In a bit of a jam.

Faithwriters.com Challenge – 16th February 2017 – Topic: Jam – Intermediate: 2nd Place

blackcurrant_jamMaria found her Mummy kneeling on the kitchen floor surrounded by rubbish. “Mummy, what are you doing?” she asked.

“I’ve lost my wedding ring,” Mummy replied. “I put it on the window sill when I was baking yesterday, and now I can’t find it. I’ve looked all over the house.”

“But why are you looking in the rubbish if it was on the window sill?”

When Mummy looked up Maria thought she looked sad. “I thought I might have knocked it on the floor and swept it up with the rubbish.” Mummy started to put the rubbish back in the bin. Maria knelt down to help.

That night, Maria heard crying from Mummy’s bedroom. She got out of bed and made her way to the other bedroom. Quietly opening the other bedroom door she peeped inside.

“Why are you crying Mummy?” she asked.

“Because I miss Daddy.”

Maria sat on the bed and took hold of Mummy’s hand. “I miss Daddy too, but he’s up in Heaven and he wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

“I know.” Mummy snuffled. “But he gave me that ring when we got married and it reminds me of him.”

“Never mind, Mummy. We can ask God to help us find it.”

At breakfast a few days later, whilst Mummy was making coffee, Maria called out, “Mummy, Mummy!”

“What is it, Maria?” Mummy asked.

Maria held up a sticky red lump

“It landed on my toast when I was putting jam on it,” Maria replied.

When Mummy washed off the jam under the tap, in her hand was a bright gold circle.

“I think your ring got in a bit of a jam, Mummy,” said Maria. And they both laughed.

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Busy enough

Faithwriters.com challenge entry – 9th February 2017 – Intermediate: 2nd Place– Topic: Busy (fiction)

I soon got tired of hearing “I don’t know how I found time to work; I’m always so busy”. Retirement hadn’t worked out quite how I expected. We’d done all the usual things: meeting up with old friends, cruising the Caribbean, visiting our daughter in America to see the grandchildren, and finally fixing the door that didn’t shut properly.

But after a lifetime of travelling for my work, I had no hobbies, no social life and no family nearby. When I’d been hanging around the house for six weeks, my wife said (rather rudely, I thought), “Why don’t you get yourself out of here and find something to do?” So I put on my coat and hat and set off for the High Street.

There was nothing I wanted to buy, and drinking coffee alone didn’t appeal, so I went into the library to read the newspaper in a quiet corner. On the Community Notice board by the door a small flyer caught my eye. “Volunteer drivers needed. Flexible hours, expenses paid. Please phone if interested.”

Three months and twenty passengers later I’m loving my new “job”. My shyness isn’t an issue because the elderly passengers often just chatter away, appreciative of rare company. I get all the details of their aches and pains as I take them to hospital, and a verbatim report of the diagnosis on the way home. For the younger ones with cancer, singing along to the radio sometimes helps. I had to walk one lady into the day care centre and ended up staying one day a week. Some of the people have amazing stories to tell, but you have to watch them or they cheat at the board games.

I haven’t quite started reciting the awful phrase; my wife does like me to be home for tea and we’ve joined the local bowls club together. So I’m happy to say that in my retirement I’m neither bored nor exhausted; just busy enough!

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An unintended outcome

Faithwriters.com challenge entry 19th January 2017 – Intermediate – Topic: Brand – 1st Place

Their arrival passed unnoticed; the rustle of the bamboo blind no different to any other breezy night. A tap on my shoulder just like my little brother. “Go away Raheed,” I mumbled, shrugging the hand away, my eyes firmly closed. But the touch came again, more insistent. I rolled over, a curse forming on my lips. A firm hand, not Raheed’s, clamped over my mouth, pressing my head into the lumpy mattress.

My eyes flew open searching for a face, but finding only a shadow among shadows. A badly wound turban completely obscured the head, apart from two eyes almost as dark as the midnight sky. I squirmed like a chicken in the butcher’s hands, and sought a finger with my teeth until a tiny glint of light revealed a knife which quickly moved to my throat.

Raheed was not so easy to subdue. Young, agile and full of life (except when sleeping) he almost escaped from a second figure leaning over his bed. But his small size was his downfall; the attacker scooped him up with one hand and clamped the other over his mouth, though not before Raheed sank his teeth into the man’s thumb.

Moments later, outside our two room hut, we found our parents in a similar plight. My father must have put up a fight; he was lying on the ground, the worn black boot of his assailant pressing firmly on his chest. Father’s face was as set as stone, but to me his eyes betrayed his pain. In contrast, my mother stood to one side, straight as a spear, back to her guard and head held high.

For the first time, my attacker spoke. “You will come with us and give us no trouble or we will kill you, starting with the boy.” He waved his knife at Raheed, still wriggling in the arms of his captor and grunting uselessly into the hand that gagged him.

Father was hauled to his feet and we set off towards a path through the trees. In the darkness we tripped on roots and stumbled over rocks until we reached a clearing with a fire in the centre, shining on more captives guarded by black-clad figures.

Perched on a tree stump sat an old man in a white robe with grey hair escaping his turban. “You have left the true faith and are blasphemers,” he growled, “and will be marked as such.”

One of the men near the fire brought over a metal rod that glowed red at one end. Father stood still as the hot metal burned into his forehead. When the rod was removed, a letter was seared into his flesh. “With this brand, everyone will know that you have left the faith. Your life will be over!”

One by one, each person received the mark. Some cried out and pleaded to be spared; others received it silently, though it must have been painful. When my turn came, I bit my lip and fought back tears; Raheed let out a yell. Afterwards we were taken back home, but our small house had been destroyed in our absence.

Next day, mother went to market to buy food, but no one would serve her. Father went to the fields to work, but he was turned away. Children laughed at me and Raheed and threw stones at us in the streets. We had to leave our village and look for a new home.

We spent that day and the next going from village to village, looking for food, water, shelter. But in each place we were sent away.

We thought the next village was abandoned. But a voice called out, “Brothers, welcome.” A tall skinny man stepped out of the shadowy doorway into the sunshine. I gasped as I saw the brand on his forehead. Gradually people emerged from every house, each with the same letter marked on his forehead.

We made our home in an empty house and ate our first proper meal for three days. The people were so friendly; soon we felt part of the community. Everyone in the village worked together and shared what they produced. It became a much happier place than our old village.

I wondered what the man who branded us for being blasphemers would think if he discovered that, instead of ending our lives, the mark had helped to give us a new life that was better than the old one.

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Raison d’être

Faithwriters.com challenge – 12th January 2017 – Topic: Fresh start – 2nd Place

The room gradually filled with a hubbub of conversation, old ties being renewed and new connections made. A couple of hundred representatives of charitable organisations had gathered at parliament to celebrate achievements and receive inspiration for the coming year. I met people I’d never normally encounter: the information technologist for a small medical charity, the CEO of an overseas aid organisation and a tax accountant working mainly with religious groups. Each talked of mundane matters yet with passionate ambition to grow the mission of their organisations.

We were called to order by the host politician, who spoke warmly and briefly of the positive impact of charities on his community, before giving way to the main speakers.

We sipped fruit juice and nibbled tiny snacks as the chief executive of the national umbrella body for voluntary organisations spoke enthusiastically of the strong public support of charitable bodies within the country and warned of the need for fresh thinking as the purse strings were ever more firmly tightened. We listened politely but with little surprise to a message that simply echoed our own experiences.

As the next speaker began to describe the horrors with which her charity contended, the room fell silent. The litany of abuse directed at women from ethnic minority groups, and the numbers involved shocked everyone present. The level of support to help women rebuild their lives, offered in upwards of 14 national languages and dialects, conducted in secret to protect the women from their families and communities by workers who were themselves threatened drew some tears and warm sustained applause.

But the best reception was for the last speaker, a nervous young man in his twenties. Unused to public speaking, he talked simply and plainly about a life of family tragedy, abuse, addictions, lost education and time in prison. Yet he stood before us, a representative of the hundreds assisted by a charity who had now offered him a job helping others overcome the same obstacles. His testimony of transformation was greeted with hooting, hollering and rousing applause.

For this is why we wrestle with funding issues, struggle to develop passionate, well-equipped teams, and work long hours in unforgiving or risky circumstances: to walk alongside tired, frightened, weary people who have lost hope, until they are ready to make a fresh start. It’s why we do what we do, and we love it.

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Dream cruise?

Faithwriters Challenge entry 15 December 2016 – Intermediate – Topic: Daydream (15/12/16) 

I decided to drink my diet cola in the sunshine, so I settled on a bench facing the river. As I sipped my drink, I heard voices approaching from behind, one Cockney, the other from Essex. Their conversation stopped while they arranged themselves at the picnic table behind me.

“So go on,” said the Essex voice.

“So he said to me, ‘I don’t hire daydreamers in my company.’ Then he pointed at me with his left forefinger and said, ‘Darren, you’re fired!’”

“That’s a bit harsh isn’t it? Surely everyone daydreams now and then?”

A bit quieter, “It wasn’t the first time.”

“How often then?”

A pause while we all sipped our drinks in unison. “Every day, around 10 am. That’s when Sophie starts her training. I picture her firm body in that close-fitting swimsuit, poised on the block. A few seconds’ of deep breathing, and she pushes off, slicing into the water like a Gannet with hardly a ripple. Then up and down the pool, shoulder muscles rippling as her arms pull her body through the water.”

Essex boy whistled. “Wow, what a picture. I can see why you dream about her.”

“Believe me, Dave, there’s no better sight. Anyway, the boss said I failed at every task he set.”

“I’m not surprised. I suppose you had to leave immediately?”

They sipped their beers before Darren continued, “There was taxi waiting outside so I got in and off we went. After a few minutes, the driver turned into a side street and stopped. Before I could ask what he was doing, two blokes in suits got in, one either side of me.”

I leaned back a little to hear more. Darren mimicked a South London accent.“The one on the left said, ‘The boss wants to see you.’”

Then in his normal voice, “So I told him, ’He just fired me,’”

South London again: “’Never mind that, just come with us.’ And then he whipped out a blindfold. I tried to push him away, but the other bloke held me back in the seat.”

“Blimey, that must have been scary!”

“It was, but by then the taxi was moving. And the doors lock automatically, so there’s no way out.”

“Where did they take you?”

“I wasn’t sure at first. But then I started to hear gulls calling and water sloshing.”

A grunt from Dave. “Mmm. The marina”

They supped again, then Darren took up the story. “They pulled me out of the taxi and marched me up a ramp. The floor was swaying, so I knew we was on a boat. Then they pushed me down some stairs, opened a door and shoved me in.”

“A bit rough with you, weren’t they?”

“Not half. Anyway, I fell onto a bed, and before I had time to stand up the engine fired and we began to move. Then arms grabbed me and a voice said, ‘Darren, are you alright?”

Dave sounded startled. “Don’t tell me they took Sophie and all?”

Darren grunted assent. “She pulled off my blindfold, and there she was in nothing but her swimsuit.” He whistled. “A real sight for sore eyes.”

“Never mind that, get on with the story!” Dave was as eager as I was to hear the rest.”

Darren dropped his voice, and I had to strain to hear. “We decided to find a way off the boat. So we emptied a heavy fruit bowl for a weapon. As we reached the door, it . She raised the bowl ready to strke, then dropped it in amazement. There was a bloke in white uniform with gold braid and a tray with champagne bottle and flutes.”

“Never!” I managed to sneak a look at Dave’s face, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“God’s truth. In the plummiest voice you’ve ever heard, he said” – here Darren tried to sound terribly posh – “he said, ‘Compliments of the boss, he would like to offer you the use of his personal yacht for the weekend.  If madam requires some clothes, she may select from the wardrobe in the master cabin. And if you need anything, just ask.”

“Gordon Bennett!” Dave seemed to be speechless.

I had to move before it became obvious I was listening. As I turned to walk past their table, Darren said, “Best weekend of my life. I proposed to her out at sea, and the boss gave me my job back.” He looked at his watch, then drained his glass. “Anyway, better get back or he’ll think I’ve been daydreamin again.”

 

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Just a cheery smile…

Faithwriters.com Challenge – 8th December 2016 – Intermediate – As easy as Pie – 3rd Place

For as long as I can remember, I have been involved in Christmas carolling with The Salvation Army around the United Kingdom. As the breeze carries the sound of familiar carols performed by brass band and singers, a small group of collectors receives donations from passers-by. The money collected will help to provide food and toys for struggling families, shelter to homeless people and meals for the lonely.

You’d think collecting would be as easy as pie. Put on a uniform or wear a badge to identify your organisation, hold out a box and take the money. But there is both an art and a science to the process. The science is in the knowledge of regulations which abound, some local and others national. For example, permission must be obtained to sing, play and collect in the desired location, although this could range from a direct personal invitation from the local store to a formal application form via head office. Do you also require permission from the local authority? How many collectors are you allowed? Must you report the proceeds to the council? Can you give out literature? All these questions must be answered before you turn up to play and collect.

And then there is the question of where to position your collectors. Too far from the musicians and you may not be recognised; too close together and they will be competing for the same customers. Does the footfall change during the day, for example at lunchtime? I’ve often changed positions part way through my stint as I noticed people taking different routes through the precinct. All of these considerations are important, as we want to maximise the income to provide the best service to our beneficiaries. This is the art of collecting.

But once all these factors are taken into consideration, only one thing really matters: to make eye contact with at as many people as possible, give a cheery smile and wish them “Happy Christmas”. It takes some perseverance in the UK, where acknowledging strangers is frowned upon. But many people respond cheerfully, and some donate. If someone’s spirits have been lifted, you’ve done some good. And that’s as easy as pie.

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Who wants to live in an ice box?

Faithwriters.com challenge – 3 November 2016 – Topic: Chill

Soon after we moved to our new home, my sister and her family came to stay. One day, returning from an outing, she told us they’d been impressed by a message on the road telling drivers to “CHILL”. I had to point out that, rather than a plea by the transport department for careful driving, it actually was an abbreviation for a nearby neighbourhood – “C’HILL” for “Craigshill”.

I see that sign most days as I set off for the office. At first, I thought it was a great message at the start of my day: “be calm and take things in your stride. Relax and enjoy the ride.” But on reflection, I’m not so sure. Life is full of ups and downs, and whilst we may not like to be around people who moan all the time, eternal optimists can be just as tiring.

Solomon says that God “has set eternity in the human heart” (Ecclesiates 3:11 NIV), yet he regularly repeats the phrase, “everything is meaningless” (Ecclesiastes 1:2). I share his frustration at the tension between a dream and the reality of our messy lives. We get fired up to do something great, only to have our hopes dashed like rain on a bonfire. Maybe we both just need to “Chill.”

The process of chilling slows down the natural decay in living things. We chill things to preserve them: food, medicines, harvested sperm and eggs or donated organs. But who wants to live in an ice box? Jesus said that he came to give life to the full (John 10:10) – surely that must include some passion.

So while I may need to chill while driving, I’ll strive to keep my dreams fired up and put up my umbrella against the rain.

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A clash of dates

FaithWriters.com Challenge 27/10/16 – Topic: CALENDAR  – 3rd place

“I was here first. You’ve no right to push me out!” The voice was shrill, rising as it spoke.

A deeper voice replied, slow and steady, “But I have the greater authority.”

“Just because his boss says he needs to go to the conference doesn’t mean you can cancel a date with his wife.”

“A date? There’s nothing romantic about a brass band contest. She should be grateful I’ve rescued her from that racket.”

“Well she’s not happy. This was a rare opportunity to spend time together away from work. Saturday is supposed to be their day off.”

“It’s no use complaining. He knew there would be weekend work when he took the role.”

“That’s not the point. I was here first, and now you come barging in. And he’ll be letting down the rest of the band.”

“Not my problem. They need another body for the exhibition stand. He has to go to the conference.”

“But it’s overnight. She’ll be alone again.”

“Can’t be helped!”

A third voice speaks, soft and low, “Dates, dates, I thought we agreed to keep things calm when discussing work-life balance.”

They become quieter. “Sorry Calendar.”

“Now, Work, tell me how long this conference runs for.”

“Saturday lunchtime to Sunday evening. But it will take 4 hours to get there, so he’ll need to leave in the morning.”

“Ok. And Life, when is his band on stage?”

“They need to be there at 9:30 and play at 10:45.”

“So, he’ll be free by 11:30.”

“I guess so. But they were going to stay all day, and get to meet some friends, until Work here muscled in.”

“That’s enough! Here’s a plan. They travel down to the contest, which is already part way to the conference. He plays with the band, they have lunch, we get her a lift home and he goes on to the conference for the evening session . Will that work?”

Life speaks first, rather hesitantly, “Well, I suppose there will be someone else travelling by car who could bring her home.”

“Good,” replies Calendar. “What do you think, work?”

“There are other people on the stand. And Sunday will be the busier day, so that’s when he’ll be most needed.”

“Excellent! That wasn’t so hard, was it? Anything else to sort out, or can we take a day off?”

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No room for flabby Christians

Faithwriters.com challenge 20/10/2016 – Topic: Health – 1st Place

“One in five children start school obese.” The headlines scream from the newsstands, proclaiming the latest health epidemic. World Health Organisation figures for 2014 indicate a worldwide problem with the highest concentrations in richer countries such of northern Europe and North America. Africans and Asians are least likely to be overweight, no doubt because they have the fewest resources.

In a dramatic turnaround, it is the poorer communities in rich countries where the problem of obesity is growing most rapidly. Before the industrial revolution of the 18th and 19th centuries, most people worked so hard and ate so sparingly that there was little chance to get fat. Wealthy people, on the other hand, had servants in the house, and tenant farmers on the land. With plenty of money and little exercise, a large belly became a sign of status.

Today, most manual workers have machines to assist in the physical tasks, and office workers spend much time sat down both at work and at home. Supermarkets stock processed foods with high salt, sugar and fat contents. In contrast, those with money can pay for gym membership and eat organic fresh produce, leading to better physical health and well-being, whereas such things are out of the reach of many working people.

A good balance of work, rest and play has always been the best regime for health and happiness. The difficulty in the 21st century is persuading people to put down their electronic gadgets, switch off the television and explore the exciting world around them. This would enhance their emotional well-being, whilst strengthening their bodies against a host of potential illnesses

The same problem exists in the spiritual realm, perhaps also exacerbated by technology. Many people in the west seem to want a ready-prepared, pre-packaged church experience. The biblical concept of identifying and using spiritual gifts is often ignored. Yet unless we combine personal reflection, corporate worship and community engagement, our faith can become flabby and weak, no use to us or anyone else.

In the same way that exercise is more enjoyable in company, let’s encourage each other to engage in deep relationship with God and others;  let’s make our churches and communities places that people can encounter warm human fellowship and the deep love of our creator God.

 

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Where the skeletons are buried…

Faithwriters.com Challenge entry 9th September 2016 – Topic: “Skulduggery”
The shrill cry of the telephone wrenched Naomi’s attention from the report she was reading. Pausing to steady her breathing, she plucked the receiver from it’s rest.
“Yes, Sarah. What is?”
Naomi couldn’t help smiling as she heard the sigh on the other end of the line. “It’s that journalist again. He’s annoyed everyone in the department, trying to wheedle out of them some hint of this skulduggery he says we’re up to.”
Naomi glanced across her office and caught sight of the gaunt figure of Napoleon hanging in the corner. “I’ve got an idea that will really rattle him. Tell that prying hack to meet me at the site of the new lab after the workmen have left and I’ll show him something to shock him.”
Sarah emitted a small squeak of delight, and the line went dead. Naomi gently replaced he receiver. She collected a large, black zipped plastic bag, unhooked Napoleon and carefully folded his bony frame inside.
In the fading light of early evening, Naomi chuckledas a shadowy figure darted from the shelter of a stack of timber to disappear behind a palette of bricks. “Such a fertile imagination,” she thought.
Half a minute later, a skinny twenty-something appeared beside her, dressed entirely in black from turtle-neck sweater to skinny jeans and hiking boots.
“Who do you think you are?” Naomi asked him, “James Bond?”
“I don’t want to be seen. It might compromise the investigation.”
Naomi shook her head sadly and gazed down at the trench beneath her feet. “It’s down there, but you’ll have to dig for it.”
“It had better be worth it,” retorted the young man, dropping into the trench.
“It will be,” Naomi assured him, adding under her breath, “for me!”
“Pass me a shovel please.” Naomi dropped the implement at his feet and watched as the soft crumbly soil broke easily under his repeated blows. After a couple of minutes before he stopped and laid down the shovel. Naomi could see the boyish excitement as he looked up at her, before dropping on hands and knees to scrape the dirt away from his find.
Seconds later he recoiled with a start, hands shaking, face white as the skull that peeped sightless from the earth. “Meet Napaleon,” cried Naomi, laughing at his response. Glancing up, the reporter blinked as a camera flashed in his face.
“What will your editor say when I show him this photo? Looks like you’ve been up to some skulduggery of your own.”
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