Somebody's Mother

I had never felt so sad and helpless. I chose the line at Walmart with one elderly woman placing canned vegetables, bananas, cat food, etc. on the conveyor. Her total was over $100, and she began searching her purse. She unzipped pockets and peered into slots for something – anything!

I wished I was rich. I wished could pay for her food. But I couldn’t.

She apologized for being unorganized – mumbling about Alzheimer’s. Finding a checkbook, she slowly filled out a wrinkled page – but then she needed identification. My heart sunk. I had seen her purse - stuffed with receipts and crumpled envelopes. I doubted she could find any ID.

“Ma’am, do you have a driver’s license?”

“No, I can’t drive anymore. Will this work?” She held up a business card.  

I looked at her tattered coat, gray frizzy hair, and knee brace (held in place with rubber bands). Her gnarled fingers were still fumbling in her cluttered purse. She could be me in another twenty years or so. I looked behind me. The others in line were not complaining.  One man said, “I don’t have that much with me.”

I asked her if she had come with someone, but she said she came by taxi. That didn't help. 

 I’m not a leader –especially of strangers, but the thought of organizing an impromptu collection for her went through my mind. Then one man handed her a $100 bill. “Is this enough?” The woman reluctantly took it and asked for his name.

“Call me Bob,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

So, Bob, I want to say thank you for doing what I couldn’t do. Thank you for showing kindness to somebody’s mother. She was all our mother tonight. Thank you.

Sailing Northward

Sailing Northward

Sail on northward, follow the plan.
Journey onward, over the deep
O, young boy, return a man.

Don’t look backwards, shore lights wan,
The fading shore, its cities sleep;
Sail on northward, follow the plan.

Childhood gone, its memories fan;
A new adventure, a mighty leap.
O, young boy, return a man.

Follow the stars, if you can,
Floating over the hidden deep.
Sail on northward, follow the plan.

Vast and wide, the oceans span,
Cross the deserts and mountains steep;
O, young boy, return a man.

Foolish fancies, forget and ban,
Honor, integrity, promises keep;
Sail on northward, follow the plan.
O, young boy, return a man.

Nascent Talent

My friend and fellow writer, Jan Ackerson, has an amazing skill of writing whole stories in just a few words -100 words, to be exact. She has written a whole book of these slices of life - 366 of them, to be exact, one for each day including leap year day. 

 Nascent Talent
My mother grinned as she handed me the container. “It’s all your papers and art from when you were little,” she said. “I thought you’d enjoy them.” A few afternoons later, I opened the box, interested in early samples of my writing. Were there any signs of nascent writing talent?
You decide—here’s a paragraph from 8-year-old me:

Fat Men
In my opinion, I like men. They look so funny and dieting usually doesn’t do them any good. When they try to squish into a tight suit they, are the oddest things I’ve seen. I like fat men. Do you?


If you enjoy tiny little stories like this, you can find 366 of them in Stolen Postcards, available here: 
You can also read new 100-words stories on Mondays and Fridays on Jan's blog: (100 Word Stories) Follow her on Twitter: @janackerson1
Or on Instagram: janackerson

I love that this short story was written by an 8 year old girl. Do you know any young person that is bursting with stories in their mind? Polliwog Pages is a place where youngsters can develop their writing skills and post them for others to read. 

 Splash in, and join the fun! 

Choosing a Birthday

Today is a special day. It's the birthday of my nephew and a special friend . . . but I chose April 4th to be the birthday of Phoebe, a young girl born in a little village near Albany, New York - back in 1800's, when the world was bursting with new inventions and discoveries. 

In the sequel, Going Home with Phoebe, Zeke and Phoebe help Maseppa to choose her own birthday - since she didn't know when she was born. 

Maseppa's Calf 

At the supper table, Phoebe chattered on and on, She grabbed a slice of bread and spread a thick coating of butter on it. “Zeke, Maseppa says all this isn’t for a birthday or nothing. When is your birthday, Zeke? Mine is April fourth, right?”

Zeke slurped a spoonful of soup. “I haven’t done nothin’ for my birthday, since I was a youngster. I was born on September twentieth, so today’s not my birthday. Zeppa, do you know when you were born?”

She cocked her head and looked from his face to Phoebe’s. “I do not know. My mother did not tell me.”

Phoebe wiggled on her chair. “You could choose a birthday, Maseppa! What time of year do you like?”

Maseppa looked at Zeke and then around her. “I think I choose the time of summer. It makes me feel happy to walk in the trees and listen to the birds and animals, to find leaves and berries and roots.”

Phoebe smiled. “Yes, that is the best time for you, Maseppa. What do you think, Zeke? Is she more a July or August person?”

His eyes twinkled. “I’d say Zeppa is an August person. Do you have a favorite number?”

“Number? I will say three. One for Phoebe, one for Zeke, and one for me. That is three.”

“Wooohee!” Zeke waved his napkin over his head. “I declare August third the birthday of Zeppa Ernstein.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Phoebe grinned.

Maseppa quietly smiled. “I have thought of a name for the new baby cow. It is the color of my mother’s dress. I will call the calf Doeskin. It is good, yes?”

“Perfect! It fits you and the calf, too.”  

   ~ ~ ~ 

To read more, you may purchase the book (here) 
or contact me for a signed copy.

To learn more about Going Home with Phoebe

Tout est Accompli

Sometimes I wish I could understand other languages. For many times, I have heard of how God has given to a certain people some phrase that is not in our English language - a word that gives more depth to God's great love and mercy. The words of our English language often seem too shallow and trite to express the greatness of God.

The many lessons of love and sacrifice at Calvary have been studied by theological scholars for eons, especially the words spoken by the Lord on the cross. The last words of Christ at that time were "It is finished." We understand that to mean that His work was done. He had obeyed the Father's will and taken the penalty for our sins.

In French, the words read, "Tout est accompli."
All has been accomplished, completed.

Somehow, it seems to mean more. It seems to show that everything that God had planned, from before time began, had been fulfilled.

All of it. 

All the sins, from eternity to eternity were paid and forgiven.

All of them. 

All the sacrifices on all the altars were represented by the sacrifice of the Lamb of God.

All of them.

Will we ever know the complete meaning of the cross? I don't think so. For how can we know the great gulf between God's holiness and man's sin? How can we fathom the knowledge of God becoming a man to redeem us when we didn't deserve it? How can we understand such love?

We need not - we cannot do anything to save ourselves. He has done it - He has done it all.


Related Posts with Thumbnails