Hosanna and Alleluia

We call it Palm Sunday - the Sunday before Easter.

Each time I hear this story of the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, I learn more and more. It fulfilled so many prophecies all in one day. It showed humility and sovereignty all in one action. It demonstrated the authority of Jesus, the Son of God.

As Jesus approached Jerusalem, the crowds greeted him with shouts of "Hosanna! Hosanna!" (Save us! Save us!) thinking He would free them from the Romans. They waved palm branches and laid a carpet of coats before Him. Children danced and sang praises to Him. When the religious leaders demanded that He hush their voices, He said, "If these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out." This was the day proclaimed by the prophets that He would be presented as King of the Jews, and it would happen no matter what.

I've wondered much about the stones praising God, and it has led me to write a story about all of nature singing to God. (Song of the Sunbeams)

My friend, Jan Ackerson, wrote a beautiful poem about the child Jesus hearing the voices and songs of nature. Read this slowly, and let its beauty sink into your soul.

Allelu by  Jan Ackerson Creator, You dwell with us now,
And so we proclaim with one voice—
Each creature and each blade of grass,
Each rock and each river—Rejoice!

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.

O hear now the animals’ choir:
Vicuna, raccoon, chimpanzee—
We offer our song to the King:
Great elephant, tiniest flea.

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.

We sing, too. (You only can hear).
The cedars and lilies, the wheat,
Bamboo, passionflower, and palm:
Hosannas we lay at Your feet.

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.

A wee grain of sand, and this stone,
This boulder, this mountain, this star—
Our melody will not be stilled,
We glory in all that You are.

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.

Come, waters of earth, raise your song:
Murmuring book, rushing waterfalls, too,
Lake, river and pond, mighty sea,
All join in the great “Allelu!”

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.
(For the complete story click here.)
If I could choose one day of Jesus' life, I might choose the Triumphant Entry. I can't wait for the day when I WILL be there when He enters the gates of Jerusalem again - this time as King of Eternity! (Isaiah 60)

Read this story of how I imagine it might be. ( Zion Rejoices )

Dressed in White

DRESSED IN WHITE

A tumult of majestic anthems

Swells and fills the air, 

Their sweet harmonic chorus rising

To the endless sky.

Trilling harps, angelic singing

Praises, adoration,

Glory, laud, and acclamations

To the King on high! 

A moment… a pause of expectation

A lonely trumpet sounds,

All faces turn with anticipation,

Ivory gates swing wide.

Whispered voices and breathless gasps

Of joy and delight

Greet the elegantly splendered bride

Adorned in white.

She lifts her modest, mist-veiled face

In wonder and in awe

To vaulted alabaster rafters,

Iridescent light.

Crowds of eager, reverent faces

Multitudes surround her,

Ten hundred thousand on each side,

Welcoming his bride.

She fingers her snowy garment,

Pure and spotless wool,

Its endless train like a crystal river,

Flowing deep and wide.

The cloud of exultant witnesses

Creates a path before her,

Revealing the gentle, tender compassion 

In her beloved’s eyes.

In humble shame she bows her head.

Unworthy and unwanted,

Yet he sought her and found her.

Her lowly heart cries.

She didn’t deserve such love and mercy.

How could he love her so?

Her wretched filth and sinfulness,

Blasphemy and lies.

He chose her, forgave her, and forgot her past.

Seeing only her soul,

He washed her and cleansed her,

And clothed her in white.

She humbly lifts her thankful face

To him who gave his all,

Past the hundred million guests, she glides

To his glorious light.

With compassion and with endless grace,

He stretches out his arm,

And offers her his nail-scarred hand,

And welcomes home his bride.

---

A Dancing Scarecrow for a Day

Yesterday, we joined our daughter's family for a visit to one of our favorite summer places - Storyland. It's so much fun to see the wonder and excitement in the grandkids' faces. (To our disappointment, he dancing scarecrow wasn't there this year, but we had filled our day with lots of other fun.) Here's a story I wrote for Faithwriters (topic - travelogue)  - 

A Dancing Scarecrow for a Day

Once upon a summer morning, I wound my way between the rugged White Mountains of New Hampshire. Their towering peaks had a rejuvenating effect on me. As I followed the rushing Ellis River, each turn in the road left more of the world of business, politics, and adult problems farther and farther behind. I was taking my grandson, Buddy, to Storyland, a place where imagination comes alive. 

Even as we approached the crooked house entrance, laughing flowers and music-box tunes teased us over the top of the long blue fence. Buddy galloped in anticipation, and my old bones felt a strange urge to skip with him. The first time I entered this magical world was decades ago, but it felt like yesterday.

Within the gate, I see Humpty Dumpty still sitting precariously upon his brick wall. The train whistle blew as it pulled into the station. We chugged past Cinderella’s castle and three bears fishing in a pond. I remembered the animated gorilla and elephants in the jungle and the antique cars, but there were many more interesting additions. Buddy waved at a friendly worker with a broom over his shoulder. Everything sparkled with glossy, vibrant colors, and everyone seemed happy. 

Ignoring the map, we set out on our adventure. Buddy got a sticker from the Lady Who Lived in a Shoe and rang the bell in the Little Red Schoolhouse. We visited the Three Bears’ house, but of course, they weren’t home. I told him the story of the Billy Goats Gruff as we watched the antics of some prancing kids. Buddy, with his mini-attention span tugged on my hand to keep moving.

Royal puppet trumpeters greeted us as we entered a castle gate. A pumpkin, driven by mechanical horses, pulled up, but we opted to ride the German carousel instead. Next we joined a pirate crew and rowed past Black Beard’s treasure. A giant swan boat glided nearby, and a dozen electric goslings zig-zagged in a quiet cove. 

By then, my stomach began growling, maybe from the spicy aroma of tacos and chili coming from the Mexican village. After a quick lunch, we dared to explore Los Bravos Mining Co. and tried our luck at panning for gold. Over the hill, we found a whimsical restroom, and Buddy quenched his thirst from a lion’s mouth. 

Wherever we turned, we found rides from around the world: a Swiss cuckoo clock, Egyptian boats with water guns, an African safari ride, and even an icy Polar Coaster. I preferred a quieter ride in a Ferris wheel that looked like hot-air balloons. It felt like we had been Around the World in 80 Days. 

The path led up the hill to an underwater land, complete with a submarine and spurting coral reef. We never got too hot, for it seemed there was plenty of spraying water to refresh us throughout the park. Flying fish, leaping orcas, and twirling turtles sent my head to spinning. I continued up the hill as Buddy pranced beside me. 

Huge dinosaurs lounged beneath a roaring wooden roller coaster. Buddy thought it too scary, and I agreed. We found a nice farm with smiling tractors chugging through patches of tomatoes and corn. Buddy was thrilled to drive it himself. Nearby, we entered a darkened room to watch the Farm Follies show of singing vegetable puppets and a dancing scarecrow. I noticed that I wasn’t the only one needing a nap. A few sleeping toddlers were carried back into the sunshine. 

A double-scoop ice cream and a rest near the duck pond perked up my wobbly legs. The afternoon was ticking past, and we weren’t done yet. Buddy milked a cow near the Dutch windmill, and we floated in a Chinese bamboo chute that ended with a big splash. Since we were already wet, we bobbed and bumped on a raft ride where unpredictable geysers sprayed us at each turn. 

At last, the day ended with a gentle drive in one of the antique cars. I let Buddy chauffer me through the covered bridge and past a charging moose. We waved “goodbye” to the train engineer and headed home. With his souvenir plush dinosaur snuggled close, Buddy was asleep within minutes. As we emerged from the woodland mountain pass, the bouncy melodies still echoed in my head. Being a dancing scarecrow might be delightful for a while, but I am satisfied with my mature life – until the enchanting world of Storyland calls to me again.

Friday Fiction - Be Ye Steadfast

It unnerves me when something I write becomes relevant later on. I wrote this story about eight years ago. I know that there are many Christians around the world who risk their lives when they meet to worship, but I pray that it will not become true in our country.

BE YE STEADFAST 

“Sh-sh-sh” Tom crouched in the shadows, pressing me against the cold bricks. Footsteps echoed in the empty street. I held my breath as the soldier passed, his AK-47 reflecting the street light. 

My wrist device beeped the hour and new day, 24:00:00…09/17/23..; its LCD glowing in the darkness.

“Shut it up!” Tom hissed.

I fingered the tiny buttons; PHONE OFF, WIFI OFF, POWER OFF.

I followed Tom around the dumpsters and abandoned cars, trying to keep his dark form in sight. I also wore a black shirt, pants, and hat; our faces smeared with grease. We slipped between a pizza shop and bar. A neon light flickered in the window. Tom glanced back, behind me, before tapping on a steel door, camouflaged in graffiti scribbles.

A crack appeared, and a deep voice whispered, “Identify yourselves.”

“Maranatha.” 

The crack widened, and a whiskered face eyed me. I could feel the doubt in his gaze. A siren screamed down Washington Avenue, and Tom glanced about nervously.

“He’s safe; trust me,” he whispered to the eye at the door.

We entered a damp passageway and climbed some narrow stairs. At the third apartment, Tom knocked and repeated the password. 

We entered a crowded room, darkened with black curtains and one dim lamp. I counted ten or twelve others, also dressed in dark clothes. A mumble of voices greeted us, and I fidgeted under their stares. 

After we squeezed along the back wall, a man continued reading from his tattered book, illuminating the pages with a flashlight. “And ye shall be hated…”(Mark 13:13 KJV)

Tom whispered to the one beside him, “How long has Pastor Smith been here?”

“Since five o’clock yesterday. There have been dozens of believers, coming and going, all day long.”

I leaned closer to catch the holy words of prophecy. “…nation shall rise against nation…”

Suddenly, the door banged open. Four soldiers burst in, thrusting the door guards into the center of the room. One slammed the door shut, and the leader growled, “No one move!” 

After the initial gasp, then silence, I began to hear soft whisperings of prayer. Mingling with the fear, there also was a sense of peace and trust. 

“There will be no assemblies under the laws of Haranidama! You must disperse! Show your ID chips!” He pulled a portable scanner from his belt. 

I fingered the hard lump in my palm, the chip that everyone received at birth. A young girl sobbed. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears.

“Show your chips!” 

He grabbed the wrist of the closest believer and turned the palm upward, sliding the machine over it. Hearing a negative beep, he tried again. With a frown, he shined a light at her palm. A red scar marked her skin.

“Raca!” 

Palm after scarred palm he twisted and searched, his curses growing louder. He stepped closer and closer to me, and I slowly slipped my hand behind my back. In desperation, he slapped Tom across the cheek. “Where is the teacher of Jesus? I know he is here!”

No one spoke; no one moved. Whispered prayers floated about the dark corners of the room. 

Swinging his rifle in their faces, he roared, “Tell me, or you die!” 

In awe, I watched them, even old women and young children, face its barrel with confidence. How can they be so calm? Will I be as brave to defend this new-found Redeemer? 

One young man, Jonah, shaking and sweating, broke under the pressure. “It’s him!” he said, pointing to Pastor Smith. “He’s the teacher.” 

The soldier swung around to face Pastor Smith, his comrades quickly handcuffing the preacher. 

“Take him away."

“What about the others?” one asked.

“With their teacher gone, they’ll run like scared mice!”

Cries and pleas for mercy for their pastor filled the air, some to the unrelenting soldier, some to their Almighty Lord.

Pastor Smith turned tearful eyes to his flock, and looking at the bowed head of Jonah, he gently said, “Be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord….”
(I Cor.15:58)

Then they were gone.

The remaining ones clasped each other in comforting embraces, and tears flowed down many cheeks. Philip, an older man, wrapped his arms about my shoulders. I heard him whisper, “Sunday . . .  27 Hudson Street.” 

 ~ # ~

Do you have this faith? 

Do you know the God who forgives sins? 

(click here for answers)

Friday Fiction - In the Fog

I've gotten back into doing the Faithwriters Weekly Challenge. 

Here's my spooky entry for the topic - Fantasy.

(based on the photo at the end of the story) 

IN THE FOG

The fog closed in like a hungry invisible creature – stealing my vision, my hearing, and even my courage. 

My shirt clung to me in the chilly mist. All I could hear were the oars. 

“Splash” – into the silvery water, 
"Clunk” – against the oarlocks, 
“Drip, drip, drip” – back again. 

Day after day, I’d scrounged for clams in the sandy coves at low tide – a tiresome, boring job – until my hoe hit an old wooden chest. Stories were told of pirates along these shores, but I thought them only tales – until today. 

It’s mine. I found it.

The gray fog thickened. I couldn’t even see the water anymore. I felt like I was suspended between earth and sky – no up or down, no east or west. I stopped rowing with a frightening thought.

I could be heading into the open sea!

I heard a sound – like a far away lighthouse horn, but a wild and mournful bellow. I waited. It sounded again. Whatever it was, there had to be land, and I pulled my oars toward it. 

I stretched my arms and back, pushing my skiff through the water, until it grounded fast upon a sandy shore. Silence. The horn had stopped. The only sounds were the waves lapping the shore and a soft whisper of trees. 

Grabbing the coil of rope, I stepped over the edge. I slowly sloshed through the shallow water toward the shore and secured my boat. 

“HELLO!” I called, but I heard only the waves and whispering trees. 

I considered bringing my treasure ashore, but decided to leave it safely in the boat. I’d need only to wait until the tide turned. I hoped the fog would lift by then. I scrambled up beneath the dark trees. Under their sheltering branches, I laid my head on the crook of my arm for a few hours of rest. 

I awoke with a start!

Something had touched me – something I couldn’t see. My pulse beat in my ears. My eyes darted left and right. 

A shadow emerged from the fog – a creature, the size of a child, yet with the appearance of a very old man. He wore a large shell on a string around his neck. With his gnarly hand, he beckoned me to follow. We walked on and on, through dark pines and grassy meadows. He led me beside a smelly swamp and even across a swinging rope bridge. 

We finally arrived at a clearing with a fire in its midst. Its light revealed several more little men. Their clothing was dark, like mossy bark. Shaggy beards covered their faces, except for their eyes, which shone with reflected firelight. They stared at me without a noise. 

My guide offered me a steaming mug, and the others turned back to their discussion.

I took a sip. It tasted like honey cider. Sitting on a stump near the campfire, I listened. Their words were strange to me. They snacked on tiny shelled snails, cracking them like peanuts. 

Two men dragged a box into the clearing and opened its lid. They laughed and tossed some of its contents into the fire – which made the flames shoot sparkling cinders into the starry sky. 

It's my treasure! “Stop! You can’t have that! It’s mine. I found it!” 

They laughed and continued their game. Some tossed the coins up into the trees, where they got stuck high in the branches. It became a contest, and they all had a turn to see who could score the most. I shouted and tried to stop them, but the game went on until the box was empty. 

With their contest ended, they returned to their babbling conversations. I drank a few more rounds of hot honey cider until my mind got fuzzy with sleep.

I woke to a light flickering on my face. The sun was playing with fluttering golden leaves above me. The fog was gone – and so were the little men. There were no ashes or any gold coins. 

In only a few strides, I returned to the beach and also an empty skiff. With daylight to help, I searched for my missing treasure. I circled the tiny island with less than a hundred steps. 

Where was the forest, the swamp, or the swinging rope bridge? 

As I pushed off from shore, I noticed an over-turned stump. Its roots were positioned like arms and legs. Some moss hung down like a shaggy beard, and a large shell lay at its feet.

Friday Fiction - "Carroteened"

Poor Willy! 

Being quarantined because his sister is sick just isn't fair -

 especially during baseball season. 

I wrote this a few years ago for the Faithwriters Challenge (topic - Charades). 

CARROTEENED

“It’s not fair! Just because Sally has the whooping cough, I’m grounded. It’s just not fair that I’m carroteened for ten days, or whatever that word is. It’s springtime- the time when a boy just has to play ball with the guys.”

Willy flops on his back on his bed and throws his pillow at his model rocket, sending it exploding in sixteen pieces across the dirty sock carpeted floor. A “ping” on the window could have been a piece of the rocket, but Willy isn’t sure. So he galumphs over the end of the blanket mountain and looks down through the leaves of the oak, to see his friend getting ready to throw another acorn at his window.

“Hey, Jake...I can’t play with you today,” he yelled, shaking his head. He tries to open the window, but with all the damp weather, it is swollen stuck.

Jake is wearing the after-school fashion of a red T-shirt, grubby denim jeans, and a baseball cap. He cups his hands around his bucktoothed mouth. 

“I can’t hear you.” After shaking his head again, Willy wraps his hands around his throat, hacks a few times, and sashays back and forth.

Jake puckers his forehead and shrugs. He waves goodbye and runs off to the ballgame.

“Sauerkrauts! I hope they lose the game without me.” He kicked his skateboard. “Ouch!” Clutching his toes, he hops back to the bed. After counting all his baseball cards and digging the grit out of his belly button and trying to do five pushups and looking out the window 29 times, he sees Jake scuffing down the sidewalk. 

Willy raps on the window. Holding his arms out to his sides, he lifts his eyebrows.

Jake hangs his head and arms and shakes his head. He flaps a piddly wave and trudges home. 

Willy smiles to himself.

The hours and minutes of each day snail by. He dutiful completes the assignments sent by his teacher. School was usually an unavoidable torture, but Willy is so bored that he even begins dreaming of diagramming sentences and finding the distance a speeding train will travel in a day. A spelling test starts looking like a triple banana split.

The best part of each day is the daily visit from Jake. On Monday, he traces out the letters with exaggerated strokes. C-H-A-R-L-I-E Then he hops on one foot and swings both clenched fists forward and backward in synchronized movements. 

Tuesday was rainy, and Jake didn’t come.

On Wednesday, he pretends to write on his hand and fold something and hold it out. He traces the letters B-E-C-K-Y, then pretends to open something and be surprised. He tilts his head and flutters his eyelids. He finishes by sticking out his tongue at Willy.

“Oh, sauerkrauts!” 

Thursday, Jake is almost under the window when he freezes mid-step and turns his head toward a something. He hurries off to catch up with the ice cream truck. 

On Friday, Willy sees Jake jogging by in his uniform and carrying his ball glove. Willy gently tosses and catches his ball while waiting for the outcome of the game. 

Jake grins up at Willy.

Willy holds his arms out questioningly.

Jake points to himself. He swings an imaginary bat and looks way up. He then runs in a circle, ending with a series of jumps. 

“No way! No fair! Sauerkrauts!”

Jake begins stomping and swinging his arms in circles. He spins to the left and then to the right. He flops on the grass and rolls over and over through Mom’s flower garden. With a few more wild gyrations, Jake zigzags down the sidewalk. 

“Well you don’t have to get carried away with it!”

On Saturday, Willy feels like a pebble out of a slingshot. He grabs his glove and races down to the baseball field. 

“Hey, coach! Where is everyone else?”

“Oh, I guess you didn’t hear. We have to postpone practices for a few days. Too many people are sick. You had whooping cough-“

“It wasn’t me! I had to be locked up, just to be sure.”

“Oh, anyway, Charlie broke his leg, and I just got a call that Jake stepped on a nest yellow jackets yesterday.”

Willy can’t believe it. He saunters over to the plate, pantomimes a few swings, watches a few imaginary balls go by and then lets it go. He gazes up into the imaginary stands as he gallops around the bases, waving at the crowds cheering for his grand slam.

Friday Fiction - Amar's Message

I wrote this story as a Faithwriter Challenge (topic: India). It breaks my heart to hear of thousands of Christians giving their life because they love the Lord. Pray for them. 

To find more great stories, go to Fiction Fusion (Be sure to leave some encouraging comments.)

Amar's Message

The black jungle vibrated with sound, the rumbling of the big cats, the screeching of monkeys, and the roaring—the crackling roaring that drowned out all other sounds. The drooping branches hung heavy with the misty rains that never stopped. Amar huddled under the broad leaves of the peepal tree. His mother whispered against his head. 

“Amar, you must go to the mission compound. You must go tonight. They must know.”

He turned to look in her face. He could see the fires reflected in her round eyes. He turned away, for he didn't want to remember. He didn't want to hear the men shouting at his Papa. He didn't want to see his father's face. 

“Amar, listen carefully. You must find the missionary and tell him.”

He looked again into her eyes. “Mama, how will I find him?”

“Follow the smooth path of the elephants over the mountain.”

He peered into the inky darkness. Even the moon dared not reveal their hiding place. He knew the way to Raikia but had never walked alone in the jungle. The the tall teak trees wavered threateningly in the flickering shadows.

“Mama, I am afraid of the tigers and the cobras.”

“God will protect you. You must be a man. You must be like your father and not be afraid.”

A wailing scream from the village pierced the throbbing, roaring, raging night. They both looked and instinctively pulled back farther into the darkness. Mama's hand cradled his shoulder against her side, and she laid her soft lips upon his young head. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

“You must go, Amar.”

He felt her grasp him in pain. “Mama?”

“Do not turn back, Amar.”

“Mama, what am I to say to the missionary?” He looked at her bruised cheeks, then turned away. He didn't want to remember.

“Tell him these words, 'Many faithful have fallen, but we will not turn back.' Keep them in your mind.”

She laid her head back and shut her eyes. He could not see the fires in her face. 

“Mama?”

He felt the damp soil beneath his knees. He tasted salty drops upon his lips. He smelled the choking smoke in his nostrils. He could not see his mother's face.

“Mama?”

She sat up. 

He saw the flames again. 
“Say it to me, Amar. Say the words.”

“Many faithful have—Mama, I can't do it.”

“Say it!”

“Many faithful have fallen, but we will not turn back.” He closed his eyes, and he saw his Papa, Sudhir Raman, once a member of the head counsel of the province of Orissa, but now the pastor and leader of a Christian church. His father had stood tall, with head held high, with feet firmly planted, and with heart unmoved. The boy squeezed his eyes tight. He didn't want to remember.

“Say it again.” The last word mingled with her breath.

Amar repeated the words and wrapped his bare brown arms around her. He felt the silky soaked sari clinging to her body. He smelled the sweet jasmine in her hair. He lay there like he had when he was little, like baby Surhi had done just this morning. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to see the angry men. He didn't want hear his sister 's cry. He didn't want to remember. 

With sudden realization, he pulled away. “Mama, you must come with me!”

“No, Amar. I can't. You go. You must be strong,” she whispered. 

Mama's eyes were closed. She did not move. Amar stood. He wiped the droplets from his cheeks and turned his face toward the mountains. 

(Although this story is fictional, there are many around the world tortured and martyred for their faith. Please pray for the Christians who are giving their all for their Lord.)

Celeste's Sestina

In honor of April being poetry month 

(and today's lesson on RHYPIBOMO,)
I decided to repost one of my favorite poems. 

A sestina is a specific poetry form using a set of six words. Variations of the words may be used, as long as they sound the same. I realized that I could expand my choice of homonymns if I mixed in some French words. I had fun writing this poem. I hope you enjoy reading it -

(and maybe learn a few French words
along the way.)

Celeste’s Sestina

Mademoiselle Celeste, so petite and fair,

With silky locks and eyes so bleu,

Who lived with her smiling grande belle mere,

Who sold fromage, carrottes, et choux.

Billy was far from his home in America, where

He all he could say was “Bonjour” and “Adieu.”

Oh, what was the poor lovesick boy to do?

He paid the bus driver some foreign fare

And traveled to the market, where

He purchased a cart, painted yellow and blue.

Bought a cheery bouquet of orchids. A-CHOO!

Sweet chocolate, and a cream colored mare.

Trembling, he gave posies to her mere.

He rode with Celeste through the sparkling dew-

Covered fields, whistling and tapping his shoe

In time to the clopping along to a fair,

With colorful flags that fluttered and blew.

He bought her a joli chapeau to wear.

They browsed up and down the rows of wares,

And even heard a speech by the mayor,

Who arrogantly stood when the trumpets blew.

There were so many exciting things to do

And see, at that marvelous country fair,

It was hard to decide which things to choose.

Celeste, in French, said, “Regardez, Monsieur!”

But lovesick Billy proceeded on… unaware.

His mind full of music and love affairs,

With a squish, behind his cream-colored mare,

His sole became smeared with the sticky doo!

His face grew red, he coughed and blew.

Celeste giggled and batted her eyes of bleu,

And offered her kerchief to wipe his shoe.

She kissed his cheek, his fears to subdue

He knows now that someday, somewhere,

Somehow…when he’s convinced her mere,

He’ll marry mademoiselle, so elegant and fair!

So, now when all is done and due,
If you ever see some eyes of bleu,

In a mademoiselle so lovely and fair,
Regardez where you put your shoe,

For with the bride, somehow, somewhere,
Will be a smiling grande belle mere.

French Words
grande - big
belle mere - stepmother
bleu - blue
Bonjour - Good day
Adieu - Good bye
fromage - cheese
carrottes - carrots
choux - cabbages
joli - pretty
chapeau - hat
Regardez - Look
Monsieur - Mister

All Heaven and Nature Sing

 This is a choir of crickets slowed down -

  (CLICK HERE)

Stars and Whales Sing Together

  (CLICK HERE)

About five years ago,

(before I ever knew about these)

I wrote a story about scientists 

discovering a code in every ever created.

Song of the Sunbeams

Friday Fiction - Amar's Message

I am hosting Friday Fiction today.

If you wish to join us, add your link below.

Enjoy some great reading and leave comments behind you.

I wrote this story for the Faithwriter Challenge in the midst of a series of topics about different countries. Although it is fiction, it is very real. There are many Christians around the world who are persecuted, tortured, and marytred for their faith. Please pray with them, that they would be found faithful.

AMAR'S MESSAGE

The black jungle vibrated with sound, the rumbling of the big cats, the screeching of monkeys, and the roaring—the crackling roaring that drowned out all other sounds. The drooping branches hung heavy with the misty rains that never stopped. Amar huddled under the broad leaves of the peepal tree. His mother whispered against his head. 

“Amar, you must go to the mission compound. You must go tonight. They must know.”

He turned to look in her face. He could see the fires reflected in her round eyes. He turned away, for he didn't want to remember. He didn't want to hear the men shouting at his Papa. He didn't want to see his father's face. 

“Amar, listen carefully. You must find the missionary and tell him.”

He looked again into her eyes. “Mama, how will I find him?”

“Follow the smooth path of the elephants over the mountain.”

He peered into the inky darkness. Even the moon dared not reveal their hiding place. He knew the way to Raikia but had never walked alone in the jungle. The the tall teak trees wavered threateningly in the flickering shadows.

“Mama, I am afraid of the tigers and the cobras.”

“God will protect you. You must be a man. You must be like your father and not be afraid.”

A wailing scream from the village pierced the throbbing, roaring, raging night. They both looked and instinctively pulled back farther into the darkness. Mama's hand cradled his shoulder against her side, and she laid her soft lips upon his young head. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

“You must go, Amar.”

He felt her grasp him in pain. “Mama?”

“Do not turn back, Amar.”

“Mama, what am I to say to the missionary?” He looked at her bruised cheeks, then turned away. He didn't want to remember.

“Tell him these words, 'Many faithful have fallen, but we will not turn back.' Keep them in your mind.”

She laid her head back and shut her eyes. He could not see the fires in her face. 

“Mama?”

He felt the damp soil beneath his knees. He tasted salty drops upon his lips. He smelled the choking smoke in his nostrils. He could not see his mother's face.

“Mama?”

She sat up. 

He saw the flames again. 
“Say it to me, Amar. Say the words.”

“Many faithful have—Mama, I can't do it.”

“Say it!”

“Many faithful have fallen, but we will not turn back.” He closed his eyes, and he saw his Papa, Sudhir Raman, once a member of the head counsel of the province of Orissa, but now the pastor and leader of a Christian church. His father had stood tall, with head held high, with feet firmly planted, and with heart unmoved. The boy squeezed his eyes tight. He didn't want to remember.

“Say it again.” The last word mingled with her breath.

Amar repeated the words and wrapped his bare brown arms around her. He felt the silky soaked sari clinging to her body. He smelled the sweet jasmine in her hair. He lay there like he had when he was little, like baby Surhi had done just this morning. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to see the angry men. He didn't want hear his sister 's cry. He didn't want to remember. 

With sudden realization, he pulled away. “Mama, you must come with me!”

“No, Amar. I can't. You go. You must be strong,” she whispered. 

Mama's eyes were closed. She did not move. Amar stood. He wiped the droplets from his cheeks and turned his face toward the mountains. 

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