Spiritual Citizens: A Christian Fiction Anthology

by Kim Bond

  Would anyone make fun of his shaved head? Thankfully other boys were also “buzzed.” Today was hat day. And everyone was dressed up. Adult leaders and volunteers also had to wear something bright and cheerful. 

  Mom gave her son his favorite baseball cap. She wanted to encourage her son with a huge hug and kiss. But she didn’t want to embarrass him. “Have fun,” mom said. 

  Brendan’s head sagged as he dragged his feet across the sand at the swings. He pushed his hat deeper into his pocket instead of wearing it. In his head he kept hearing shouts and screams from the fire. Laughter and yelling from children here pounded him like waves from the ocean. If only he could be happy like that. Sad Brendan sat on the ground. He wondered if that was a blue jay watching him from the pine tree.

  “Okay, line up!” an adult shouted. Everyone entered a large hallway in the church. Sunday school drawings of animals were pasted on the walls. Colorful balloons, and a fisherman’s net full of stuffed animals seemed to stare from everywhere. The theme for this week was, ‘Noah’s Ark’. “Why do they call it an Ark?” Brendan wondered. It’s supposed to be just a huge boat, with animal faces sticking out of windows. 

  All six and seven year olds were part of the Monkey group. However, he did not feel like one. They were supposed to jump around pretending to eat bananas. How silly, he thought.

  His lips were silent as songs were sung. Cheers went up, after prayers were said. Some children tried to make him smile. Right now, he was only interested in the fan’s “whirring” sound. 

  Everyone raced off to begin the games. Somehow Brendan followed. He wished he could feel happy like these children. But, all he could do was look at them with sad blue eyes. 

  Brendan was first one out at dodge ball. He sat down. It was no use. He wanted to go home. Each time someone yelled, he looked around. Was it their warning to run from a fire somewhere? He remembered everyone rushing down stairs to safety. It was scary thinking about all that smoke and flames. Squeezing his eyes tightly until they hurt was one way to shut out the memory.

  “Hey there,” another boy said. “Want to be my partner in the two legged race? Please.“

  How dare this boy bother Brendan? Didn’t this stranger know his house burned down last week? Besides, he wasn’t feeling so good right now. But, the boy did say, “Please.” 

  “Do you?” the boy asked again. “My name is Kyle.” And the look he gave was the same one Brendan had when he hoped for a friend. But he didn’t feel so friendly now.

  “Find someone else,” Brendan almost shouted. But something told him to watch his tongue. Mom always said, “Eat your words before you say anything mean.” Brendan felt a little punch on his shoulder. 

  “Come on,” Kyle insisted. 

  And Brandon, the ‘boy-who-wouldn’t-talk’ followed Kyle, who seemed to walk so slowly. They headed towards a group of children. “We’ll never win,” said Brendan. “I’m like a turtle in a race.” And he was. But it didn’t seem to matter to Kyle. He was having too much fun. His laughter made Brendan smile. 

  Somehow they still made it to the finish line. For some reason, Brendan had to keep helping Kyle to his feet. And he didn’t understand why children and adults were making such a fuss. “YAYYY Kyle! YAYY Brendan!” everyone was shouting. 

  Two moms rushed over and gave each boy a great big hug. Brendan was confused. Questions popped into his head as he and Kyle ate their cheese and crackers snack. “It’s because I’m legally blind,” Kyle answered. “And you were the only one who wanted to race with me.”

  “Blind?” Brendan asked. The word just popped out of his mouth.

  “Yes,” said Kyle. “I can see only a tiny bit. Mom told me to make a new friend. And you’re it.” And Brendan smiled for the first time, since the fire. The rest of the afternoon was the best ever. Kyle was by his side each moment. Together they became the noisiest Monkeys in the group. 

  Brendan even wore his cap. And his laughter could be heard all over the church playground. It was a special day for everyone, especially the counselors.

  *Google: “Esther and Richard Provencher” to see more of their work. 

  The Accident by Tolulope Popoola*

  I remember leaving my body ten minutes after the impact. Before then, it was a blur of tyres screeching, horns blaring, a loud scream, a dog barking and an awful thud. I fell off the bonnet of the car, and landed on the stony tarmac. Then I heard voices, and footsteps of people running towards me.

  “Call 999!” I heard someone shout.

  For the few minutes I was suspended between life and death, I recalled my mother’s warnings. Always look carefully before crossing the road, she said. I thought about her then. How would she react to the news of my accident? I imagined her crying, and I felt sorry for causing her trouble.

  An ambulance arrived with a wail of sirens. My head hurt. My back hurt. My left foot throbbed. A light was shone into my eyes.

  “I’ll check for a pulse,” a man said.

  Somebody touched me. I heard sounds that I couldn’t comprehend. Then I suddenly felt cold. Slowly, I started to rise above the scene of the crash.

  “Will she make it?” A voice floated to me, as if from far away.

  I thought of my father and baby brother, Paul, barely two years old. He wouldn’t understand any of it. I hoped someone would tell him that I’d gone to heaven.

  I visited that spot later. People had left cards and flowers. I wished I could thank them. But what I wanted most was to say goodbye to my family.

  *You are welcome to visit writer Tolulope Popoola at https://www.onwritingandlife.com.

  Grandmother’s Scars by Charles W. Short*

  I was raised by my Grandmother. It was a great privilege, but I didn’t understand that, until it was too late to say thank you.

  She was a woman of rules. She was a woman of faith. I was a child of vanity, and as everyone told me, I was beautiful. This old scarred woman, with a different set of priorities, didn’t allow me my vanity. She had little tolerance for my faithless ways.

  Living with my grandparents had its advantages though. Grandfather delighted in spoiling me; buying me fashionable clothes, expensive and pretty things for me, his pretty granddaughter. But he was ultimately not the one responsible for my upbringing. I was raised by Grandmother.

  She embarrassed me though. Her scars, her temperament, her priorities, but mostly her scars. When I was in grade school I was in a play, so she came to see it. When the other kids saw her, knew she was with me, they asked if she was a witch. That was what they thought of her disfigured face. I was mortified, so she didn’t come to events anymore.

  She always pressed me to set aside my narcissism. I dismissed her words. She of all people would never know what it was like to be beautiful. Then I grew into middle school and the boys began to pay attention to me. I could control most of them with a glance or a smile. My vanity had grown into a monster, and grandmother was willing to tell me so. But, of course, I wouldn’t listen.

  Then came high school. The boys were to be manipulated and the girls were to be walked over. I deserved to be queen of — well — everything, and I would humiliate anyone who stood in my way. I had expected more correction from Grandmother, but she didn’t really say anything. Shortly before homecoming in my junior year, Grandfather told me she was sick.

  I was so arrogant by then I thought it was a good thing. No more Grandmother to reign me in, only Grandfather to spoil me. But when she died my world stopped turning. What had I done; what had I become? Grandfather tried to console me.

  “It isn’t right for such a pretty girl to cry all the time. Dry up your tears and celebrate. Grandmother is with Jesus now.”

  “Grandfather, why do you always call me pretty? Sometimes I have been so mean. So ugly.”

  “You are beautiful. All the women in our family are beautiful. I call you pretty because you remind me so much of Grandmother when she was your age.”

  “I remind you of
Grandmother?” The statement shocked me.

  “Oh, yes. She was a raving beauty in the old country. Every man in town was vying for her hand in marriage, but those were terrible days. The country was in a civil war and at times neighbor turned against neighbor.”

  “What does that have to do with Grandmother?”

  “Her family and my family were Christians, and attended church together. We knew each other, but I was too young and too ordinary for such a beauty. At the time my father worked for the government. On one terrible night there was a general riot. Everyone associated with the government was being hunted down and killed. We were terrified.”

  He wiped away a tear and was silent for a few minutes. I put my hand on his arm and he continued.

  “Grandmother was just eighteen. She came and got us. They brought us into their barn and hid us in hay. We could see a little but could hear everything going on. The mob burned our house when they couldn’t find us. They demanded to know where we were. They said they would kill them for hiding us. But they wouldn’t tell. The crowd threw gasoline on her parents, and when they still wouldn’t talk, the mob set them on fire.”

  We were both crying. I wondered why I had never heard this story. Then it occurred to me it was my own vanity that I had never asked.

  “Grandmother’s scars came from trying to put the fire out. Her scars came from saving me and my parents. You remind me so much of her. She was such a beauty then, but she became so much more beautiful by her choices. She sacrificed for others. It was a way of life she learned from her parents, at just about your age.”

  *Charles W. Short invites you to visit him at www.charleswshort.com.

  Rhubarb Crisp by Joseph Courtemanche*

  “They’ve stolen the toilet paper, Pastor.”

  “I guess they needed it, Carol. Put two rolls in every stall and set out a big bundle of it near the sink in both restrooms.”

  “But it’ll all walk away!”

  “I suspect it will. Monday I’ll go and buy more. In the meantime, our guests will be able to blow their noses and wipe their extremities.

  Carol stomped down the hall toward the closet. Deacon Lattimore helped her with the key – it didn’t seem to go into the lock when you jabbed at it. “Carol, something wrong?”

  She looked over at the pastor. “Yes, he’s giving away the store again. I just filled that supply room. We run out because of his supporting these people.”

  Lattimore gently touched her shoulder and pointed. “He’s obeying God’s command to show hospitality to strangers. Would we really want to refuse some toilet paper to a brother or sister in need?”

  “If you say so. I’ll do it under protest.”

  She grabbed a bale of the stuff and stocked the bathrooms. Nearly every person who came out had a roll stuffed into their pockets. She sat glaring at them as they marched by her hospitality desk.

  Just before the last man’s meal was served one of the old timers wandered up for cake. He stared in wonder at the variety available. Grabbing a tray, he picked sixteen pieces and grabbed a pot of coffee and a stack of cups before returning to his table.

  That was too much for Carol. One piece, fine. Even two, but a whole tray full of cakes and an entire pot of coffee?

  As she got within a few feet of him, she heard low voices in conversation come to a stop. He didn’t even turn around when he said, “Come, Sister Carol, and join us for desert.” Carol heard a low murmur – he was talking to himself.

  She swung around to the other side of the table and sat opposite him. “How did you know my name? I don’t know yours?”

  The light laughter that bubbled up at the table came from several voices, and to her shock, Carol saw several other men fade into being at the table. All of them had wings, including the one who’d taken all the food. He spoke. “We wanted to remind you that sometimes the least among us is an angel. We know your heart is in the right place, Carol, but that you struggle with being in the world as well. Coffee and cake seemed a gentle way to break this to you. You’ve earned a break with your labors. All we ask is that you give some breaks in return.”

  Carol’s eyes welled with tears as she visited her actions that day. She wasn’t acting very Christ-like in serving these homeless people. In fact, she was anything but like Him.

  Her reverie was broken by a piece of rhubarb crisp being pushed across the table. The angel said, “It’s your favorite. All of us have bad days. Can you learn from this?”

  Carol lifted her hands in supplication and said, “Father, forgive my rudeness. Let me be the spirit of hospitality in your absence. Let me be your hands and feet.”

  The angels at the table faded, along with the tray of cakes and the coffee pot. One cup of coffee and a piece of rhubarb crisp remained in front of Carol. Under it was a note scrawled on a piece of toilet paper: Thank you for the supplies. Be blessed, Carol. You are going to make it.”

  *Joseph Courtemanche invites you to his site https://commotioninthepews.com/?page_id=3457.

  When We Live to Manage the Telltale by Michael Austin*

  The door closed behind him as he made his way into the house. It had been a relatively good day at church that Sunday and Henry was ready for some lunch and possibly a nap. His wife was visiting with her sister in Ohio that week, so Henry was on his own for a few more days. While he was preparing a meal for himself, he kept thinking about a conversation he had earlier that day right before church services started. He was walking down the hallway and as he was heading for his assigned place during worship time, someone stopped him to talk for a while. During the conversation, that person hinted that something might be wrong in his life and that he needed to address those issues. Henry quickly left that person to continue into church. He was somewhat put off by the opinions of this person that he had known for such a long time. How dare this person challenge his Christian service?

  Henry had been a faithful member of Antioch Baptist Church for over 20 years. During that time, he served as a youth pastor, a Sunday school teacher and more recently, a deacon. It was very strange for him to have someone come up to him and challenge his intentions. Henry came from a broken family and his mom had taken him to church as long as he could remember. She made sure that he was faithful to attend Sunday school and she sacrificed many things so that Henry could attend summer camp and yearly mission trips. Henry loved the atmosphere church provided and didn't hesitate to volunteer for additional activities.

  When Henry finished college, he returned to his home town and church ready to assist in any area of service that was available. His mother died a few years earlier, so coming back to Antioch Baptist Church seemed like revisiting a close part of his family as well as reintroducing treasured memories of his mother. He first served as an interim youth pastor for 8 months while his church was looking for a person to permanently fill that position. He had contemplated working full time in that capacity, but decided to back away from the job at the last minute.

  One morning, he was asked to temporarily fill in as the Sunday school teacher for a college age class. He was hesitant on teaching the class. He wasn't known as a very outgoing person, so standing in front of thirty to forty college students seemed like a very tall order. He agreed to teach the class and has been teaching the class for over 6 years. Three years ago, Henry met his wife, Tammy at church during a fellowship one summer. They married the following year and both are faithful members at Antioch. Last year, the church body elected to make Henry a deacon. Henry accepted the offer and was ordained that winter. For someone to challenge his intentions was beyond the pale. After church that day, Henry felt compelled to ask that person to drop by his house later for supper. He didn't want to let this line of questioning go unanswered and hoped that he could give adequate reasoning behind his service.

  Later in the day, Henry starting thinking about the supper and his meeting. He became very aggravated and was leaning toward canceling the meeting altogether. He thought that it was below his dignity
to justify his motives and explain his actions. Everyone knew Henry and accepted him for what he was. Why should he need to lower himself to answer questions that no one had ever asked him before? It was almost like his service to Antioch meant nothing to this person. He thought about all of the people he had helped. He made a mental list of all the fellowships he had attended and the many church members he had visited in the hospital. How could anyone fault him for those great services? Why would a church elect him to be a deacon if they too didn't agree with what he was doing?

  There was a knock at the door. Henry stood there wondering what the person would think if he just decided to not invite him in. It would serve him right, Henry thought. But then, Henry started thinking about a sermon that his pastor had preached not two months ago. For some reason, the message popped into his head. He remembered the pastor reading a verse in the Bible and stating that everyone had sinned and that no one could enter into heaven without forgiveness of their sins. He remembered hearing that our good works did nothing for our salvation and that it was the free gift of God and the grace shown to everyone that offered any hope of heaven. Henry understood that even though he was a good man in his eyes, his good works were nothing in God's eyes and that he would not enter heaven without God's forgiveness. It didn't matter how many services he participated in or how people in church viewed his life. Without the acceptance of God's free gift provided by the death and resurrection of Jesus, the main thing that those services did was mask the fact that Henry needed God.