “Mother, everybody’s happy. We’ve got a reason to smile.”
    Mother laughed her bright, bubbly laugh which caused smiles and a few giggles among her children. “That’s ‘cause you know that I’m about to serve a Christmas dinner country style.”
    “No doubt, Mother, no doubt. But let’s all sit and bow our heads. I’ll say grace, then we’ll break bread.”
    There was a slight shuffling as each person quickly sat down. Every head, light, dark, and a few browns, bowed reverently as Father gave thanks for the dinner and for Christmas and what it meant. After a hearty “Amen” from everyone present, heads were lifted and eyes sparkled at the knowledge that they were about to partake of Mother’s wonderful cooking.
    “Put your napkins in your lap, girls,” Mother reminded Amy and Sue.
    “While Jud pours cider from the tap,” added Father. “Is it fresh cider, Jud?”
    “Sure is, Pa. I made it yesterday with some of the apples from the cellar since we had such a lot.”
    There was so much food and it was passed along from one person to the next, across the table, clock-wise and counter-clock-wise. Turkey, both dark and white meat, ham, chestnut stuffing, huckleberry muffins, marshmallow yam, and cranberry sauce, rhubarb, and black-eyed peas. It was a feast to fill any hungry boy or girl. Or a dozen of them. Everyone ate and talked and ate some more. Seconds were had by everyone and the four boys even had thirds.
    “I think I’m ‘bout to explode, Mother,” Jane said, leaning back in her chair.
    “Me too,” echoed Amy and Sue.
    “Have a little pickled quince,” Jeremiah offered, holding out the dish.
    “Choose your pie, everyone,” Father instructed. “Pumpkin or mince.”
    No one refused. How could they when it was Mother who had made them? But at last no one could eat another bite.
    Leaning back in his chair, Father looked down the table at his wife and said, “Oh, dinner was grand, to say the least!” Glancing at his children seated on either side of the now ravished table, he added, with a nod toward Mother Jones, “Honor the lady who cooked this feast.”
    “Mother, thank you for the dinner!” Chorused all seven children.
    And Jonah added, “All the fixin’s were great!”
    A broad smile crossed Mother’s face. “Nothin’ to it. I’m mighty glad to do it, seein’ how much you ate! Now I shouldn’t have to feed you until spring.”
    A general laugh filled the dining room and then Jud pushed back his chair. “Well, it’s time to clear it all away. Come on. Jeremiah, get the turkey, or what’s left of it. Hezekiah, the ham platter. The rest of you start collecting the dishes. Mother, you and Father go sit in the living room and just relax.”
    With a smile, Mother stood up. “All right, but don’t you go and break any of my good china now.” It was something she said every year, and none of it had been broken except one saucer when Jeremiah was no larger than the family dog.
    Beaming, Father rose slowly, tucked his thumbs in his suspenders and stood a moment watching his children clear off the table. Then, with a sigh, he ambled slowly into the living room and built up the fire in the large stone fireplace before sinking down into his favorite chair. “That sure was a Christmas dinner, Mother,” he remarked.
    Wearily Mother rested her feet on the footstool and nodded. “It sure was.”

    Before long the children appeared in the doorway, their faces bright and no sign of having stuffed themselves.
    “Jeremiah,” Jane begged, “go and get your fiddle!”
    “Yeah, go get it,” eagerly pleaded Amy and Sue, while his brothers all nodded in agreement.
    “All right.” Jeremiah sauntered into the other room, and they could hear the sounds of the fiddle strings as he tested them. Soon he was back, lightly drawing the bow over the strings in a tune which set each foot to tapping.
    “Come on, Father, let’s dance,” begged Jane, hurrying to her father’s side.
    But Farmer Jones shook his head and patted his full stomach, “I’m too full of turkey and stuffing. Sorry, Janie, I ain’t takin’ a chance. Get one of your brothers to take you for a spin.”
    So, while Mother and Father sat watching, the six children, Jud and Amy, Hezekiah and Sue, and Jane and Jonah danced to the lively tunes Jeremiah brought forth from his fiddle.
    When at last the fiddler ceased and everyone sank laughing onto chairs and sofas, Father said, “It’s been a very, very merry Christmas. We’ve got reason to smile.” He looked around at each shining face “Mother, everybody loved your Christmas dinner country style.”

Here's the song that inspired it all. :)

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And have a wonderful Christmas Eve!