The Compass Press

When my sons were little, I used to do cross-stitch and boy was I addicted! Every piece I made, I gave to someone who admired it, or I gave it as a gift to teachers, family, friends… you name it.

After looking around my home one day, I noticed I didn’t have anything to show my passion for cross-stitch. Not one piece of cross-stitch graced my walls. I didn’t even have finished projects waiting to be hung. I literally had nothing because I always gave all my cross-stitch away.

I decided to rectify this, so off I went to the craft store seeking a cross-stitch project I could proudly hang in my home. And oh, did I ever find a treasure! I found a cross-stitch pattern of an angel holding a baby that I JUST LOVED. This is it, I thought! This will be my masterpiece that will be displayed in my home. It will represent angels watching over my sons.

I bought the pattern and immediately got busy, spending every night working on the angel project right after I tucked my sons in for the night. I did my best work and even embellished it with better threads and made it 3D in some areas.

Each night as I worked on it, I’d tell myself THIS IS MINE, NO ONE IS GETTING IT. NO ONE!!! I don’t care what anyone says or how much they admire it, they are not getting it! Yes, I really did tell myself that each time I worked on it!

Then, one night, as I was working on my project and going through my little speech about how it was mine, I heard a voice. The voice said, “Give it to Paula.”

I asked, “Paula? I don’t know any Paulas!” I thought, wow, that was weird, where did that thought come from?

I went back to cross-stitching and reminding myself that this project was mine. But the voice repeated itself. “Give it to Paula.”

I put the cross-stitch down and asked again, “Paula? Who is Paula? I don’t know any Paulas!”

Then I thought, if this is the Lord talking to me, I need to find out who Paula is. I searched my memory of all the places I frequented and when I got to Relief Society (Our church’s women’s organization) I remembered a Paula. And then I remembered Paula’s baby daughter had died just a few weeks prior. I hung my head down and said, “Yes, I will give it to Paula.”

The pattern originally called for the baby that the angel was holding to be wrapped in a yellow blanket, but I had changed the blanket to blue because I had all sons. I knew what needed to be done. I unstitched all the blue thread and replaced it with a soft pink color to represent Paula’s baby girl. Even though I had done my best work for myself, I tenderly made sure that I did even better for Paula.

As a young military family, we didn’t have money, so I wasn’t able to afford a nice frame for the finished project. Heck, we couldn’t even afford a cheap one! Since I heard Paula and her husband were well off, I knew they would be able to afford a nice frame, so I taped the finished Angel project to a piece of cardboard and put it in a brown paper bag. Using the church phone roster, I called Paula to see when a good time would be to visit because I had something for her. She was intrigued and surprised since we only knew each other as acquaintances from the church group.

A few days later, I made my way to her home. She lived in a gated community for what looked like a place for millionaires. There were mansions everywhere. I found her home and presented The Angel Project to her with the whole story of how I came to do this project and then was instructed by the Lord to give it to her. She was amazed and very appreciative.

I left very soon after because I felt a little awkward. I mean, here I was, poor as a church mouse, giving my treasure taped to a piece of cardboard to a woman who could probably afford to buy whatever she wanted. I had heard their family had money, but I didn’t know they had THAT kind of money!

On the way home from that visit, I reflected on the meaning of the whole experience. Sometimes the Lord asks us to do things out of the blue, things we hadn’t planned on, or even things we didn’t want to do. For me, the choice to give the cross-stitch project to Paula was a no-brainer. A beloved child had passed away, and a mother was grieving. I’m sure most anyone would do as I did if called upon by the Lord to relinquish a treasure under those circumstances. But would I have done so if I didn’t know Paula’s circumstances? Giving blindly, not knowing a child had died? That would be a real test, I’m sure, and one I hope I’d pass. I was thankful for the experience and the testimony of hearing the voice of God talking to me!

About a year later, there was a church Christmas activity at Paula’s house. I’m always late for such things, so when I arrived, it was already crowded. After saying my hellos, I made my way over to the food table to grab a plate of goodies. Looking around, I didn’t see a place to sit, so I wandered to other rooms in Paula’s grand home. The kitchen, the dining room, and the front room were full of women, so I made my way to a room that looked void of a crowd.

It was the family room, den maybe where only a couple of women were. I entered and then I saw it. The Angel cross-stitch project was hanging over the mantle of their fireplace, matted and framed in the most exquisite frame I’d ever seen. It was stunning. Never would I ever have imagined a cross-stitch project could look so magnificent, but there it was, just so beautiful. It took my breath away as I stood there in awe. My project had been elevated to a level 1000x over. If I had kept it for myself, I wouldn’t have had the mind to matte it and it would be framed in a cheap Dollar store frame. Paula did it justice.

Not too long after the Christmas party, Paula tried to give me the framed project back, telling me that I worked so hard on it that I should have at least one piece of my own work for myself. As much as I was tempted to take it back, I told her no; the Lord said it was for her, and I couldn’t go against what the Lord requested. She understood and was again appreciative of the gift.

While typing up this memory, I again reflected on this deeply spiritual experience that I had decades ago, and a new revelation came to me. We usually assume that it’s people with money or means who can bless the lives of others less fortunate, but in reality, it goes both ways. Even the poor can bless the lives of the rich. God is no respecter of persons. He blesses all and teaches that we should too.

An old red truck with the words “Jay’s Home Moving & Demolition” painted on the door pulled up in front of an old house. Jay and his wife Sandy sat in the truck, looking at the house they had purchased.

Over the last two years, Jay had made a pretty good living buying houses at auction, then moving or demolishing them, and selling the land. Sandy had never gone with him to work before. Her usual job was to take care of the paperwork and line up buyers for the bricks and lumber once the house was taken apart. She also sold to others who wanted houses moved to their properties to fix up as rentals. This was the first time she chose to see a house before it was demolished.

Jay smiled encouragingly at her. “Just record the size, number, and condition of all the interior and exterior doors. Measure the windows, too. The wood is probably rotted, but we can sell the glass.”

They got out of the truck and stepped into the house. “These old houses usually have some nice wood trimming, and it looks like the old lady took good care of this place. If you see anything that you like, let me know before I demolish it.”

“What old lady?” Sandy asked.

“Oh, that’s right, you didn’t know who used to live here. This house belonged to the town’s oldest resident, Miss Ida Mae Washington.”

“I read about that in the paper. They said she was 110 when she died. She left everything to the city to be used to repair and maintain the old cemetery at the edge of town. The paper said she never married or had children.”

Jay went on, “I got this place at a good price. The lot’s worth twice what I paid. Must have been nice in its day. It’s bigger than it looks from the road. You can see where it’s been added onto. I wonder why they did that. Ida Mae was an only child and never married, never had kids. Well, whoever did it sure did a good job. It’s a shame to tear it down.”

Jay bent to give Sandy a kiss. He hugged her, and she squeezed him back like a big teddy bear.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jay asked.

Sandy teared up as she looked into his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I know the miscarriage still weighs on your heart. It does on mine, too.”

She nodded and put her head on his shoulder. “It helps to stay busy. Takes my mind off it for a while.”

She opened the front door with a tape measure in hand. She was surprised at what she saw. The 150-year-old house was beautiful, with built-in bookcases and China cabinets. As she began to explore, she discovered kitchen cabinets flush with the wall, and bedrooms with large closets and built-in drawers—unusual for such an old house. She could tell the original house consisted of what was now just the living room, kitchen, and dining room. What really intrigued her was the kitchen cabinets in the wall between the kitchen and the laundry room were two feet thick. The laundry room side of the wall had the same siding as the outside of the house, which suggested the laundry room was added later and the cabinets weren’t built into the wall, but instead, the kitchen wall was brought out to look as if the cabinets had been built into the wall.

“Why would they do that?” Sandy thought. “Talk to me,” she muttered under her breath as she ran her hand slowly over the siding in the laundry room. Inspecting the section closest to the kitchen door, she felt something prick her finger. She pulled her hand back to check for blood. When she found none, she searched the area to see what pricked her. She was about to give up when she noticed a small bent nail. It reminded her of the bent nail Jay used to hold the door to the tool shed closed. However, this one was embedded in the wood. She pushed on the siding, and it gave just a little, but not enough for her to turn the nail. She leaned on the siding with her shoulder and heard a scraping sound.

“What in the world was that?” She quickly stepped back.

“Okay, I’m going to open this panel, and if you’re a dead body, don’t fall on me, and if you’re something alive, don’t jump on me, okay?”

She pushed with all her strength, turned the nail, then leaped backward, turning her back in mortal fear as the panel flew open. There was a loud crash, then silence. She slowly turned to find a ladder lying on the floor.

“I knew it was only a ladder,” she said with a deep sigh of relief.

Cautiously, she stepped over the ladder to peek into the wall. “Well, you found the opening to the attic, Sandy. Good girl. Jay won’t be back for a while, so let’s explore.” She set up the ladder and started up through the hole in the ceiling behind the wall.

At its highest point, the roof was roughly six feet high and ran the length of the house. Sandy expected the attic to be empty, but in a corner toward the front of the house, she saw white sheets covering something. Removing the sheets, she found an old camelback trunk, a rocking chair, and a baby cradle. She opened the trunk and was surprised to find baby clothes. They were elegantly beautiful, with exquisite needlework. The cradle and rocker appeared to be handmade and were delicately hand carved. Sandy touched the cradle, and it began to swing from side to side. Inside the cradle, Sandy noticed an envelope. Sitting in the rocker, Sandy stared at the cradle and felt her eyes fill with tears for her lost child. “Now you don’t want Jay to come back to find you crying,” Sandy told herself, wiping tears from her cheek.

“What we have here is a mystery, and you love a mystery. Clue number one: baby clothes. Why would Miss Washington have baby clothes? Clue number two: cradle and rocker. Who could have made them and why are they here? Clue number three: this envelope, or is the envelope the answer to clues one and two?” Not waiting for an answer, she opened the envelope and began to read the letter inside.

“I don’t know who you are or why I’m writing this, but my friend Sarah said I needed to, for your sake as well as my own. I know I don’t have much time left here on earth, but I’m not afraid. Sarah is here, and soon I’ll be in a much better place.

“Now you don’t want Jay to come back to find you crying,” Sandy told herself, wiping tears from her cheek.

“What we have here is a mystery, and you love a mystery. Clue number one: baby clothes. Why would Miss Washington have baby clothes? Clue number two: cradle and rocker. Who could have made them and why are they here? Clue number three: this envelope, or is the envelope the answer to clues one and two?” Not waiting for an answer, she opened the envelope and began to read the letter inside.

“I don’t know who you are or why I’m writing this, but my friend Sarah said I needed to, for your sake as well as my own. I know I don’t have much time left here on earth, but I’m not afraid. Sarah is here, and soon I’ll be in a much better place.

“I was born in this house, back when it was much smaller. I always loved this house. I hope some nice young couple buys it and fills it up with children. I was very happy but lonely as an only child. I was glad once I became old enough to go to school.

“One winter day, we got a lot more snow than usual, so I took a shortcut to school through the woods and the old cemetery. That was the day I met Sarah. She appeared to be younger than me. She was standing in front of an old gravestone without a coat. I asked where her coat was, and she said she didn’t have one. So, I gave her mine. She thanked me and said she would be my friend forever. Giving her my coat was no big deal because it was almost too small for me, and my mother was making me a new one, anyway. After school, I told my mother about Sarah and my mother said she was glad I gave her the coat, then she sat up all night to finish my new one.

“Sarah and I played in the cemetery every day after school and all day on weekends. One day, it started to get dark, and I could see Sarah was getting scared. I turned my head for a moment, and when I looked back, Sarah was gone. I looked at the gravestone beside me and written on it was one word—Sarah! I ran all the way home and told my mother what had happened, and she told me never to go to the cemetery again without her. It was a long time before I saw Sarah again.

“One day, when I was about fifteen, a man named Jesse came to the house looking for work. My father had begun building onto the house, but his health was getting poor, so he hired the man and paid him to finish the job. Jesse was gentle and funny, and it wasn’t long until I fell in love with him.

“My father passed away a few months later and my mother followed just days after, I believe from grief. The day I buried my parents, I saw Sarah again. She was waiting for me on the doorstep when I returned home. She told me “Don’t worry about your parents, they are happy and together with God.” Then she was gone.

“Jesse finished adding onto the house and we married privately. Soon the snow came. It came and came until we were unable to leave the house. We had food and firewood, but we knew they wouldn’t last long.

“One day, Jesse went out to chop wood, and I checked the supply of food Mother and I had canned before she died. I knew we had canned a lot more than what I saw, but I couldn’t think of where Mother would have put them. Sarah appeared in the washroom and said, “Your mother put some food in the attic.”

“Jesse chopped enough wood to last a month, but when he came in, his feet and hands were frostbitten so badly, he wailed when I rubbed them to get the blood to circulate. In the following days, Jesse got sick, and I discovered I was pregnant. We used the wood and food sparingly. I wanted to use the leftover lumber in the fireplace, but Jesse said he needed it for something. I didn’t know why because he had already made a rocker and cradle while I made baby clothes.

“One morning, while Jesse worked in the back bedroom, the most frightful pain in the world hit me and I screamed. Jesse came running. I was so scared because the baby wasn’t due for two more months. In the early morning of the next day, Jesse delivered our lifeless little girl. After Jesse and I held our child and cried until we could cry no more, he took the baby away. That night, while Jesse held me in his arms, he left this world.

“If I had lost only one, I could have held on to the other for comfort, but I lost both. I felt as if the spark of life within me had been stomped out like you would a campfire and spread the glowing embers so they would never ignite again. Without the spark of life, I felt empty, worthless, and an insufficient living thing who has no reason to go on. I cannot put into words how it feels to lose a child and then lose the man you love. It’s enough to make you crazy and doubt everything, even God! But Sarah was with me. Together, we saw what Jesse made with the leftover lumber. In the back bedroom, we found a coffin, and inside, wrapped in a blanket, was my baby. Sarah said, ‘Jesse knew he would not get well. Don’t worry about him or your child; Jesse is taking care of her until it’s time for you to join them.’

“As the snow began to melt, I buried my child in the arms of her father under the big cherry tree behind the house. Don’t feel sorry for me, for I have truly been blessed. I had the love of a good man; I had a beautiful little girl, and I have a dear friend named Sarah who is here to lead me to my Jesse and baby girl.”

Through tear-blurred vision, Sandy noticed the signature at the bottom: Ida Mae Washington. Sandy folded the letter and wiped her tears. She left the attic to find her husband.

“Where have you been?” Jay asked, concerned.

“In the attic.”

“Really? I didn’t see an opening for an attic,” Jay said in surprised relief. 

Taking a deep breath of determination, Sandy stated, “I want to live here.”

Jay looked puzzled. “But I’ve been saving to buy a new house on the other side of town. This place has only one bathroom, and it needs some work.”

An excited grin crossed Sandy’s face. “You can do the needed work. You’ll have to build another bathroom for sure, and while you’re at it, add on two or three more bedrooms, because I want this house and I plan to fill it with children.”

FOUR YEARS LATER

Holding 18-month-old Jay Junior on her swollen belly, she handed a bouquet of red roses to her three-year-old daughter Jessica, who placed the flowers in front of the headstone.

“Mommy, tell me what it says?”

“It says ‘Ida Mae, Jesse, and Baby Girl.’ Now go play while I pull some weeds. We have to pick Daddy up at work later.”

When Sandy finished, she looked for her daughter.

“Jessica, where is your sweater?” Sandy shook her head and thought, another sweater lost. That makes three just this week.

“I gave it to a girl. She said she didn’t have one, and it’s cold.”

Sandy looked around but didn’t see anyone. “Where is she?”

“She was over there.” Jessica pointed toward an old headstone.

Sandy walked over to the stone. It had only a single word on it: SARAH.

Bending down to better talk to her daughter, she asked, “Did the girl tell you her name?”

Jessica nodded her head. “Her name is Sarah, and she said she’d always be my friend.”

Sandy hugged her daughter and with a comforting smile, she said, “I’m sure she will.”

At the entrance of the cemetery, Sandy turned and softly whispered, “Thank you, Sarah.”

Willie ‘Noose’ Rhoedon was astonished and looked twice at the man stepping out of the Sheriff’s Office as his horse plodded into dusty Diablo City. He had brought an end to that man, Sheriff Clayton, a year ago this very day. He was sure of it; he’d shot him six times!

No! That fool sheriff is dead! He thought.

Willie muttered under his breath, “I’ll tear down any wanted poster of me outside the sheriff’s office, then I’ll follow him. He’s gonna be done with!”

I have my reputation to consider! Noose thought. Most folks say, ‘Noose never let no bad deed of his get undone.’

He hitched his horse outside the saloon and watched Sheriff Clayton enter the General Store. Noose followed him in.

“Lady, the man that just come in here, where’d he get off to?” Noose asked, giving the store an eye squinting scan.

Mrs. Percy peered over her wired-rimmed spectacles. “Sir, if you are referring to Sheriff Samuel Clayton, he’s in the back room visiting with my son Walter, who’s wheelchair bound. Mind you, he comes around ‘bout this time each day to fetch my boy for a walk. He’s one of a kind, that sheriff. He’s an angel, you know?”

 “I aim to make him one, Lady! Now call him out!” Noose rubbed his thumb on the hammer of his holstered six-shooter.

“What?” she demanded. “Oh, never mind. Have a seat in the waiting chair and I’ll fetch him,” she answered.

She eyed Noose as he plopped down in the chair and fidgeted, then she slipped into the back room.

“What’s taken so long?” Noose called out.

He listened, only to hear the ticking of the store’s clock. “Bet she’s tipped him off,” he muttered. He jumped up and hustled out the front door.

He made his way down the street before the store’s door chime could stop ringing. Leaning up against the livery stable’s frontage, he kept a vigil for the sheriff.

Bo Parker, the blacksmith, stepped out of the livery stable’s door, took one look at Noose and asked, “Can I help you with anything, Mister?”

Ignoring the blacksmith, Noose just patted his gun holster.

“Mister, did ‘cha hear me?” Bo said louder.

“Waitin’ for Sheriff Clayton.” Noose answered without looking at Bo, his gaze fixed on the General Store’s entrance.

“Mister…” Bo stammered. “That man you’re looking for only needs a good kind of following, I’d say. Why… he comes by here all the time just to talk to me ever since my missus passed.” 

Noose laughed. “Oh, horse manure,” he said under his breath.

“Pardon me, Mister? What did you say?” Bo asked.

Noose spat a wad of tobacco on the ground, turned and squinted at Bo. “Thought’ cha might like a little company, but I’ll be leaving now. The sheriff just left the General Store.”

“Mister, did you hear me?” Bo asked. “Sheriff Clayton is Diablo City’s last spirit of hope for a peaceful place.”

Noose grunted and walked off, following Sheriff Clayton towards the town’s church.

As Noose walked, he said under his breath, “I still can’t believe I’m following a spirit. This is taking away from my saloon time, but he needs killin’ again!”

He followed the sheriff through the church’s double doors, looked around the chapel, and saw no one except Pastor Smith.

“Hey you! Are you what they call a preacher man?” Noose inquired.

“I’m Pastor Smith. How can I help you, my son?”

“I ain’t no son!” Noose replied. “Especially your son! Don’t be callin’ me one neither. Name’s Noose. Answer me one question! Did you see the sheriff come through here?”

“He did,” the pastor answered. “Dropped off a new shiny chalice and some candles. Ordered the chalice himself from the General Store. That man has grown wings. Bless his soul!”

Noose grunted and tapped the grip of his holstered gun. “Well… where’d he go, preacher man?”

“He did,” the pastor answered. “Dropped off a new shiny chalice and some candles. Ordered the chalice himself from the General Store. That man has grown wings. Bless his soul!”

Noose grunted and tapped the grip of his holstered gun. “Well… where’d he go, preacher man?”

“He left out the back door, said he had a burying to do at the cemetery, Boot Hill. It’s just up the hill a piece, behind the church.”

Noose spat some tobacco juice on the church’s wood-planked floor. He eyed the pastor, then brushed past him as he hurried towards the back hallway.

Noose came strutting back from the church’s back hallway, his face flushed red with anger.

“You lied, preacher man! Ain’t no back door! Now tell me where he is!” 

“Listen, Noose,” Pastor Smith tried to explain in a calming manner. “When I say he passed through the back door, I meant that he’s gone—passed away. It’s just an expression I use.”

“Is that right, preacher?” Noose asked, narrowing his eyes and tapping his holster. “Well, how you like to ‘pass through the back door,’ too?”

“The sheriff is up yonder on Boot Hill,” the pastor implored. “Go up there and you’ll find him.”

“And if I don’t find him, Preacher… I’ll be back to find you!” Noose spat another stream of tobacco juice, frowned at the pastor, turned, and walked out.

Pastor Smith followed and watched Noose disappear up the hill. He kept a vigil on that hill past sunset.

“Strange thing,” he whispered to the wind. “Noose never came back down off that hill.”

***

Days later, Pastor Smith noted he hadn’t seen Sheriff Clayton out and about anymore, nor had anyone else in town.

The pastor travels up the hill to visit Sheriff Samuel Clayton’s resting place often. Over time, he chiseled an inscription on the sheriff’s marker, the one with the flying angel on top. It reads:

‘Let it be known, this brave and noble lawman       

gave his life so others may live in peace.’

As he turns to leave after each visit, he passes by an old oak tree with an unmarked grave beneath it. His eyes follow the massive trunk upwards to a large lower limb, where a tattered noose swings in the wind. Sadness overcomes him momentarily, until his eyes focus back down the hill on the little town of Diablo, a town grateful to be restored to peace and hope.

Get The King of Zu Island here!

Sometimes a “trick” isn’t much of a treat

Trick or Treat! What a catchphrase! It captures the spirit of Halloween perfectly!

For the first twelve years of my life, my focus was on the Treat part of Halloween. But as I got a bit older, I found more fun in the Trick part.

My goal was always to have some harmless fun with my tricks. For example, growing up in San Diego, our high school had an outdoor lunch area, and our “hallways” were covered walkways between buildings. One Halloween, a group of my friends and I put all the tables from the outdoor lunch area on the roofs of the walkways!

Despite my best intentions, sometimes my tricks got out of hand or backfired on me, and the result was not as fun as I imagined it would be. However, I never lost that spirit of fun that is a big part of Halloween. I could take or leave the candy, but I loved to trick people with harmless pranks.

After I married and started a family, my wife and I fell into the habit of her taking the children out to knock on doors in the neighborhood, while I stayed home to dole out treats to the spooks and goblins that came to our house.

I had a lot of fun with the kids who came to the door. Sometimes I would yank open the door and shout “Trick or Treat” before they could say a word. Then I’d start reaching into their bags as though I was going to take their candy. When they complained, I would remind them I shouted “Trick or Treat” first, so I should get the treat. Other times, I would open the door and wait for them to say “Trick or Treat” and then I would say, “Okay, I’ll take a trick. Show me a trick!” Then I would laugh heartily as the kids would try to do some kind of trick!

Halloween is supposed to be a fun night for all involved, and I wanted to do my share to help make it amusing.

One year around 1980, I got a couple of rubber masks that pull over your head. They were designed for an initial surprise, but they really weren’t too scary. All night long, when the doorbell rang, I would put on one of the masks and jerk open the door quickly with a yell. The pack of kids at the door would flinch and then burst into laughter as I handed out the treats.

This went on all evening until it started to wind down. There were fewer knocks on the door. The packs of young children were being replaced with smaller groups of older children who were allowed to stay out later. They were like gleaners going around to scrape up whatever candy was left in the neighborhood. Instead of waiting in the entryway, I retired to the living room to watch a little television between visitors.

The doorbell rang. I got up from the couch and headed toward the front door. On my way, I got the scarier of the two masks and slipped it over my head. Then I grabbed the tray of candy and flung open the door with a giant roar!

I looked down and there stood a little girl, no more than two or three years old, all by herself. She burst into tears and ran down the driveway to her mother, who was waiting on the sidewalk. I immediately tore off the mask and followed. By the time I got to her, she was gulping huge gasps of air between uncontrollable sobs while clinging to her mother’s legs. I felt about a foot tall. I was so embarrassed and ashamed that I had terrified this small child.

I apologized to the mother as she was trying to console her daughter. I thought sure I was about to get a stern lecture from an outraged mother. I was marshaling my defenses, preparing to question what a young girl was doing out that late at night instead of being home in bed already. I apologetically showed her the mask and explained I had no idea there would be someone so young knocking on my door alone that late at night.

To my surprise, she looked up at me with a combination of discouragement and laughter and assured me everything was just fine. As she calmed her daughter, I knelt beside the little girl and showed her it was just a mask, and invited her to take any of the rest of the candy she wanted. Eventually, she calmed down and took the candy, but she never let go of her mother.

As I was getting ready to return to the house, the mother explained what had happened. This was the girl’s first Halloween. They had been out with the earliest trick-or-treaters and had been slowly making the rounds for hours. All night, her mother had been telling her how much fun it was to go up to the houses and yell “Trick or Treat” and be rewarded with a piece of candy. Much of their time had been spent on the sidewalk in front of houses trying to persuade her daughter to go to the door.

Then she gave a small laugh and said, “Your home was the very first one I got her to go up to by herself.”

Beside the pond edge, he notes what’s left behind

Then watches the swan take flight

Until the bird reaches unimaginable heights.

It is here he spots a fleeting trace of a cloud.

Holding the feather up to sky he compares, considers nature’s details.

Both suspended… one in the water; one in the air

One filled with water droplets, dust particles—destined to vanish.

One filled with water droplets, particles– with quill, shaft—designed to last.

Both having been essential to something’s survival.

Both left behind.

The cloud scatters; he trods the hardened path home– feather held close to his heart.

Marching through the front door, to his room, to closet door,

he drops on his knees and pulls out a wooden box.

Opening the lid, he lays the feather inside

atop a fossil with a miniature footprint,

a seashell gripping a sand particle,

a pinecone holding seeds beneath its scales.

And, a withered bean, with secreted pods.

Exhausted from her day at the factory, his mother throws together the evening meal as his sister chatters on a cell phone, and the man in the house watches the news on a large screen TV. The boy sits at the supper table, waiting, eager to share his day and what he found after school. His teacher had used the word naturalist in science class. I want to be a naturalist, he thinks. I will live in a cabin in a forest, collect things, and create a museum to share with others.

“Time for supper,” his mother yells.

“Not yet!” his sister snaps.

“This world’s gone crazy,” the man laments and turns up the volume on the television. Shaking his head, he pulls out a chair at the table, and grabs a slice of bread.

“I found a feather today,” the boy says.

Kathy Stauffer is a

lyrical Iowa poet

Author of 

Thou Shalt Not,

Do Not Be Deceived 

& 

Summoned

Christian suspense fiction

kathy-stauffer.blogspot.com

“What have you done to my tree?” The dwarf demanded. “Why have you pulled the leaves from the branches and strewn them on the ground?”

There once was a dwarf who took up residence in a den where a majestic maple tree stood just west of the opening. He came to his new home in the den just as the summer began warming the earth with brilliant rays of sunshine.

In the mornings the dwarf spent most of his time in the den tending to his housekeeping duties, but in the afternoon when the sun was high in the sky and warm and bright, he’d take refuge under the shade of that reliable maple tree whose deep green leaves were dense and broad.

He’d call out to travelers passing by in the heat of the day and invite them to join him in the cool shade of that tree. They’d come and sit while the dwarf drew water for them from a nearby brooklet. They’d thank the dwarf for the refreshment, and he felt happy to share the comforts of his beloved tree.

Life passed happily this way for many months until the air chilled. One afternoon, the dwarf emerged from his den to a shock. The broad green leaves of his beloved maple tree had turned orange and brittle and had fallen to the ground.

The dwarf looked around in horror and saw a man sitting on a nearby stump, observing the fallen leaves.

“What have you done to my tree?” The dwarf demanded. “Why have you pulled the leaves from the branches and strewn them on the ground?”

“I’ve done no such thing, except to observe the fallen leaves,” the man answered calmly.

“Then tell me who’s done this thing so I may confront them,” the dwarf prodded.

“The tree himself has done this, my friend,” the man went on. “He and his companion the season. Not I, but they have brought about this change in the leaves and their fall to the ground.”

The dwarf stood, perplexed but intrigued.

“The season; she has chilled the air, darkened the sky, and shortened the length of the day until the tree has shed his leaves to rest from his labors,” the man explained.

“To rest?” The dwarf puzzled.

“To rest and prepare for renewal,” the man said. “You see, my friend, all is not lost. Soon a blanket of snow will cover the ground and provide protective insulation to the tree’s roots and when the snow melts, it will provide much-needed moisture. Then, a brand-new season will come. She will warm the earth and her warm breeze will blow the chill out of the air and breathe new life all around. The old tree will sprout new green leaves that will grow broad like before and he will, once again, provide shade and comfort in the heat of the sun.”  

The changing leaves, not just for stomping in but part of God’s greater master plan.

Fifty years is a long time to love a woman, Abe admitted as he leaned out his window and breathed in the fresh spring air. A lot can happen in that time to cool a man’s passion and make him look for something new. But his love, although changed and matured through the seasons of his life, had remained as strong as the day it began a half-century ago.

He had been young then, only thirteen and “fresh off the boat” as they call new immigrants today. His uncle Herman had sent for Abe and his widowed mother when the trouble began in Europe, promising to provide a home and work for them in New York. But illness on the journey had taken his mother’s life and left Abe delirious with fever as the ship steamed into New York harbor.

His uncle, grieving for his sister, signed for Abe, took him as his own and nursed him back to health. Abe was heartbroken over his mother’s death and desperately lonely, but he worked hard in his uncle’s butcher shop—grateful for the kindness—but never smiled and rarely spoke.

“You need to get out and have some fun,” his uncle said one day, urging him to take the day off to see the city.

Reluctantly, Abe left the shop, a few of his uncle’s coins jingling in his pocket, and wandered the streets of Manhattan. The fresh air lifted his spirits, and the ocean breeze made him hungry. He bought a hot dog and took a boat ride.

Gradually, he began to notice the people around him. He found them to be a mixture of nationalities, and he felt less alone.

Then he saw her, and from the first moment, he loved her. She was beautiful and in his boyish eyes; she was a real lady. She drew him like a magnet, and he did not resist. He spent the afternoon shyly getting to know her and went home determined to see her as often as he could.

At first, she was like a mother to him. He told her about his loneliness, his fears, his hopes, and his ambitions. She listened and didn’t laugh at his wild dreams. Her example encouraged him to follow them and to reach for the sky if he could. Hope replaced his loneliness, and he began to smile. Uncle Herman noticed and was pleased.

At sixteen, he began to see “his lady” through different eyes. Although he loved her the same, he no longer needed her mothering. With new confidence and hope, he kept an eye on her from a distance.

A war exploded in Europe, and she bade farewell and inspired boatloads of soldiers bound for the battlefield. He wished he could go too, if only to receive that special attention from her.

From his uncle, Abe learned she too was an immigrant and had come from Europe. The knowledge of her heritage only deepened his love for her. He went to the library and learned a sentence in her language, practicing it until he knew it perfectly. Then one day he approached her closely and whispered, “Je t’aime. I love you.” She did not blush, but Abe remembered he had.

At twenty, his ungainliness was gone, and he began to muscle out. His uncle introduced him to Anna, the daughter of one of his best customers. Before long, the butcher and the customer made arrangements, and Abe and Anna were married. He was very fond of Anna and even came to love her. She was sweet and gentle and made him happy. She even understood about his lady whom he saw weekly.

“I think you love her more than you do me,” Anna teased one day.

Abe took her into his arms for a reassuring hug, but he did not deny it. His lady had been his first love and held a special place in his heart.

Four daughters and a son came into his life and he introduced each one to his lady. They all seemed awed by her fame and importance and quickly grew to love her, too.

Abe’s memories of the past were interrupted when a wildly painted pink sedan screeched to a stop below his window, its radio blasting metallic music into the quiet neighborhood. Nicolai, the boy who lived across the street, jumped out of the car and waved goodbye to his friends.

“Cut out that noise!” Rosella yelled from her window two houses down. “Nikki, those are no good friends for you. I tell-a you mama!”

Nicolai reminded Abe of his own son Ramie, back in the 60s when the country was in a state of turmoil and dissatisfaction. Ramie, along with other boys his age, burned his draft card and disgraced the flag. In pain and frustration, Abe ran to his lady for comfort. She was having a hard time then, too, and Abe remembered how dejected and tired she looked. They mourned together for their anguished and bitter young people.

But that was twenty years ago, and Ramie had made a full turnabout. Now Ramie’s car bore the bumper sticker: “America! Love it or Leave it!”

His lady was better, too. She had a new lease on life. As time passed, she was being loved again, honored again, given the place of recognition Abe knew she so well deserved. He had supported her with everything he had, as she had done for him. He was happy for her. Her success was his success.

Abe felt a warm tear trickle down his cheek and fall onto his arm.

“Grandpa, are you happy-crying again?” his little granddaughter asked as she came up beside him. “Are you thinking about your lady?”

“Yes, Rosie, I’m thinking about her.”

“My teacher says she’s having a birthday soon and there will be a big party. Are you going to the party, Grandpa? Will you give her a present?”

“Yes, Honey, I’ve got a gift for her, something she’s always wanted. He thought of a refugee family from his native country that he was now able to sponsor. Their arrival time was planned carefully. They were to be his gift to his lady. He could remember her exact words when he asked what she wanted.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free….”

The Statue of Liberty was dedicated 136 years ago, on October 28, 1886. Conceived by politician Edouard Rene de Laboulaye, designed by sculptor Frederic August Bartholdi, and built by architect Gustave Eiffel, Liberty Enlightening the World was a gift to the United States from the people of France.

Jackie Houchin is a retired journalist. She covered a variety of events, wrote interviews, and covered a few investigative stories for three newspapers in Los Angeles. She is a book reviewer and currently writes for three blogs. She wrote a 12 part series stories for children about missionary life in Africa, and received honorable mention in a Short Story Contest for “Autumn Gold.” She’s had some poetry published as well.

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