Category Archives: Short stories

Short stories

Unmarred Hope

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My name is Candace Realtin.

I was only seven years old when the worst disaster in all of New York City occurred–a disaster that was to change the course of American history forever.

*  *  *

I was a very bright and curious child. I loved crocheting and art, as well as weaving bracelets for my playmates. My father was John Realtin, who worked in the World Trade Center. My mother, Lacey Harpe Realtin, was a pediatrician. My sister, Harmony, three years younger than I, mostly enjoyed mimicking whomever she heard.

One of my most favorite pieces of jewelry to wear was a pearl bracelet with silver cross charms. Dad gave it to me for my fifth birthday and I’ve worn it ever since. Whenever I went out with my parents to church or a store, a few people asked me the significance of the crosses on my bracelet. I told them about Jesus and how His love set me free from my sins.

And the same God Who set me free would be the same God Who would rescue me from the NYC disaster that came to be known as 9/11.

*  *  *

It all started the morning of September 11, 2001. I woke up, got dressed, made my bed, and woke up my little sister.  My mom had left early to got to work, so I dressed my sister and fed her. My school had a teachers’ meeting that day, so I went with Dad to work.

We boarded the train and rode along for a few miles. I amused myself by drawing the blurred landscape as it zoomed by. Harmony played with her pink bunny, the one Mom used to own as a child and was missing an eye. Dad, one hand rested on his briefcase, looked thoughtfully out the far window. I wondered what was on his mind.

“Dad?” I said at last.

He looked at me, a smile replacing his former expression. “Yes?”

“Is something wrong? You look like you’re thinking about something really important,” I said.

Dad shook his head. “I’m okay, Candace.”

I honestly didn’t believe him, but decided to keep my thoughts to myself. I looked back down at the art I was making. . .a picture of small trees and sunflowers, occasionally a weed or two. My sister babbled to her bunny, oblivious to the slightly tense atmosphere between Dad and I.

While I was staring at my drawing and deciding what color to add to the shading of the sky, a woman around twenty-seven years old approached my seat and sat beside me. In her arms was a little girl who looked to be a year younger than my sister. She was cooing and seemed very happy. The woman, on the other hand, looked exhausted. She seemed ready to fall asleep.

“Do you want me to hold her?” I asked.

The woman started and looked over at me. Her blue eyes were questioning but kind.  “If you like,” she said in a small voice, handing over the toddler.

I took the little girl into my arms and held her gently the way I did my sister when she was going to nap. I made funny faces at her and soon had her screaming with laughter. My sister looked shyly at the toddler, one finger in her mouth, the bunny clasped in the other hand.

“Her name is Autherine,” the woman said. “But I call her Authy. She was born in May 1998.”

“She’s cute,” I said. “She reminds me a lot of my baby sister, Harmony.”

The woman smiled. Then she sighed and leaned her head back against the plush headrest. “My husband is working in his office today and the neighbor who usually babysits my little girl is ill, so I’m going to take Authy to the Children’s Discovery Center. Then I’m going to work at the World Trade Center.”

As she spoke, her gaze fell on my bracelet and her smile widened even more. “I love your bracelet,” she said, pointing to it.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “It was a gift for my fifth birthday.”

The woman continued to study my bracelet. “I assume the crosses stand for Jesus’ death on the cross,” she guessed.

“That’s right,” I nodded. “He died to set us free.”

“Are you a Christian?” she asked.

I nodded again. “Yes, ma’am. Are you?”

“Wholeheartedly,” she said. “I hope Authy will become one too, seeing as she’ll depend on God for the rest of her life. I pray she will follow the narrow path to life and not the wide path to destruction.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed. “I pray the same for Harmony.”

Just then, the train lurched to a stop and most of the passengers began to get off. I recognized a few who worked in the World Trade Center. The woman and my family stood up and began to get off the train. As we stepped off, I asked the woman, “What’s your name?”

“Kalara Loans,” the woman responded briefly, taking her child from my arms and walking off in the direction of the Trade Center.

“Come on, Candace,” my father called, gesturing to me to hurry.

Stowing my drawing and pencils in my gradient purple-and-pink pack and picking up Harmony, I ran after him.

*  *  *

After Harmony was dropped off at the Children’s Discovery Center and my father was settled in his office on the 80th floor of the North Tower, I sat down in a lounge chair in a lobby near his office and sketched for a while. When I got tired of drawing, I would stand up and look out the window at the cars driving by and the people parading on the sidewalks. They all seemed like mini action figures from this high up. Sometimes I would gaze at the Statue of Liberty and her faint reflection wavering in the water.

And then, at 8:46 a.m., it happened.

I was attempting to sketch the Statue of Liberty’s face when there came a sharp explosion and boom from very close by. The whole building began to vibrate and sway. Shocked, I fell backward to the floor and my pencils rolled everywhere. A lady helped me up and scrabbled to pick up my pencils, but then a large vase fell off a nearby table, shattering to pieces on the floor. Frightened, the lady stood up and ran out of the lounge without ever looking back, jerking me with her. I didn’t know what was going on, but I didn’t ask. I was too scared.

I was freaked by what I saw in the hallway. The ceiling was dropping. Right over our heads. And several people were screaming and running toward the stairs. One man was trapped under a section of the fallen ceiling. The lady pulling me with her stopped and ran over to him, deftly throwing aside the debris and checking for injuries before helping him up. I recognized him as one of Dad’s friends from our neighborhood, Daniel Jashon. I ran to him and hugged him tightly.

“Candace!” he gasped, brushing debris and plaster from his suit. “Where’s your father?!”

“I don’t know!” I said.

He took my hand and ran along the hallway with me. As we passed by a wall, I heard several people screaming on the other side of it. Daniel heard it too and ran over to the wall, pounding furiously on it with his fist. “Are you all okay?!” he shouted. I had never heard him use that tone of voice before, and it terrified me.

“We’re trapped in the elevator!” a woman shrieked. “We can’t get out!”

Daniel put his hand over his mouth, then pulled out a pocketknife and stabbed it into the wall, furiously gouging a hole in the wall. I grabbed a small but sharp wooden beam of the ceiling which had fallen and slammed it violently against the wall, causing much of the plaster to crumble. A few more rams and a small hole was revealed to see several frightened people in the elevator, their faces covered with dust and bits of wood. They stared at Daniel and I like we were mirages.

“Come on!” I yelled. “We need to get out of here!”

They all crawled though the small hole and ran after us as we pounded down the stairs. It was dark and the power kept flickering on and off as the building continued to rock and lurch. The ceiling continued to fall even as we ran, people screaming all around us. Down and around different flights of steps we went.

As we were getting closer to the end of the steps, who should show up but Mrs.  Loans herself! She handed me a wet handkerchief. “Put if over your nose and mouth,” she said quietly, but there was a fierce gleam in her eye. “So you don’t breathe in the fumes and dust and all.”

As we reached the end of the second-to-last flight of steps, I saw my father on a small landing. He was frantically talking to someone on his cell phone. I couldn’t hear who was speaking on the other end, but it sounded like he was speaking to Mom. I was shocked by his face; he looked terrified. My dad was the bravest man I knew, but he was scared now. I had never seen that side of him before.

“Dad!”  I cried out above the screams and rumblings.

He looked up and saw me on the landing above. His face changed from worry and fear to relief that I could never describe in words. I ran down to him and embraced him tightly, fearful that if I let go, he might disappear.

“Candace,” he murmured, tears filling his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay,” I told him, trying to reassure him. I could see how concerned he had been.

Daniel and Mrs. Loans were right beside him when the building started to shake even harder. “John!” Daniel said sharply. “We need to get out of here! Now!”

Dad grabbed my hand and rushed me out of the building as fast as we could go. As we ran for the exit, I suddenly realized my wrist felt strangely light. I was missing my bracelet!

“Dad, my bracelet!” I  cried out in despair, pointing back toward the building.

“No time, Candace,” he said breathlessly, and sprinted with me out of the building. Daniel and Mrs. Loans were following suit.

Just as we reached the sixth block, far away enough to be safe from the swaying building, it collapsed. The Trade Center crashed down into a heap of rubble, and thick black smoke and flames partially enveloped it. People were jumping out of the windows and horrible shrieks could be heard from everywhere. Sirens were screaming and ambulance lights were flashing wildly.

“It’s gone,” I moaned. “The Trade Center. . .”

Dad grabbed my hand and together we knelt in the street. “Thank You,” he whispered, his voice trembling. Tears ran down his face. “Thank you for rescuing us, Lord.”

 

“Thank You,” I echoed. But I felt numb. My brain was screaming. My mind still couldn’t comprehend what we had just been rescued from. It would take me years to fully understand that I had been spared from dying a horrible death.

*  *  *

Later that day, I learned the South Tower had collapsed and that American Airlines Flight 77 had crashed into the Pentagon. Another plane, Flight 93, had crashed in a field outside of Pittsburgh.

Harmony and Authy were safe. They had been evacuated from the daycare when the first plane crashed and all the kids were safe. But nearly 3,000 people died that day. I felt the losses deeply. I learned that one of my friends’ fathers, who was a firefighter, had gone inside to rescue people when the North Tower crashed. He never came out again. My friend was devastated.

My father met up with my mother and baby sister near a small store a few miles from the Trade Center. Many victims of the collapse who had survived were with us, including Daniel and Mrs. Loans. My mom was worried sick about Harmony and I; she consistently asked us if we were okay, was anyone hurt, did you breathe in anything harmful. My dad was too overwhelmed to answer; and I was too tired and anxious. Harmony looked confused by all the action.

“What in the world happened?” my mother demanded. “How did the Towers fall?”

“Planes crashed into it,” I said in a small voice. “But we don’t know why.”

*  *  *

Two days later, a firefighter showed up at our door. I walked to the front door and answered the quiet chimes of the doorbell. “Yes?” I said, drawing my brows down.

“I was helping clean the rubble at the Trade Center,” he said, his voice filled with wonder, “and I found this.” He reached in his pocket and held out a pearl bracelet with silver cross charms. I stared in shock. It was my bracelet I had lost!

“It’s not even scratched.” His voice was trembling. “How can that be?”

I stared at the bracelet for the longest time, and then the smallest smile crept across my face. I knew the answer.

“Because hope can be never be marred,” I said with a slight excitement in my tone.

He looked at me a moment. I looked back at him. He was dirty, and his uniform was layered with soot. I wondered how many he was forced to rescue from beneath the debris only to find many were not living. Tears filled his eyes.

I slipped on my bracelet, then held out my hand to him. “Won’t you come in,” I asked, “and hear the Gospel?”

Wordlessly, he stepped inside.

*  *  *

Many days later, on September 20, President George W. Bush identified Osama bin Laden and the al-Qaeda organization as responsible for the attack on the World Trade Centers. Though I was glad they had found the crooks, I knew that many lives had been changed in the blink of an eye. Life would never be the same for anyone.

At first, I hated those killers. I dreamed of sneaking into a spy plane and tracking them down one day, stabbing them to death and getting revenge for what they had done to America. But the Lord spoke to my heart, telling me such thoughts were not of His nature and nor should be of mine. I repented and prayed fro the killers instead.

And you know what?

In time,  I found I was able to forgive them.

A few weeks later, I did a school paper telling about the World Trade Center and how I was able to forgive the killers. Many of my classmates were shocked, but I told them that only Jesus could give someone a heart of love. Many of them also learned to forgive the hijackers and went on to become great godly men and women.

*  *  *

Twenty years later, I was in an interview. The woman reporter was asking me about the World trade Attack and what I had thought about it.

“Yes,” I said. “I was seven years old when it happened. I was in the North Tower.”

“But you escaped,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “My whole family did.”

The woman asked a few more questions. Then she concluded with her final question: “And what do you think about all those who died in the attacks?”

I thought about that a moment. Then an image came to my mind: I was standing at two twin pools near the Twin Towers. The name of the victims in the attack were engraved on the bricks around the pools. As I looked at my reflection, I saw not myself, nor a burning tower with screaming people leaping out the windows to safety, but rather a pearl bracelet with silver charms, not burned, nor scratched, nor marred. Jesus had been with us all, even in the attack. He had allowed me and many others to forgive the hijackers, even at their most unlovable.

I came back to the present. “They are all heroes,” I said with a fierce passion. “They did what was right and tried to help others, even when they knew they would die. There is no greater glory for a hero than seeing them reach out in action to help others over themselves. Jesus did the same and those heroes followed His loving example. Jesus is my Hero, and everyone who died saving many is a hero.”

As I finished, I twisted my pearl bracelet around my wrist, the tarnished charms catching the brilliantly beaming lights.

Short stories

Moonbow

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Mandy stood alone on the beach’s shore, the delicate sand grains unnoticeably giving way little by little under her feet, the roaring waves undulating as they crashed on the shore and receded back into themselves. But Mandy hardly noticed the waves and the sands. Her blue eyes were fixed on the starry night sky above. She was waiting for the moon to emerge from among the few gray clouds.

Yesterday in science class, Mr. Kimberly had taught about moonbows and had showed the class a picture of one. Mandy had been amazed and desired to see a moonbow, so she had determined to go down to the beach and see a moonbow. Of course, she knew moonbows were rarer than rainbows and that a number of factors were necessary to see one. The moon had to be no more than forty-two degrees from the horizon, be in the nearly or completely full phase, the sky had to be very dark, and water droplets had to be present in the air in the opposite direction of the moon. So Mandy’s chances of seeing a moonbow were pretty slim. Still, she was determined to see one.

Mandy stood on the shore and waited patiently until the full moon appeared from among the clouds. Her eyes brightened as she stared at the dusty-white ball of rock pitted with craters from asteroids and meteoroids. She carefully deduced the angle of the moon from the shore; it appeared to be around forty degrees or so. She waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot, feeling the slightest wave of impatience wash over her.

Finally, a glorious, shimmering circle of rainbow colors ringed round the moon. The hazy coil of mixed colors danced in her gaze as she shielded her eyes to see it in all of its beauty. She smiled, feeling exhilarated. She had finally seen a moonbow! Her dream had come true; she had gotten her wish.

In a moment, though, the moonbow was gone, and the sky was blacker than it had ever been. But it seemed to Mandy she could still see it in her mind, the teasing array of colors as they wavered and wriggled in the light of the full moon.

Short stories

On the Inside

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It was three weeks to the Valentine’s Day dance at Victory’s school, but she had one problem—she had no date. And to make matters worse, the boy she did like already had a girlfriend, Meronna Minschue, who was by far the brattiest and most spoiled girl in the school. Most boys like Meronna for her beauty and her neat and snappy appearance. On the other hand, very few boys liked Victory. She was one of the most unattractive girls in the school. Her patched brown dress and her stringy black hair only added to her poor features. Victory couldn’t help the way she looked, however. Her parents were destitute and could barely afford necessary hygienic supplies, much less new clothes for their daughter.

Victory sighed as she gathered up her few schoolbooks and trudged to her next class, dragging her bare feet a little on the way. She always sat in the way back of the room so she wouldn’t be mocked by the rich girls. She was envious of their gorgeous dresses and finely combed hair. She was jealous of their pretty necklaces and their high-heeled slippers. But of course, she never let them know that. They would only laugh at her and mock her all the more.

Victory entered her science classroom and quickly seated herself at a desk in the far back. The rich girls sat farther up front. One of them was showing off an expensive leather purse dyed purple. Victory felt a stab of envy as she looked at the handmade bag. She knew she would never be able to afford anything like that. The girl who owned the purse glanced toward Victory, and Victory hurriedly took her eyes away from the bag and locked her gaze on a far corner of the room. The girls burst into laughter, but Victory ignored them. Still, she felt hurt. Why couldn’t she be rich like those girls?

______

That night at dinner, Victory asked her father, “Dad, can I work to earn us some money?”

Her father looked at her in surprise. “Work!” he exclaimed. “Victory, you’re only twelve years old. You’re not old enough to work, dear.”

“But how else can I earn money?” Victory asked.

Her mother gently broke in. “Victory, why do you want to earn money? Aren’t you thankful for what you do have?”

Victory hesitated. “Well, I guess I want to dress nicely like the girls at my school,” she replied, her voice coming out in a rush. “See, the Valentine’s Day dance is coming up at my school, and I want to look nice so a boy will like me and be my date, and. . .” Her voice trailed off when she noticed the way her mother was staring at her.

“Victory, true beauty is not found in expensive dresses or nice shoes or makeup or anything like that,” her mother wisely answered. “True beauty is found deep inside of you. Who you are is the beauty that should attract every man to you. If you’re a rude, selfish, rotten little brat, it will show, and no self-respecting boy will want you for his partner.  But if you show God’s grace, kindness, and love in your outward actions, you will stand out.”

Victory thought about her mother’s words from the time she washed the dishes from the time she went to bed.

______

A few days later, Victory was in the hallway, putting her books into her locker. While she was doing so, one of the rich girls came up behind her and purposefully jostled her, knocking the books out of her hand. Snickering, the rich girl walked off without bothering to pick up the books.

Victory’s face flushed with anger. As she stopped to retrieve the books, a boy suddenly appeared beside her. He was about thirteen years old, with thin black hair and tan skin. His blue eyes twinkled at her as he bent and helped her pick up her books.

“Thanks,” Victory said gratefully.

“You’re welcome,” the boy replied. He smiled. “My name’s Micah Junction. What’s yours?”

“Victoria Frosier,” she replied. “But you can call me Victory; everyone does.”

“Nice to meet you, Victory,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling, then back into her eyes. “By the way,” he casually inquired, “are you going to the Valentine’s Day dance?”

Victory shrugged. “I might,” she answered. “But I don’t have a date. What fun will it be if I don’t have someone to dance with?”

Micah grinned at her. “So you don’t have a date?”

Victory shook her head.

“Well, then. . .” He formally extended his hand to her. “May I have the pleasure of being your partner for the dance, Miss Victory?”

Victory was so astounded she nearly forgot what she was going to say next. “B-But I’m just a poor girl!” she exclaimed. “There are lots of girls that are prettier than I. Why would you pick me?”

Micah snorted. “And I suppose you mean all those fancily dressed, snobby girls who parade around the halls, showing off their fine attire? I wouldn’t date those brats for the world. Now,” he said, gazing admiringly at her, “when I spotted you the first day of this school year, I knew something was different about you. You didn’t brag. You never yelled at the rich girls, even when they mocked you. You always helped those in need, like that one girl who forgot to bring her lunch and you shared yours with her.” He grinned again. “That’s when I knew you were my right partner for the dance.”

Victory smiled too. “But I don’t have fine clothes to wear,” she said almost apologetically.

Micah beamed her another grin. “I have an idea about that,” he said, and began whispering into her ear.

______

It was Valentine’s Day, and the school dance was a blast. Pink, white, and red streamers and balloons were everywhere. A table full of drinks and desserts sat in a corner. Rose-colored spotlights were positioned on a silver disco ball, which slowly revolved and cast pink streaks on the walls and floor. The rich girls sat by the table with their dates, sipping punch and chatting animatedly.

“I wonder where Victory is?” Meronna said in a tone of pretended alarm.

“Probably crying her eyes out over her lack of fine dresses,” Janice spoke, pretending to wipe away a tear. The other girls laughed.

“Will she even show up?” Ginger wondered.

“Maybe in her wretched school dress,” Meronna giggled.

Just then, Micah opened the gym door and called out in a loud voice, “All right, everyone, listen up!” All eyes were turned toward him. “Meet the new, improved, beautiful Victoria Frosier!”

When Victory walked into the room, every mouth dropped open and every eye widened. Victory was no longer the thin, sad-eyed girl in a burlap dress. She was clothed in an ankle-length gown of white. She wore a set of pearl earrings, and her black hair was arranged in neat curls. A plastic gold crown sat nestled on her head.  Her shoes matched her gown color, and her clear skin glowed radiant in the pink spotlights. Her brown eyes were somber but happy. She outshone every girl in the room.

Meronna stood to her feet. “Did a toad kiss you and turn you into a princess, Victory?” she demanded.

“Very funny,” Victory answered with a smile. “Micah’s mother outfitted me and dressed me up.” She pirouetted to show off the effect. “How do you all like it?”

Janice crossed her arms. “And since when did Micah start to like you?” she sneered. “Look at yourself! You’re a complete disgrace to all who see you!”

“Ever hear that true beauty is found on the inside, Janice?” Victory calmly retorted.

Janice was taken aback; she couldn’t say a word. Meronna snorted at Victory’s statement. “And where did you hear that, Victory?”

“My mother. . .and Micah.” Victory flashed her date a smile and daintily held out her hand. Micah took it, and she waltzed off with him for the next dance, leaving the other girls staring after them in complete disbelief. For once, they wished they possessed the outward beauty Victory did.

But Victory had learned her lesson on beauty. . .it’s found deep within, not on the surface.

Short stories

Leap of Faith

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“Take him around once more, Myra,” Ellie called to her friend, reining in her horse, Maccabee. Her eyes absently followed Myra and Jubilee around the paddock as they alternately trotted and cantered. Myra seemed a bit uptight, but Ellie couldn’t blame her. She had been that way since July—since the day she had had the terrible riding accident at Northwood Horse Show.

Myra had been warming up Jubilee and preparing him for their turn to jump. As they effortlessly flew over the jumps, a child had accidentally thrown a toy into the arena. It barreled right past Jubilee, startling him and causing him to land right on top of one of the oxers, wrenching his tendon in the process. Myra had been thrown and had badly injured her leg. She had completely recovered without any problems and so had Jubilee. But after she had gotten out of the hospital, Myra had begun to act skittery and frightened of riding.

Ellie shivered as she recalled how panicked she had been upon seeing Myra thrown from the saddle, striking her head against one of the jumps. Then she was brought back to the present as she noticed how stiff Myra was and how tightly she was clutching the reins. “Relax, Myra,” Ellie reminded her. “You’re going to work up your horse.”

Myra sat up straighter in the saddle and loosened up on the reins, slowing Jubilee to a walk. “There’s no way I can be in Ritternown Horse Show next week,” she complained to Ellie. “I’m just not talented enough for riding!”

“Sure, you are,” contradicted Ellie. She rode Maccabee over to Jubilee. “Look, Myra, your nervousness and lack of proper riding have nothing to do with you being a horrible rider. I get you’re scared because you had that accident last month, but at least you got back on. Now all you have to do is get over your fright.”

“How do you do that?” Myra asked.

Ellie thought a moment as she gazed toward the setting sun. She couldn’t very well formulate an answer for that. “The longer you do it, the more comfortable you feel,” she said at last. “And gradually, your fear goes away—but only if you kill it.”

Myra sighed. “And how do you kill it?”

“By doing the thing you’re most afraid of,” Ellie replied.

Myra frowned a little. “Are you telling me I have to jump in order to kill my fear of jumping?”

Ellie shrugged. “Basically.”

“No way!” Myra shook her head. “I didn’t let you talk me into entering the horse show to jump! I’m going to stick to equitation and the hunter division and that’s it! I will not take that chance again!”

“But who’s to say you’re not going to get hurt doing equitation or the division?” Ellie asked, driving her point home. “And if you do, what will you do then? Stay out of horse shows forever? Quit riding entirely?” She automatically bent forward to pat Maccabee’s neck. “Myra, what I’m saying is this: You can’t let your fear keep you from doing what you love. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith into the unknown, no matter how frightening or unsure it is. And who knows? You might surprise yourself with the results.”

Myra frowned and ran her finger along the pommel of the saddle. “I guess. . .” she mumbled.

Ellie smiled encouragingly at her. “Come on, Myra,” she gently prodded. “At least try the jumping class.” Seeing her friend’s doubtful look, she added, “Please?”

Myra sighed. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this. . .but fine. Yes! I’ll do it. I’ll jump in the horse show.”

Ellie grinned and clicked her tongue to Maccabee. “I just know you’ll be a success,” she called over her shoulder to Myra as she and Maccabee cantered toward a set of four gymnastic fences. “Come on! Let’s start practicing now.”

Myra reluctantly followed, but now there was the tiniest glimmer of excitement in her eyes.

______

The day of the horse show had finally arrived! Everyone at the grounds was extremely busy. Horses were being groomed, riders were scurrying around, reporters were taking notes—everything was a whirlwind of excitement and busyness. Ellie and Myra stood a little way off from the madness, watching everything that was going on.

“Jumping starts in a few minutes,” Ellie reported. “Are you nervous?”

“Me? Of course I’m nervous,” admitted Myra. “I’ll always be nervous before a show. I don’t know how I’m going to do.” She ran her fingers through the thickly braided sections of Jubilee’s black mane. “What if I goof up and everyone laughs at me?”

“Don’t worry about the crowd,” Ellie supplied helpfully. “Concentrate on your riding. Tell yourself, ‘I will do well. I can do well. I am talented enough to win this show.’ Say that over and over while you’re warming up and I guarantee you’ll be confident when it’s time to jump.”

“Why would you say that?” Myra asked. “I’ll bet you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“No way! I’m serious,” Ellie said. “I’ve tried it myself and it’s worked. I just know it will help you too, Myra.”

Myra didn’t say anything, but her face registered doubt.

“All contestants to the arena,” the announcer droned over the speaker. “First up is Elinda Haye on her horse, Maccabee.”

Ellie quickly crossed her fingers for good luck and swung up into the saddle. “Wish me luck,” she said to Myra. She touched Maccabee’s side with the heel of her boot and the horse trotted off toward the arena.

Myra was amazed at Ellie’s confidence as she sailed over each jump, a calm, composed look on her face. Her signals were nearly invisible; it was as if she and Maccabee were one. How does she do it? Myra wondered. How can she be so calm? 

After a few more riders, it was Myra’s turn. As the arena gate swung open, Myra rode inside. The gate clanged behind her.

Myra began a quick but efficient warm-up for Maccabee, walking, trotting, and cantering at short intervals. While doing so, she reviewed the order of the fences in her mind and told herself what Ellie had told her to think: “I will do well. I can do well. I’m a talented rider. I can win this.”

When she was ready, she turned toward the first fence and urged Jubilee toward it. The bay never batted an eye. He calmly approached it and leaped over it as it if were merely a log in his path. She shortened his stride as they neared the second fence, and again he cleared it with almost no effort. They repeated the process for the rest of the course. When they finished, the crowd burst into applause. Beaming with pride, Myra rode out of the ring.

“Beautiful, Myra!” Ellie congratulated her friend. “That was a splendid performance!”

Myra smiled. And it was then she realized she no longer felt afraid. Ellie’s advice had worked. “Thanks, Ellie,” she said. “You’re a great friend.”

“Oh, think nothing of it!” Ellie said, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m always glad to help.”

When the results for the jumping class were announced, Myra had placed first, with Ellie being a close second. Myra grinned madly as she attached the blue ribbon to Jubilee’s bridle, giving him a pat on the nose as she did so. “You’re a champion,” she whispered into his silky ear.

The hunter division was next, then equation and dressage. Myra placed second in the division and first in equation and dressage. When the time came to announce who the winner of the Ritternown Horse Show Trophy would be, Myra and Ellie were known as the top riders of the show. Not once had they placed below third. Not once had anyone come close to their ability to ride so well.

The announcer droned on and on about the trophy and about who had donated it. Myra began to get impatient. Maccabee champed his bit and stomped his foot. Ellie crossed her fingers behind her back. Finally, the time came.

“The winner of this year’s trophy is Myrabelle Karner, of Rocky Ford, Colorado.”

The crowd erupted into cheers and Ellie gave Myra a victory sign. Myra set off for the grandstand, her eyes shining, her smile wide. She barely heard the rest of the announcer’s commentary as she collected her trophy. As she gazed at the silvery sheen of the prize she held in her hand, she knew she had not gained this trophy on her own. She owed it all to Ellie, her best friend—the one who had first encouraged her to conquer her fears.

Short stories

John 14:6

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Fourteen-year-old Sumara Iydaska shielded her eyes with one hand and glanced out at the valley below. She grinned as she spotted the Colorado River winding through the valley, its silvery surface glistening with the sun’s rays. Behind Sumara was her American friend, thirteen-year-old Ritsy Armenstrong. Both girls were hiking Mount Elbert in the San Isabel National Forest, in Lake County, where they lived.

“Oh, Ritsy,” Sumara called in a distinct Indian accent, “look at how beautiful this valley is! I have never in my life seen anything more beautiful.”

Ritsy smiled as she clambered up beside Sumara. She gazed at the Native American girl. Sumara had formerly been in the Navajo tribe living in the Four Corners, but as a baby, she had been carried away by a lioness. The lioness had not hurt the baby, for as soon as she arrived at her den, a few hunters lying in wait had shot and killed the fierce beast. The hunters had brought the baby to a Lake County orphanage and left her there, telling the people who worked there that they would try to find the baby’s tribe. But when they found the tribe a few months later and inquired where the baby’s parents were, the chief told them that Sumara’s parents had died of a fever not too long ago. No one else in the tribe wanted to keep her, so the baby remained in the orphanage, where she was cared for. At five years old, she was adopted by the Iydaska family.

Sumara had learned about Jesus at her church, and she had been saved at eight years old. One of her favorite verses that had led to her conversion was John 14:6— “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Sumara had always loved that verse.

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That evening at dinner, Sumara’s mother, a pretty blond-haired woman in her early thirties, told Sumara, “Dear, just today, I ran into your Sunday school teacher. He told me something quite surprising.”

Sumara set down her fork. “What is it, Mother?”

Mrs. Iydaska smiled. “Mr. Kestar told me that Hillsong Kids released a new album recently, and on it is a track titled ‘John 14:6.’ I just thought you would want to know since it’s one of your favorite verses.”

“That is truly amazing,” Sumara admitted. “But since we do not have the album, I cannot listen to it. It is too bad. But perhaps I could find it online and listen to it there.”

Sumara’s mom glanced at her husband, who smiled and gave her a knowing wink. Then Mrs. Iydaska looked back to Sumara. “Actually, Sumara, your teacher bought an album a few days ago, and it arrived at his house today. When he met me in the store, he gave it to me and told me to give it to you.”

Sumara leaped up from the table and embraced her mother. “You are the best!”

Mrs. Iydaska beamed. “Well, go on! What are you waiting for, my dear? Go on upstairs and listen to your new album!”

Sumara thanked her mom and raced up the steps, two at a time. She spotted the album lying on her bed and picked it up. Then she slipped the CD into her radio and skimmed through the tracks, trying to find the one she wanted to hear. At long last, she found it. . .her personal favorite verse on audio. . .

Short stories

Glorious Sun: A Short Story of God’s Providence and Sovereignty

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Nine-year-old Gloria Swaners stood on the front porch of her little cabin in western Tennessee. The year was 1942, and World War II had just recently started. Gloria’s father had gone to war to fight on the Allied side. Ever since the Japanese bomb attack on Pearl Harbor last year, America had been drawn into a full-blown war against the Axis Powers.

Gloria missed her father every day. She worried about him. Was he sick? Was he injured? Did he have enough to eat? Was he concerned about them? Had he been taken prisoner by the Axis Powers? But most importantly, was he still trusting God?

Gloria rested her head in her hands and gazed at the horizon. The sun was beginning to rise, throwing pricks of pink and golden light on the tender grass shoots, the rough tree trunks, and the tender, delicate leaves of the mulberry bushes. As she stood in awe at the marvelous sight, Ecclesiastes 3:11 popped into her mind: “He has made everything beautiful in its time.” Gloria knew that was true. God was the Creator, blessed be His name, and to Him all praise must be given.

“God,” Gloria said quietly, “please protect Daddy and help him come home safely. Please help the Japanese see that what they did was wrong, bombing Pearl Harbor like that. Help us all to continue to have faith in You. You are righteous and holy, and you alone are the One who can stop all warfare. Give all the families of the men in the war peace and comfort, and please provide for them as You have for us. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Gloria smiled as the sunlight dawned on her face, reflecting off the blueness of her eyes. She felt a calm, quiet peace travel over her as Jesus’ words from John 16:33 flashed into her mind: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take courage; I have overcome the world!”

And in the dazzling light of the sunrise, Gloria found God’s peace and a comfort beyond all understanding.